Poems by Ruth Bryant

MY SUBWAY RIDE

I’m exhausted. My clothing is dusty and splattered with blood. My breathing is labored because of tremendous fear. Am I hyperventilating? Who’s there? The sand…so much sand.

What is happening here? My subway ride. I’m consumed with disgusting newspaper info on Iraq. It is now a morning ritual. I sometimes feel transported—is it empathy?

It’s time to find a substitute. I will, I will.

For now I’ll read only the passengers’ faces.

Ruth Bryant

RETALIATION: WHEN DOES IT END?

Two wrongs do not make a right. Enough already! When does it end?

How is it humans can be decapitated on video, blown to smithereens, set afire, shot, hanged, and dragged thru the street with jubilant observers cheering?

OR

Violating others’ religious beliefs by forcing them to disrobe, sodomize each other, rape, put a leash or belt around their necks and have them crawl as though they were animals.

We are regressing, not progressing. When does it end?

Ruth Bryant

SOUL FOOD

Some folks turn up their nose at the mention of certain ethnic foods or will say, “Pork—not me!” Dare to utter the words, “chitterlings, hog maw, chicken feet, pig ears,” etc.

Well, la di da! Were you aware the aforementioned was once a delicacy for slaves?

The so-called “Master” had the cook throw the “slop” away. Hence the slaves confiscated discards and experimented with various garden herbs.

Oh course, after somehow sampling these dishes— the rest became a part of history. They became items listed under “Southern Cuisine Dining.”

Ruth Bryant

REALITY

Hey yaller gal, why so high an mighty? Yo color shows whut happen to yo mammy. She don lay wif de big boss man— he took her virginity.

Cuz she work in de big house wid his fambily, washen, ironen, cooken, cleanen, en layen. Yo don lib dere cuz yo de Creole. Yo cain’t call his chillun yo sistahs or brothars.

Cum down offer yo high hoarse an see de lite, chile—use is still black. Dat’s right, help us. We is tied being slaves.

Let us know wen dey go to de opera or big ball or wen de innertain an is too busy to no whut we do—den we kin make our move.

Tanks.

Ruth Bryant

MEMORIES

Quite possibly my subconscious as a child thought boys had the most exciting playtime. My motto then: “Anything they can do, I can do as well or better.”

Imagine rearranging miniature furniture in my dollhouse. Pretending tea parties or dinner with toy dishes. Diapering “the baby” after hearing its wha-a-a-a. (I had to tilt the “Lil’ Darlin’” forward so the built-in mechanism would make the crying sounds.)

As opposed to….

Working up a sweat, skate-boarding, wrestling with boys, playing basketball, racing up and down the street or playing hideand-seek in a tree or under the house. Two other exciting things were climbing boxcars and houses.

The boxcars were interesting, especially when the circus came to town or when the freight cars brought fruits and vegetables. The circus paraphernalia and inhabitants arrived late at night. We were always there to welcome the animals and handlers.

It was amazing to see huge elephants, lions, and other animals obediently being led from the freight cars. Such expertise displayed by the handlers was greatly admired. Therefore, I’d seen my circus performance and saved my parents the admission fee. The circus was then named Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey.

Ruth Bryant

A TRIBUTE TO GORDON DAVIS

The saying, “into each life some rain must fall” has again become a reality. March 31, 2005. The ceiling of ASC vaporized. The vapor became a tremendous deluge. The sudden impact of this was totally unexpected. It was as though I’d suddenly been doused with a fire hose. This was my initial feeling on hearing of Gordon’s demise.

His demeanor was always pleasant whenever I encountered him. Although jolly, he was never boisterous. He never failed to visit “Wonderful Wearables” to say hello. Ever present was his infectious smile.

Who was Gordon Davis? Oh, you know, the guy who was always eating or nibbling. Not a voracious appetite because apparently he did not crave large quantities of food. In spite of this, he maintained a slim physique.

Gordon was always a gentleman. His absence will leave a void.

Bon voyage.

Ruth Bryant