Old Man Lazarus (A Poem) John 11:1-45

Old Man Lazarus,
frail these recent days,
bordering on the apocalyptic,
a thinning darkness clamped down,
more sensitive in his mind,
his place in the cosmos unsound,
assured that he’s dying,
again at the completed end,
of his second time around,
his first tomb eagerly awaits,
present tense to be past case,
death certainly doth portend,
now with Jesus long gone,
for whom might he send?
Mary and Martha,
personalities known,
by the arbitrary sound,
of English words,
paired forever,
with the nature of their being,
to listen and serve,
a common sense theology,
can never be proved,
but invented and seen,
between the counterpoints,
of life and death,
pleasure and joy,
major and minor,
yet never falling prey,
to the cult of empty significance,
and forgotten resurrections.

–Richard Bryant

Ain’t No Big Thing (A Poem)

Ain’t no big thing,
To you maybe,
But to me,
This is huge,
The minimization of my emotionalization,
Leaves me speechless,
Emotionally too old,
For the hackneyed moment
Which has come to pass,
Ignoring the smells,
Genies flee from
Whitecaps crashed,
Words cannot go back,
Where thought lies its last.

–Richard Bryant

America’s Saint Patrick’s Day Farce

A free and united Ireland,
32 undivided counties,
Without boundary or line,
Does anyone recall,
The day Bobby Sands died?
The brutal British empire,
The use of torture,
Hunger, starvation,
Death and fear,
In the name of civilization,
So all God’s children,
Might be forced to sing,
God Save the English Queen,
Today we recall
Saint Patrick’s convenient myth,
But Britain’s imperial rule,
Fades into a drunken mists,
Damn our stupid shenanigans,
And silly leprechaun dreams,
While prisoners languish still
In Britain’s political jails,
We laugh at peace,
Has the revolution failed?

–Richard Bryant

On the Death of Gaius Julius Caesar

At one o’clock,
By Brutus’ hand,
and Cassius’ arm,
Senators gathered,
making mortal harm,
death and unrest,
gather and run,
Julius Caesar,
Rome’s consul cries,
The conqueror of Gaul,
has certainly died,
explanations are born,
in the eight hour,
To the Capitoline flee,
Tell us Stoic,
How has this murder,
Come to be?

–Richard Bryant

My Dog Makes You Uncomfortable (A Poem)

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I’ve got a question,
a query or three,
my black dog,
the peg legged one,
seems to find,
it’s hard to pee,
on leaves and roads;
It’s because,
she doesn’t know,
if she’s straight or gay,
She’s been stopped,
From squatting inside,
In the room she wants,
To make her poop,
Because people aren’t cool,
Watching a blind,
ambiguous dog,
Neutered by an untrained vet,
with only four pegs legs,
Squatting on the floor,
While you,
Use your toilet.

–Richard Bryant