Sunday, December 29, 2013

Self-Portrait

Self-Portrait: Francis Bacon

















Memories cast; black and white—
     images that once were clear
     begin to fade and disappear…

Life is a reflection
of everywhere we’ve been,
where we come from; who we are;
filled with introspection,
we can never start again.
Looking toward the light
profiled in the lens—
each deed and every sin;
colors fade with time,
only memories remain.
So what will the camera capture?
Who are we in the end?
What image left to ponder:
     a life full of regrets—
       or one filled with love and friends?

©    Ginny Brannan 2013

Written for The Mag #200. Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story!

Thursday, December 26, 2013

December's Gift



Once upon a winter's night
the snowflakes gathered on the ground;
while through a tattered cloud-filled sky
the moon and stars stood shining down.

‘Twas in the early morning hours
long before the light of dawn
we headed west on empty road
through ice and snow, we traveled on.

You were not anxious to arrive,
I paced the floor and spoke in tongues—
we waited hours for you to come
then finally...the struggle done.

As daylight once again rolled dark
our December babe was born
our hope, our gift, and our delight
to love and cherish, evermore...


©  Ginny Brannan 2013 

Sharing at The Mag #199. Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story!

For us, Christmas will always bring to mind two December babies—one born in a stable long ago; and one born shortly after 7 pm on 12/23/85. Two different children to be sure, one would be the hope for All Nations, one the simple pride of his mom and dad. And did I speak "in tongues"? You betcha--just ask the husband, who will be happy to share the tales!

Friday, December 20, 2013

Casting Stones

How often during a single day
do we make a judgment call
to criticize what others say
and judge what we don’t know at all?

Perhaps it is some ingrained need
to voice superiority,
or conflicts with what we perceive
that makes us act pejoratively.

But what gives us a special right
to cast out stones so randomly—
with cruel and zealous words indict
while spreading the hostility?

For only He who holds the key
to kingdom’s gate can truly know
what’s inside another’s heart
the rest of us should let it go.

© Ginny Brannan December 2013


















A bit of a rant, in light of the social networking commentaries abounding the past few days. So many criticisms, not enough understanding. If we judge others harshly, with out-of-context facts and no attempt to understand their side, what kind of person does that make us? 

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

O Tannenbaum

Through the years we all will be together,
if the fates allow…

The beads are hung, the garland strung
the candles glowing bright—
"Babcia"
our family comes together
to trim the tree tonight.

Unpacking very carefully
the treasures we’ve collected;
some fragile from the wear of years—
wrapped gently and protected.

Each piece has a tale to tell
the brass one from your dad;
the embroidered one your mother made,
a soft cloth bear in plaid…

a Beleek plate from Ireland,
those tiny leprechauns;
my little Polish babcia—
blue gingham kerchief on…

a painted seashell from the Cape,
a jingle bell or two—
in case an angel “earns its wings”
...this year, there’s been a few.

Each piece becomes memory
recalling loved ones gone,
and so we gaze upon the tree
and know their love lives on.

© Ginny Brannan 2013        

Brannan tree 2013
















Forgive my lapse into simple rhyme--I tend to wax nostalgic this time of year. True though, the memories. The Polish "babcia" (grandmother) ornament, a favorite of mine,  was gift from my dear Aunt Helen. Remembering some of the 'angels' that earned their wings this year: Aunt Helen Sak; cousin Patti Unaitis; neighbor Donald LaPointe; childhood neighbor & friend’s dad, Clayton 'Gris' Griswold; my dearest sister-in-law Susan Brannan

Thursday, December 5, 2013

The Peacemakers










A child in the ‘sixties
the Civil Rights movement,
the March on Birmingham
were but excerpts on the evening news…
things I didn’t really understand.

Now that I’m older, I’ve come to learn
of the peacemakers,
the innovators of change—
Martin Luther King,
Rosa Parks,
and eight thousand miles and half a world away—
Nelson Mandela.

They called on us to rise 
above learned hate and discrimination.
We are better people because of them.
May we never forget…

© Ginny Brannan 2013
**Image: Google Images, Mandela quotes.

Monday, November 25, 2013

Watercolor Dreams

















Leave me to drift in watercolor days,
as I glide the current, slipping away
o’er rippled reflections of soft Autumn hues,
I steal to the place where there’s only you.

Content in this Eden where Morpheus calls,
the daylight fades darker and soon night will fall—
just leave me to linger a little while more
afloat in illusion, away from the shore . 

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Shared at dVerse Poets Open Link Night #126. Stop by and see what others are writing!

Image: Autumn on the River, 1889, John Singer Sargent
Written for The Mag #195, Image provided by Tess Kincaid.
She provides the Image, we the story!

Monday, November 18, 2013

Unwritten




















Letters lie, unwritten…

we communicate
from a space
where time
dissipates.

 Yesterday I stood
unsealed before you…

  You know,
-you’ve always known-
  exactly who I am.

Words pale,
  as we read
  the silence
between the lines.


© Ginny Brannan 2013

Written for The Mag #194, Image provided by Tess Kincaid
She provides the image, we the story!!
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #123

Monday, November 11, 2013

An Effigy in Monotone


















captured, black and white
she danced as if no one watched
perfection, en pointe

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Written for The Mag #193. Image provided by Tess Kincaid: she provides the image, we the story!
Image: Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, 1895-96, Edgar Degas 

Thursday, November 7, 2013

River Song

















The voices of the forest sing your name
just a melody upon the breeze
inside this stream of consciousness, it guides
to navigate the path from whence you came,
through time and space to place where you begin.
Your story whispers soft among the trees,
where oldest of the old are long since gone;
yet life renews as well as it rescinds
to flow again from roots to tips of leaves.
This ancient woodland biding out its days
was born from stardust scattered at first dawn;
a paradox that kens through cosmic core...
an ancient entity that lives and breathes
yet knows no stillness, bears no word for pond—
rewrites your name instead to 'River Song.'

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Grave Matters




Future unimagined lay before me,
reanimating life was just a dream…
a man of science who observed that lightning
naturally focused power, unforeseen.
Keenly worked in my laboratory—
“Eccentric” whispered those who lived in town;
never knowing what had been created—
subsistence from the corpses underground.
The beauty of the creature once envisioned,
electrified; now hideous to see.
In ceaseless quest for scientific knowledge
now observe that  “monster” lives in me.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Shared at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads: Out of Standard: To Monster with Love, hosted by Susie Clevenger. Finding the sympathetic side of an iconic monster--trusting you'll recognize mine!

Saturday, October 26, 2013

When I Do You In...


When I Do You In …




When I do you in
… a single bullet will do it
I’ll use six pillows to silence it,
then get out my trusty “kit”
of bleach, and I’ll go to town
wiping everything down,
And no one will suspect me …
just hoping they don’t see
those dirty towels in the trash bin
                   …When I do you in


When I do you in
… a drop of poison should do it
something exotic from Singapore
in your drink when you walk through the door…
you’ll hardly notice the pain
as you start to convulse when it hits your brain
And no one will suspect me …
just best not test that Long Island Iced Tea
to learn that it wasn’t Gin
                  … When I do you in


When I do you in
… a knock on the head might do it
I’ll just explain how you tripped and fell,
slipped on that rug when you answered the bell
then quickly hide the trip wire away,
while carefully keeping the cops at bay
and no one will suspect me …
how could it possibly be?
And that hidden wire sooo thin
                  …When I do you in

When I do you in
…a car accident would do it
a cut in the brake line and you will swerve
around that long and winding curve…
over the edge you’ll go;
How could  I possibly know?
They surely won’t suspect me
Unless they just happen to see
my mischievous little grin…
                  ... When I do you in!

Copyright © Ginny Brannan May 2010

 










Images and artwork by one of my favorite illustrators and authors, Edward Gorey. He wrote many children's books, and many "alphabet" books including the Ghashlycrumb Tinies. In his later years he lived here in Massachusetts in Yarmouth Port on the Cape. He is probably best known for the opening credits on PBS Mystery. Learn more here.

Sharing this at dVerse Poets Poetics: The Lighter side of Ghouls & Goblins. After all, what's a little blood-letting among friends?!!! Bwahahahaha!! (Insert best evil laughter here!)

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

Autumn Rain









Crystalline drops—
cabochon beads on gold leaf
nature’s perfect jewels

© Ginny Brannan 2013



Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Light and Shadows


Image: G.Brannan, Looking down river, Bellows Falls, VT
In your reflection…
no one sees the hurtful leers,
nor gleans the snide remarks
              that still adhere.
Your small town streets
feel stifled now; filled
with close-clung houses;
a place where the stain,
the self-conscious pain
of adolescence long past
              still remain.

In your reflection…
you look almost pristine.
Clean and neat, the dirt
on the streets invisible
            (to most)
no hint of the ways you betrayed.
Those who talked have long since walked—
the ones that remain—no longer as bold;
and hopefully wiser, not just old.

In your reflection…
lie childhood dreams of redemption.
I left the fray, walked away…
kept the hidden hurts at bay.
This was never a place of my own,
             never my home.
                        
In your reflection…
the dawn breaks to erase
all the shadows I left behind.

© Ginny Brannan 2013 

 Image: Southbound on Connecticut River looking towards Bellows Falls, VT. This is a little different for me, kind of a free-flow of thoughts and words. Some internal rhymes but no structure, meter, or format per se. Not sure if it really works.

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night, Week 122.

Sunday, October 20, 2013

Sweet Dreams


Written for dVerse Poetics: The Mind of a Child—hosted by Victoria C. Slotto


One night when I was tucked in bed
I had a dream inside my head…

a magic place for someone small
existed through my bedroom wall.

So it was really kind of weird
when a tiny door appeared;

while mom & daddy thought I slept
over to the door I crept,

Without a key it opened wide,
quietly I slipped inside

and in the glow of soft warm light
before me an amazing sight:

on shelves, and tables, even floor
everywhere were toys galore…

teddy bears and dolls and books
covered even smallest nook.

So many little things to see—
I touched each one so carefully;

I played for hours or so it seems
I did not want to leave this dream.

 I woke with sunshine on my face
the door was gone without a trace.

I searched each night for many days,
but somehow knew it went away—

to find another child in need
for magic room exists, indeed!

© Ginny Brannan 2013


Sunday, October 13, 2013

Marooned


When all falls dark upon this world
the daylight lost to hardened night
our compass stuck within the void
our sails slip tattered and unfurled.
When even moon can’t guide our course
the clouds have swallowed all its light;
and waves are stilled to silent calm
our hope abandoned on the shoals.
When ink has robbed us of our sight
despondency infests our bones
we stave the dark to wait for dawn…
For in His light the shadows flee—
we mend the sails, reset our tack…
the soft warm breeze soothes like a balm;
we stem the tide to carry on.

© Ginny Brannan October 2013
Sharing @dVerse Open Link Night #118
C. Parant Sunrise, Wells, Maine Appetite for Photos (with permission)

Saturday, October 12, 2013

When Doves Cry


Image: C. Parant












I hear a dove’s cry through the pane…
she coos her soft and mournful tune
about a loved one lost too soon.

This illness…was it preordained?
As you slip helm for higher realm
we‘re left to bear this earthly plane.

While waiting time to heal this wound
I hear the dove’s cry through the pain.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

My dearest sister-in-law Susan is resting easy now from her more than 2 year battle with liver cancer. She earned her wings late this afternoon. My heart mourns, but also celebrates this beautiful woman whom I loved dearly was proud to call sister for the past 28 years. Godspeed, dear Susan....until we meet again...

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

From Out of the Shadows



Inspiration is like a stray cat
hiding in the shadows;
timid…skirting the edges
of one’s reach.
It must be fed…nurtured…
and then, only when properly sated,
will it come forward
allowing you to see its true form.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Sharing at d'Verse Poet's Pub Open Link Night #117

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Congressional Pie a la Mode











Our leaders tend to disagree
on what is best for you and me—
and so, in limbo once again
we try to bear it with a grin.

I cannot help but to surmise
that over ice cream and some pies,
perhaps they finally could agree
to work it out for you and me.

©  Ginny Brannan 2013

Can’t a little ice cream and pie solve everything?!!  Ah, that life could be that simple!