As I gaze at pictures, read gastly details
of women, children whose very entrails
are ripped from their bodies by the weapons blast,
as angry young men continue their tasks,
raping Asia to summission at last.

Come on you Asians with slanted eyes,
cease and desist and you will see,
that beneath this war like disguise,
They offer THEIR form of Democracy.,

Bryson
1967

America's Politics of Semantics

"A City is a city, is a city, is a city"

The name of the city I can't pronounce,
for it's written in Vietnamese.
Buildings were many, citizens plenty
far from the troubled sea.

Women cooked, men worked, children
played their games
not knowing or caring about our world
or it's aims.

When suddenly at seven all hell and heaven
opened their mouths wide
yelling and screaming they went carening
to death and the other side.

Silence now covers this piece of earth
where children played their games.
Men, women, children all gone,
including even their names.

But what if the rolls were changed, you see,
the name of the town is Albany.
Oh! this would aggression be,
I see, I see, I see.

Bryson
October 1967

---

"CIA of Little Big Horn"
(in modern day form)
The silence of the still night air
was torn by the thunder blast
as weapons ripped the forrest bare
and singed each blade of grass.

Still on we pushed with weapon in hand
and pack upon our back,
to take an objective, make a stand
then tomorrow give it back.

Continuing to play the game
in this political war,
sent by things less than tame,
unable to do their oun chore.

How cheap the cost of Hamburger Hill,
and places such as that.
Things would change and hearts would chill
if in our place THEY were at.

BRYSON
1968

---

"Yes Virginia""
(Americans did that)

I placed a dime in the slot
an evening paper then I got.
Past page one I never went
for to hell my soul was sent.

The picture on the front page
placed my guts in a rage,
for I have children 16, 9 and 8,
so to myself I did relate.

"Just a torn shirt upon my back,
shoes and trouser did I lack,
but more than that as you can see
from my bloated anatomy.

My life of seven years was spent
knowing what death ment.
Sadness was my everyday plight,
for each bit of food I'd fight.

My adopted mother once told me
with the Americans I'd be free.
But as I look at my friend's face now
I see a wrinkled angry brow.

Slowly his finger caress the trigger,
faster my heart begins to quiver.
As all hell brakes lose I begin to cry,
ending my young years in My Lai".

BRYSON
1968

---

"A FEW WORDS"
(ok, short verse)

Sharp deadly bayonets,men interlaced
when into a gun barrel a flower was placed.
Love was shinning from an innocent face,
prior to another of America's discrace,
Allison? Allison? Allison?
---Kent State University---

---

Why should youth be inspired
or filled with Independance fire
fight for all you desire
or face a war you sired?.

---

Sunlight slips as eye lids fall
and the Marine's Hymn is sung.
Above it all you'll recall
the stench of Tarurus's dung.

---

Revolution,repression,
food for digestion.
With this selection,
America's election?
Sad, repression,
while saying
"They repress thee,
not loyal me.
They repress he and she,
not American me,
not me, not me not me not me.

---

Prittle prattle, tounges rattle
over fruitless things,
new sandels, indian rings.
While far away on distant lands
a neighbor just lost
feet and hands.
no place for things,
like new sandals
or indian rings.

BRYSON
60's/70's

---

"Last Thoughts?"
(Who Really Knows)

As I lay here among guns loud roar,
with silence of the dead.
I wonder about things I've done,
words I should have said.

Should I not have one time
in my young, youthful life,
given voice to end suffering,
hunger and strife?

Should I not have said
that an end must come
to the anguish felt
by a cold dead son?

Should I not have cried
with a loud clear voice,
all God's children,
must be given a choice.

Should I not have pleaded,
enough I cry,
for the love of life,
no human must die
in this God forsaken place,
no arms,
no legs,
no face.

BRYSON
15 Sept 1972

---

"12 or 13"

My wife once asked in the middle of the night
if there was anything nice to write.
Well this I had done, when I was 12 or 13,
when the land was pure, glisening clean.

Mother nature abounded, riches galore,
not stripped and covered with human gore.
So from the known facts, my thoughts have gleened,
I will never again be 12 or 13.

BRYSON
21 Nov 1967

---

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