I watch a beauty, letting water,
Run its course upon her face.
One by one, more raindrops follow,
Losing size, in giving chase.
Were I the rain, I’d do the same,
Was I given half a chance.
At the risk that I’d fall vainly,
From umbrellas, with a glance.
But if I dropped upon her presence,
Hardly would I think to cease,
Gladly, I would be diminished,
Just to touch, then be at peace.
Bryson Thomas
Rain beads your rosary down the window pane,
But what is the prayer?
Perhaps to regain a flicker of warmth –
It’s no longer there.
Swept away, perhaps, in your maelstrom of being,
Like a whip to the wind.
Emotions illusive, like shadows at night,
The cherub has sinned.
For there. See how the water swamps the urn.
Attack from inside.
Your flickering, life-giving embers drenched,
The grievance is wide.
Your pain is closer than marrow to bone,
And your shield’s just a wreath.
This is a scream in the storm,
For the person beneath.
Bryson Thomas
On Thanksgiving, we have turkey,
In the middle of the table.
And all the family comes together,
Even Grandma, while she’s able.
My sister brings her partner,
My brother brings his dog,
My father stokes the fireplace,
With a special hardwood log,
The kids go running rampant,
While Grandpa picks his nose,
My nephew finds a magazine,
And asks his mommy where it goes,
An Uncle spills his Heineken,
On newish cargo shorts,
Still holds the bottle upright,
While sharing shallow thoughts
There’s pumpkin on the table
And every kind of meat
And all the buttered veggies
You’d ever want to eat
For afters, there is apple pie
And my mother’s favourite cake
And the remnants of that croquembouche
My sister tried to make
An Auntie makes some devilled eggs
All peppered red with spice
But the richest dish that we all make?
Well, that’s just making nice.
Bryson Thomas
The toll for life
Was paid at the post
I’ve been through the sadness,
It’s not much to boast.
‘Cause sadness is brief,
Thrown off, like a fever,
I wed sin like a wife,
But now, I will leave her.
For break out I must,
At the cost of security,
And sever that leash,
And rise to maturity.
So now, I am free,
To gather my soul,
I am what I am.
And I am my goal.
Bryson Thomas
20,000 days from now
My arthritic fingers
Curl into claws
But if I hold them together
And point my aching thumbs
They look like the heart
Still beating for you.
20,000 days from now
My seized neck
Angles my head toward the ground
But if I stay close
And turn my rheumy eyes
I see the point of your cheekbone
That I love to kiss
20,000 days from now
My thoughts are sand dunes
Drifting and squeaking
But when I walk where the sun
Strikes the brightest quartzite grains
I am back
At our first I love you
Bryson Thomas
They say names have power.
They say names can’t hurt you.
Which is it?
And who are they?
They’ll hate me.
They’ll tease me.
They’ll laugh.
They’ll judge me.
They will
They will
They will
Will they?
Well, here’s what I will.
I will that people would own their words.
I will that trolling
And hatred
And blind bigotry
And casual insults
Be writ scarlet on their chests.
I will that everyone using
A keyboard to kill
A screen to injure
A pen to stab
Be out as public
And permanent
And viral
As their cold
Runny product.
I will seek them out.
I will give them names.
I will call them into the light,
From under their Momma’s
Skirting boards
We will see their tiny, quivering shadows.
We will see myriad sad, lonely souls.
Pissing into the wind.
Wee willies.
A hurricane of wind.
But still just a whole lot of piss.
And piss only hurts if you drink it,
So they say.
Bryson Thomas
It’s always somewhere.
The little tattoo, tucked under a dog-collar.
The mantis, praying for prey.
The crease in the vestments.
A speck in the font.
The crack in the marble wall of
Human institutions.
Just wide enough
For thousands to fall through.
Just deep enough
To keep their cries from kinder ears.
Just small enough
To be papered over,
In courts
Inquiries
High commissions
Low places.
Stick a wedge in it!
Flip the tables!
Tear it all down and
Reclaim the lost!
Christ on a cross,
We’ve nothing to lose!
We’re already crushed.
Bryson Thomas
Heal the sky, he says.
Heal my mind.
Those desperate, beautiful, medicated eyes swimming.
Behind smudged glass
Aching for a single, sharp view through the greasy pane.
Scared to break out
Scarred by past refraction
A lead-light spectrum of agony
Stitched together where hooks once
Injected piercing teeth.
The lure calls yet.
Heal the sky.
Heal my mind.
Bryson Thomas
Ask my clan’s best three to eat
And to a man they would repeat
We love breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Anything less, and we’d be thinner
Bryson Thomas
A true optimist is flooded with worries
but still tries to float every day.
Bryson Thomas
brysonthomas 