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

Gauging Spring

Friday, January 8, 2016

An Angel on My Shoulder

“There’s an angel on your shoulder,”
he states, adamantly—
I squint my eyes, unable to see
            this profound illusion.

Still, coming from a man
            who’s come back from the brink
                        makes me think…

“Why would such creature come to
visit a woman with stains on her soul?”

Perhaps these months of penance, served
—if you believe in such things—
have set things right to make me “whole.”

After all he’s been through its hard to conceive
that he still perceives angels,
and still can ‘believe’

©  Ginny Brannan 2015

Monday, December 7, 2015

In the Path of the 'Rising Sun'

They zeroed in on Eden’s shore
and skirted the periphery
a steady drone at first ignored...
in cloudless skies the war birds soared,
as Sunday wakened, halcyon.
Attacking with impunity
the dragon loose on peaceful quay—
too quickly sleeping fleet destroyed...
with thousands lost in casualties
all-eyes turn toward Rising Sun.
The moments of that fateful day
remain ingrained in history,
as petals drift o’er sunken graves
on oil-slicked sea that still purveys
where countless faced oblivion.

© Ginny Brannan  2015

We remember and honor ALL
those who faced the fire and destruction
on December 7th, 1941. 
and all servicemen who turned around,
chased the ‘dragon’ down
...and bravely walked into its flames.

Image: Flower petals float amidst the oil sheen and rusting remains of the USS Arizona memorial at Pearl Harbor.

Saturday, December 5, 2015

The Words Unspoken…

Words ricochet inside my head
of all the things I should have said:
the “thank-yous” that lie half-composed
caught up inside of life, transposed.

I stare off into space instead
and chase the words inside my head—
What do I say to family,
and strangers who have carried me…

for kindness shared, for love they’ve shown,
reminding I am not alone?
The words remain inside my head—
resisting form, are left unsaid. 

We’ve struggled under life’s demands
 —seems nothing ever goes as planned,
with all the words I might have said
  preserved unspoken in my head.

©  Ginny Brannan 2015

Tuesday, September 29, 2015

The Shepherd

With humble demeanor and thoughtful repose
he stands, unassuming, amid the great throng.
Foregoing attention, intent on his role,
he ponders each question, words carefully chose
to impact precisely; to reach and console.

Rarely indeed does a man come along
who inspires to listen, to look our hearts
when blinded by struggles and losing our faith.
Who’s able to touch the crux of our souls,
reminding us all how our lives interlace.

We try to absorb what his wisdom imparts—
our spirits are moved, inexplicably so.
He lacks any pretense,  and yet tour de force
pries our souls open; we let down our guard…
he sets by example, his words reinforce.

Our paths may not cross in this lifetime of ours
but yet his words echo inside of each still…
to strive to be better, to never lose hope;
when problems consume and our taste for life sours,
and ills take us down and we’re left feeling broke;
        when into the darkest abyss we are thrown
        we’re called to remember: we’re never alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Watching the Pope visiting the U.S. last week, was taken by his serene demeanor, the way he would lean in to listen to the ones speaking to him. When he spoke, whether before Congress, or before the masses, his message was one of caring—for the earth, for each other. A gentle reminder for all of us to do better, to be better than who we are.