Sunday, May 20, 2018

Rise


We must rise above the violence of late,
return to the peace we once knew
while turning our backs to the anger and hate.

Too long we’ve left destiny in hands of fate
now the world’s upside-down and  askew—
we must rise above all the violence of late.

And shelter ourselves from the thoughts that negate
as we keep open minds to the truth
while turning our backs to the anger and hate.

Disparager’s words paralyze; suffocate,
and ignorance needs no excuse—
we must rise above the violence of late.

The angry man bellows with words that berate
yet we can stand firm and refuse,
while turning our backs to the anger and hate.

Fear breeds more fear, but love liberates
and we are so long overdue…
we must rise above the violence of late
while turning our backs to the anger and hate.

Ginny Brannan 2018

Image by Author. Near Harwichport,  Cape Cod MA 2016

Monday, April 30, 2018

Soliloquy of an Autonomous Writer











‘If a tree falls in the forest with no one around
        does it still make a sound?’

The end is here…no more daily soliloquies,
ravings of a would-be poet on a rainy day.
                    No more weaving of tales 
nor brain droppings on an empty page:
We endeavor to leave our mark
nameless, faceless storytellers
whose words generally go unread.
But do not flatter yourself—we do not write for you
nor pander to those who’ll never understand
why we do the things we do.
Another April has passed…
we met the challenge, gave it our best.
We wore our hearts on our sleeves,
shared the inner workings of mind and soul,
opened the vault and gave a glimpse
exposing pieces of who we are...
not for you, but for us, and us alone:
exorcising our demons,
and finding our redemption  
somewhere in the words.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

#30 NaPoWriMo2018

Anam Cara

Google Image: The Dark Hedges, Northern Ireland












You’ve always had my back
understanding exactly who I am.
We see past the other's faults
in a friendship not defined by love
but by something deeper:
I see your heart;
I know your soul.
You listen without judgement.
You have lifted me from the depths
and carried me over the abyss.
To say “thank you’ would not be enough
Know that you are part of me,
my Anam Cara
my soul friend.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

It's All Been Done Before

Image: Flickr Trini 61

















There are no words 
that haven’t been said
in a thousand different ways
by a thousand different poets.
There is no turn of phrase
that hasn’t been used
to describe the complexities of life,
the turn of the seasons,
the turmoil within.
We write to capture the unique
in the every day,
to say something old in a new way,
searching for the note that sings,
and perhaps for a moment, we’ll soar
until the next poet is born.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Unfiltered

I don’t understand a person who thrives on controversy,
who taunts the leaders others fear;
insults the norms and twists the truth.
They say all that you do comes back to you…
I see a dictator behind a reality star
a bully behind a would be leader.
You reset the way things have always been done
set your own rules, then change as you go.
Are you brilliant or crazy or somewhere between?
Unfiltered, unbridled you hang on your fame,
a puppet or master who thrives on extremes
as you stand on your laurels while branding your name.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Friday, April 27, 2018

Threadbare












All the things we left unsaid
forgotten dreams and ‘I love yous’
are held in trust inside my head
All the things we left unsaid
old bridges clinging by a thread
abandoned by the life we choose
where all the things we leave unsaid
are scratched and scrapped as i.o.u.s

© Ginny Brannan 2018

All the Pretty Little Horses…












This is not my first rodeo;
I rode long before those boots of yours
ever saw a single stirrup or scrap of mud.
Yeah go ahead, ask me where
the bodies are buried…
if I tell ya, you might just be joining them.
Knowledge is power, power tends to corrupt;
absolute power corrupts absolutely.
So please...write your epitaph
and leave it by the door
—and don’t let it hit you on the way out.

© Ginny Brannan 2018