Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Summer of ‘74
















One sultry summer long ago —
fresh from high school graduation,
flying high with youth’s elation…

we cruised your sweet, turquoise ‘n white
refurbished ’56 Bel Air,
two naïve kids without a care.

Ever fast, the decades pass,
our paths had split with season’s end…
What became of you, my friend?

Sometimes I’m still reminded of
that heartbeat in infinity...
and hope you still remember me.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Written for The Mag #179
Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides the image, we the story!
Come check out what others are writing!


Monday, July 29, 2013

Planetary Variants



In artificial atmosphere
we live and breathe for weeks on end;
outside, known landscape disappears
while strange mirages now ascend.

As other-worldly temps oppress
and solar furnace sears this world,
we function under great duress—
await more changes to unfurl.

Then storms roll in with violent wind,
with hail and lightning all around;
the blistered soil cannot defend —
flash floods spill this cracked, dry ground.

It’s fast become quite evident
with each predictive forecast,
that global change is imminent…
this Earth we knew has been recast.

We pray reprieve is coming soon,
that band-aid changes somehow stave
this broken ship from certain ruin…

—while stuck inside, machine-enslaved.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #107

Coming off almost six weeks of oppressive heat. Part of June, most of July wasted inside, impossible to enjoy outdoor activities for more than a few minutes at a time, as sweat pours down foreheads and backs and instantly soaks anyone who tries. We are used to many seasonal variants here in the northeast, but this has been an exceptionally hot summer so far. The past five days or so, we've finally have a reprieve!

Sunday, July 14, 2013

Finding The Melody






















Speak to us of early spring,
of onyx skies and starry nights,
of fireflies that spark the fields
and castles built of sand, pure white;
of paladins and maidens fair,
of pirate chests with hidden treasures.
Take us back to bright green days
those dew-cast morns where eagles soar
wings spread wide to glide the zephyrs…
Hope is the thing with feathers.

Speak to us of summer days
of new horizons to be found;
not quite knowing what we’re seeking
lost among the youthful throng.
Eagerly, we soak up knowledge
to the beat of rock ’n roll;
teetering the edge of innocence,
while searching for the one true song
that fulfills and makes us whole —
that perches in the soul.

Speak to us of autumn breeze,
and old, familiar pathways worn;
in quickened wind, the dry leaves fall
to take their place upon the lawn.
The late day sun drops swiftly now
as somewhere deep a memory stirs,
aroused by old familiar tune…
and though the verses aren't recalled
each hums the melody once heard
and sings the tune without the words.

Speak to us of winter’s bite
the chill that seeks out brittle bone,
as childhood fades to distant past
its memory lost to cold, gray dawn.
Yet hope survives inside the heart,
though time erodes, we still recall—
retained from tender years now spent,
that tune of youth is not forgot…
it resonates from when we’re small
and never stops at all.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Trying my hand at a second Glosa. Here is a link to the first. 

The glosa is a form of poetry from the late 14th century and was popular in the Spanish court. The introduction, the cabeza, is a quatrain quoting a well-known poem or poet.

The second part is the glosa proper, expanding on the theme of the cabeza, consisting of four ten-line stanzas, with the lines of the cabeza used to conclude each stanza.

Lines six and nine must rhyme with the borrowed tenth.
There are no rules governing meter and line length, except that traditionally, they emulate the style of the lines in the cabeza. Because of its structure, theglosa is ideally used as a poem of tribute. In writing that tribute, you weave your lines with the lines of the opening cabeza, collaborating, as it were, with the spirit of the poet you honour.

Honoring one of my favorites, Emily Dickinson, a New England poet who resided only a brief half- hour's drive from my own home.

Sharing at d'Verse Meeting the Bar: Are you listing?

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Mirage


Arising from sun-drenched earth
to prey upon time-worn eyes
bending—folding—
once again fading,
to reappear that same
immeasurable distance away…

and I’m left burning;
yearning to melt into
your elusive pool

that I can
            never
                        quite
                                    reach.

© Ginny Brannan 2013


Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #104. C'mon by and read a spell!