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


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