Wednesday, May 18, 2016

Synchronicity

Image by John Burk. Used with Permission

I look to the west as setting sun crests
on the Holyoke range, their time worn brow
casting deep shadows upon the Quinetucket,
their doppelgängers mirrored in the still water.
Past these hills lie the Berkshires
and a bit further, the mighty Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk
meanders past Albany while the thick-grown
woodlands of the Adirondacks and Catskills
turn somber in the fading light.

There is magic in these hills;
if you listen carefully you can 
hear the voices of the ancients
murmuring through the trees.
I know you hear them too,
when the wind whistles just so
and the river sings her song.

We really aren’t so different, you and I…
inspired in accordance
by our ever-changing views—
I burn my words in black on white,
then somewhere in the waning light
I'll pass my torch to you.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

I wish to extend my sincerest thanks to photographer John Burk for permitting me to use one of his amazing photos. The image above is called "Connecticut River Oxbow Sunset & Mt. Tom." It captures the essence and beauty of the Connecticut River as I have often seen it. You may find more of his lovely work at http://johnburk.zenfolio.com

***************************************************************************************
*Quinetucket: Reference to the Connecticut River. Per Wikipedia the word Connecticut is a French corruption of the Mohegan word Quinetucket, which means "beside the long, tidal river."  The word "Connecticut" came into existence during the early 1600's, describing the river, which was also called simply "The Great River.

**Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk (Hudson River) per Wikipedia: The Hudson was known as Muh-he-kun-ne-tuk (River that flows two ways) by the Mohican tribe who formerly inhabited both banks of the lower portion of the river.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

A Matter of Trust…










Children should be seen and not heard.
Trust those who love you.
Age = knowledge and experience.
Always respect your elders.
          
                * * * * * * * * * *
So many lessons in our youth
are learned and re-learned early on
the main one is “You’re just a child,
who speaks in stories and half-truths
no time to listen, move along…”
           
            But there are evils that are wrong
            a side that others may not see;
            when shared aloud, they won’t believe
            cannot handle,  won’t respond…
            until you think you’ve misconstrued.

While lost in youthful fantasy
a grandpa breaks a sacred bond:
to fondle adolescent girls
who happen to be family—
easy prey; then he absconds…

            And they are left to carry on
            in silence carrying the shame,
            not understanding what he did
            nor quite the way they should respond
            —they shelve away and then move on.

Senility might be blame
at  ninety did you even know?
While decades pass and they retain
the scars you left so long ago,
mistrust of loved ones still ingrained.

     I always thought that I’d outgrow
     the guilt I carry deep inside.
     No, you were not a paragon
     and over time I’ve come come to know
     through all the years that you’ve been gone
     how thoughts of you bring mixed reviews
     ….yet both of us still know the truth…
   
 ©Ginny Brannan 2016


Written in first person, inspired by a story I recently read, and another story heard long ago.
Some things are never forgotten…


Tuesday, April 19, 2016

A Certain Resonance


I feel the weight, the ache
 of a hundred living souls
 resonating within me...

Their empty eyes stare, while crackled voices 
share tales of years gone by, yet still
can't recall the “whens “or “whys”
of how they got there.

  * * * * * * * * *  * * * * * * * * * * * * *
I am no seer, but I know what the future holds…
     
If you are lucky, you’ll find contentment somewhere
in that space, that place between past and present.
Or
You'll remember your yesterdays with perfect clarity
while locked in a body that no longer does your bidding.

(We will not speak of “Door Number Three”
for it holds a tale a different kind;
of loneliness and chronic pain;
and diseases that destroy the mind.)

     * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There are days this weight feels amplified,
like electrical current crawling ‘cross my skin.
Struggling to keep the calm and status quo
I cry inside for all of their ‘might have beens.’


© Ginny Brannan 2016

Friday, April 15, 2016

April Showers

Soft April rain falls on the lawn—
it lures new life from brown decay
while chasing winter blues away.

How fast past season now absconds;
with no remorse, spring sets her course
in bursting bud and unfurled frond.

The misty scene evokes Monet,
through April rainfall on the lawn.

© Ginny Brannan 2016



Friday, March 18, 2016

Omens

"Winter Puddle" Charlie Parant Appetite for Photos. Used with Permission.













The ghost of winter passed
scrapes her boney fingers
across my face, reluctant 
to surrender the season.
Yet her grip grows weak…

For even as she haunts the night,
signs of new life encircle
this wagon train of one;
their echoing chant a reminder
of what lies waiting
‘round the next bend.


© Ginny Brannan 2016

Thursday, February 11, 2016

February’s Child

© Ginny Brannan 2016


The gelid crystals slip slowly down
to coat the tattered shrouds
of yesterday’s snowfall,
too fast now soiled on frozen ground

The crisp night air calls my name—
I inhale like an addict needing a fix
and exhale the staleness and weight of this day.

December is darkness;
January still holds sway to a darker day
her light always just below the horizon,
but February, February brings shift and promise…

I am February’s child—
no stranger to adversity
ever gleaning strength in
the luster of her lengthening days,
holding on to renewal and hope
that scopes more sharply now,
to bring clarity and truth to
this ever-aging line of sight.

Yes, I am February’s child,
  ever-reaching for the light.

© Ginny Brannan 2016


Tuesday, February 2, 2016

A Turn of Light

I’m really not as old as you perceive,
it’s turn of light that alters your impression.
How strange that we should count our age in years,
from the very moment that we’re birthed;
or maybe clock starts ticking at conception.

Perhaps it is a matter of perception:
how we view our lives from inside out.
While Time, that ticking Master of Deception
plays puppeteer without discrimination,
and in the view of mirror’s sad reflection
an older face stares out in disbelief.

In my mind I’m thirty-five years old—
some twenty-five more added for good measure;
more savvy than that early, carefree youth
and cognizant from years of introspection
that each one ages different, underneath.

There’s no deflecting natural progression—
each wrinkle gained and every single crease;
we overlook each line and imperfection
discerning life with youthful affirmation
until the moment that this heart should cease.


© Ginny Brannan 2016