Thursday, March 23, 2017

Metaphorically Speaking


















Life is a series of relationships—
personal, casual, professional...
some filled with anticipation,
others reeking of ambivalence.
I swore I’d never again become enrapt
captivated by another…
the pain of loss is too great,
it weighs heavy and lives in half-lives
slowly fading; never quite dissipating.
I don’t know when the change came—
when you went being just a means to an end
to a necessary part of the whole—
but here I am again.
While another holds the strings
I go on, ignoring the voice
that nags inside my gut
while waiting to learn 
if
the
cord
has
been


cut.


© Ginny Brannan 2017

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

In the Stillness of the Night













Late winter’s eve and all is still
the lawn lies bathed in silver light—
gray shadows race across the yard
and climb atop the windowsill
to draw my gaze upon the sight.

I stare out to the moonlit night,
across the deck and wooded path
fresh–painted by new fallen snow.
The scene infuses with delight;
this gift inside storm’s aftermath.

Half–buried now, the old birdbath
stands shadowed deep in indigo—
it waits on promise of the spring
when arctic chill has finally passed
and snow gives way to new green grass.

With gratitude, I hedge to go;
tranquility allays my soul…
I turn and feel the warmth within
still basking in the afterglow
of winter’s calm and still repose.


©  Ginny Brannan 2017

When life becomes rote, and frustration grows from being immersed in the same routine—different day, sometimes we need to remind ourselves that peace is still there—within our grasp— if we just take a moment to pause and  enjoy the  stillness and beauty around us.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Karma



You wear your attitude like a shield—
like a force field it surrounds you
emanating in the shift of your shoulders
the curl of your lip
the furrow of your brow,
exuding from your pores as you gorge
on the hurt and pain you leave in your wake.
Unhappiness is your cancer;
anger your disease.
So build your walls of brick and stone,
   wattle and bone—
I’ll hold my tongue while you dangle your bait,
knowing that fate eventually comes around…
and those who concede to hostility and hate
   die alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Thursday, February 16, 2017

The Undertaking








She views the world through autumn eyes
that on this day are cast in gray
as winter tries to tip the scale…
Weeks and months and years have passed
to leave eroded and refined
each moment lived; each bend and turn
etched in crease and smile line.

   And always playing in her mind
   the words that paint the world she sees—
   the people met, emotions felt;
   thoughts that bend and twist within
   and beg escape from their confines

When did such purpose come about—
a want, a need to somehow share
and bare the colors of her soul…
when even casual observation
implores discovery on a page.

   And the words…. always ruminating,
   to form and re-form, while creating
   background music heard by one.
   You’ll see her jot a line or two
   on any scrap or sticky note,
   or back of envelope will do.
   And on rare times when words align
   to culminate with her inflection
   she’ll deem a poem or piece complete
   or at very least well- honed
   to “acceptable” perfection.

She sees her world through autumn eyes
as winter creeps up on her trail.
Time has deepened tone and voice
—so often lost within the forest
of other voices in the chorus—
becoming still as life assails
till call to write once more prevails;
another story whispers, waiting,
   the challenge in the undertaking.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

This was written in 2016, and published in the collection: Poetry as a Spiritual Practice: Illuminating the Awakened Woman—a collection of poems by the Journey of the Heart Poets available at Amazon.com

Tuesday, January 3, 2017

What are the Odds?





The day breaks slow this January morn
the cloud filled sky cast in ombré gray,
cold sun reluctant to show its face.
As I scan across the barren yard
past the remnants of the last snowfall
still floating atop winter-brown grass,
it dawns on me that this is an odd year.
Not only in the political sense—
I mean, how strange is it that a reality T.V. host,
self-endorsed politician, business man, millionaire—
has promised to be a champion for the people?
The man who would be President—
Yet, even more so for us, in the numerical sense.
Odd years have never been lucky years…
if bad luck or illness will transpire,
it always chooses the ‘odd’ year.
2001, 2003, 2005, 2009, 2011, 2015
surgery, illness, lay-off, more surgery…
I tick off our laundry list of misfortune and misery.
And yet, the optomist in me still struggles
to break the surface,  even as the sun itself
emerges from behind its gray cloud curtain.
I defer, as we so often do, to a movie quote,
an earworm reverberating through my head:

 “May the odds be ever in your favor”

Indeed—
           
            May they be in all of ours.


©  Ginny Brannan 2017

Sunday, January 1, 2017

For You, the 'Other Writer'…



So at this time I would profess
—if the truth were to be told—
how every poem that you’ve refined
whispers through my heart and mind
and touches deep within my soul
Oh, that I had such gift as yours!
With subtlety and fine inflection
each story line and each reflection,
each lover's conflict you’ve endured
frozen there upon the page
seeks and speaks to inner core.

Where indeed do such words come
that touch upon such highs and lows,
to paint the hollows so profound
and grapple the unpolished truth?
I hang suspended and spellbound;
for in your words I see myself—
in this mirror that you’ve shared
each fault and glorious imperfection
through introspective interjection
my secrets called out and laid bare.

And so to you, I now confess,
to maestro wielding quill in hand—
I’ve seen my story on your page
as much as you have shared your own.
Through lines transcending time and age,
your tales regale what we have lived,
revealing secrets I have known.
While some aspire, others lead
in ever reaching for that bar,
as each one tries to plant a seed
in hopes that some may stop and read…

Seems for a moment I’ve digressed,
so venture, somewhat tentative
to credit one where credit’s due:
With admiration and respect
that’s earned or ascertained by few—
from moment when we first connected,
my benchmark has been set by you.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Linked to dVerse Poets OLN #187

Thursday, December 29, 2016

With Certain Inevitability


We know neither time nor place, only that it is inevitable…

… but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes. 
                                                                                    — Ben Franklin

In “Tweets” and “Posts” the world responds
to Death’s uncertain rendezvous—
  just two of many that we knew…

As one day ebbs, another dawns
and real or feigned, we mourn each name—
   another faded star now gone.

“Celebrity” does not preclude…
    in ‘Tweets” and “Posts,” the world responds.

© Ginny Brannan 2016




















Actress Carrie Fisher 10/21/1956 — 12/27/2016
and her mom: Actress Debbie Reynolds 4/01/1932 — 12/28/1932
The 'Force' was strong between mother and child.