December Nocturne

We slip the quiet streets at night,

and view with silent scrutiny

the lights on every Christmas tree,

each welcoming with their soft light

The stars peek through the tattered clouds--

while crystals float upon the breeze;

they dust the ground with gentle ease,

as sleeping town rests yet unplowed

We hear a distant church bell chime,

it breaks the calm and still nocturne.

We pause a step on this sojourn

to breathe and let our souls unwind

Once each year we let things cease

to watch a winter’s eve unfold

we bundle up against the cold

and wrap ourselves in season’s peace.

©  Ginny Brannan December 2012

Once each year we feel a bit like "peeping toms" as we head out for an evening to check out holiday lights, and peer through windows to view each tree (albeit from the street!). A guilty pleasure!

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Open Link Night Week #76 Holiday Edition! Hope everyone had a wonderful day!

*Image by author: Tree reflecting on pond, North Hadley, MA

How Much More?

The devil danced in broad daylight

as angels bore the innocents--

for only Satan could take glee

in such a senseless tragedy.

The wailing echoes through the night,

yet there will be no recompense;

no words that stave collective pain

nor set the broken right again.

Borne in our hearts, the sound, the sight

of these unspeakable events:

a gaping hole that can’t be filled.,

an aching heart that won’t be stilled.

For “Right to Bear” now see the cost--

how many babies must be lost?

© Ginny Brannan December 2012

Just a note: I have many responsible hunters and sportsmen among  my family and friends. I respect them and do not condemn gun ownership in general. However, in my personal opinion, I feel there is a need to limit automatic weaponry. These weapons were made for hunting people. Our forefathers did not foresee these weapons when they wrote the laws. I've heard the arguments, both pro and con. Yet when events like this happen, and become more commonplace as time goes on, something needs to change.

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #75

Winter Delights

Sweet smells of alluring spice

permeate the morning air;

seducing odors now entice

teasing, tempting to this lair...

Aroused by the delights within,

await the feasting to begin.

©   Ginny Brannan December 2012

         

A little fun with word-play. Baking today. Seriously.

Conspiracy Theory

Angst and anger now consume me

destroying all that I hold dear--

trenchant, they conspire to ruin me.

Skirting 'round our issues deftly,

dark shadows cast upon this sphere;

angst and anger now consume me.

Spitting callous insults cruelly,

the vicious, vile words adhere--

trenchant, they conspire to ruin me.

Where we once had such chemistry

the passion slips and disappears--

angst and anger now consume me.

What is it makes us disagree....

these baleful changes still unclear;

trenchant, they conspire to ruin me.

Both of us behaving badly

undercutting, insincere…

angst and anger now consume me;

trenchant, they conspire to ruin me.

© Ginny Brannan December 2012

Website for Image:The Lull After the Storm

blog.wealthplanningpartners.com.au

Hidden Pearls/Inked

Written for The Mag #147, image provided by Tess Kincaid.
She provides the image, we the story!!

 Hidden Pearls

this world, my oyster…

when seeking path of wisdom

let my maps guide you

Inked

There was one and only one

that got in, under my skin.

Can still trace the marks he left

indelibly printed on my soul.

© Ginny Brannan December 2012

Inspired to write a "two-fer" this week!
Image: http://themetapicture.com/earth-map-tattoo/

Infatuation, Nothing More

Image: Indestructible by Man Ray (Wikipedia)

Loud the metronome is clicking like some ancient clock now ticking

beating like a lover might upon his long lost true love’s door.

Waiting answer not forthcoming, steadily now hear the drumming,

in his head a soft voice humming…a humming like not heard before--

“Just a neighbor,” he was thinking—the voice that he’d not heard before,

                                                                        only that and nothing more

So he tarries in the shadow, nighttime passing to the morrow

seems his love had disappeared, deep anger prompts him to deplore--

Fast it seems, their days were fleeting; wronged and rueful heart retreating,

chill to chase someone who’s cheating; cheating back won’t even score;

burned and bruised, emotions bleeding--now he finally knows the score--

                                                                        infatuation, nothing more.

©  Ginny Brannan December 2012

(*chill: adj. discouraging, dispiriting)

Had a bit of fun with this, "Poe" etically speaking!! Written for The Mag #146.
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #73 

Southbound

Image: htttp://www.flickr.com/photos/fortphoto/3021872889/

Climbing high into night

uncounted squadrons take to flight;

I hear them call—their echoes cry

out to the darkened autumn sky.

Like mariners who sailed afar,

they navigate by moon and star;

and drawn by some internal force,

they trust their lead to stay the course.

Soaring southward by the score,

a thousand fliers--maybe more…

the frost-filled air urges them on,

one final cry… and then they’re gone.

What wondrous prompt propels them “Go!”

before the coming of the snow?

© Ginny Brannan December 2012

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #74

In Progress

photo by Evgeny Yaryshev

old walls aged and worn,

flooring starts to crumble, as

daylight fades to eve

so much left to do,

this house, a work in progress…

where do I begin?

© Ginny Brannan  November 2012

Sharing at The Mag #145--Image provided by Tess Kincaid.

Squall

Image: Andrew Wyath, "Squall," 1986

An acrostic poem written for The Mag #144 .  
Image provided by Tess Kincaid--she provides the image, we the story!

Copacetic, Hunky-Dory, Awesome and Luminous

Smiling his crooked smile

he wheels slowly ‘round the corner …

greeting everyone he passes.

Some days wearing soft flannel shirt,

others dapper in tweed hat and jacket--

blue eyes sparkling, round face glowing with joy.

He speaks slowly, carefully…affects

of surgery, trauma, and treatments;

speech belying his intelligence.

When asked how he’s doing,

his answer has always been:

“Copacetic, hunky-dory and awesome!”

His passion is music: classic, contemporary, jazz…

the first to arrive at the Friday concerts

the last to leave, still tapping to the beat.

Lately, he has added a new word to his repertoire:

when asked “How ya doin’ today?” he fast replies:

“Copacetic, hunky-dory, awesome…and luminous!!”

Oh, that we could all grasp the simple joy

of living that he finds each day...

Oh, that we might be “luminous” too!

© Ginny Brannan November 2012

Google Images

 I work with the elderly, and many inspire me and touch my heart.  
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Open Link Night, Week #71

The Zombie Apocalypse

Years ago when I was young

I obsessed on where I’d be

when the apocalypse came,

and the big bombs rained…

who’d be standing there with me?

Long before the Curtain fell;

before the Great Bear broke apart,

before the terror hit our shores

and changed our lives forevermore,

and cynicism consumed our hearts.

Now youth encumbers different fears

borne from caution’s blackened wake--

with economies tumbling,
our environment crumbling…

Wond'ring what is there left? What’s to take?

There’s no stepping back into the past

to change the facts; somehow forestall...

So should their fears come as some surprise

when they’ve seen the life sucked from their parents’ eyes?

Maybe zombies exist, after all . . .

© Ginny Brannan November 2012

The term "zombie" is often figuratively applied to describe a person in a hypnotic state, bereft of consciousness and self-awareness, yet ambulant and able to respond to surrounding stimuli

**Thanks to conversations with my son Patrick, and Brian Miller's post on d'Verse Poets Open Link Night #70 for inspiring this.

Gilt

Aureate billows pierce the sky

upon a sea of azure blue,

fading soon to a paler hue

as morning flames burn out and die.

We strive for riches far beyond,

possessions one may never own--

gifts shared by all, not held alone;

yet still we seek to seize the dawn.

© Ginny Brannan August 2012

Inspired by poem by my favorite poet, Robert Frost: "Nothing Gold Can Stay"
Sharing at d'Verse Poet's Pub Meeting the Bar: Literary Allusions 11/15/12

Desperado

Bold outlaw rides a feral wind,

attacking in our waning days...

he lays down frost with single gaze.

We feel his gelid breath within--

unwelcome guest assumes his quest,

his frozen hands tear tender skin.

Long after leaves are felled, ablaze

this outlaw strikes on feral wind.

© Ginny Brannan November 2012

There's a chill wind been a blowin' up here in New England...
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #69

All Hallows Eve

Sharing at d'Verse Poet's Open Link Night Week #68. Why not stop by and see what the other ghosties and ghoulies and long-legged beasties are sharing tonight!

Political Allusions (a “Suessical”-type rhyme)

A wee little political rant, in rhyme, from little ol' me...

Heading for the polls and along the way

I got lost, and was accosted

by the other fool in play.

“Vote for me” said the smooth talker--

(with grin from ear to ear appearing like a leer)

campaigning like a stalker.

“I’ll fix all the country’s wrongs,

never bend, and send our current leader

back to where the man belongs.

“I’ve got a five-step plan in place

that takes 8-steps to find, so I’ll just remind ya
that I’m gonna win this race”

He spoke in circles with confusion,

and the divided and undecided

bought into his illusion.

Negative ads began to pellet folks like rain…

more manure by the load upon the road

of this long, miserable campaign.

And so I thought it over for  awhile

what fool had said, and all I’d read

and slow but sure, I began to smile…

There was no substance in his words

and though he spewed them well, I still could tell

from all that I had heard--

it takes more than just smooth rhetoric to win

not just diction, it takes conviction,

so much more than just a “grin.”

I walked away now, even more secure

in recent light knowing who’s right

and who to vote for, conscience clear.

Remember, stand by your beliefs, don’t buy into “illusions”

and realize and recognize when others speak delusions!

© Copyright Ginny Brannan October 2012

Deja Vu

Deja Vu

The mansion looms with windows black,

old portico barely intact;

while boarded panes enhance the gloom

to amplify the sense of doom.

On dead end street we follow track,

‘round ancient home with windows black,

and creeping through a splintered door

we sense that we’ve been here before.

We tiptoe down the creaking halls

our shadows race along the walls,

in austere home with windows black,

till bloody mallet flails attack.

As once the threshold’s crossed, it seems

this house imbeds you in its dreams…

there’s no escape, no turning back

from haunted manse with windows black.

Ginny Brannan October 2012

Written for FB Kindle Obsessed 10/14/12

A haunted tale for the Kindle Obsessed FB site contest, a short story to go with a picture prompt. I wrote this, only to learn I'd jumped the gun, that they were looking for an actual "Short Story" of 2500 - 7500 words. Ooops!! Here's the link to their site for any short story writers interested:
http://www.kindleobsessed.com/uncategorized/short-story-spooktacular-contest/

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #67. 'Tis the Season!!

Under Giant’s Eye

A view of our sleeping giant, Fall Mountain, North Walpole, NH

 I was raised in the shadow of the mountain;

an ever-present, ever-watchful giant

who vigilantly guards our village.

A fierce protector; we’d rarely hear

his voice except when thunder threatened…

then when he would echo a noise

so loud…so terrifying… it

could chase any storm away.

Returning to my village, 

once again I feel the

giant’s watchful eye,

and know that I am home.

©Ginny Brannan October 2012

A view from the Giant's "eye": Bellows Falls, VT

Bowing Out

Midnight Snack, Curtis Wilson Cost, 1984

As autumn ebbs toward final bow

and darkness settles early now--

we seek snug fire to fend the chill,

its soft glow shines upon the sill.

The plantings are all reaped and stored

except few pumpkins and stray gourd.

We spend our evenings sharing tales,

while cold breeze hints of winter’s gales;

and fend ourselves from chill and gloam

in light and warmth that we call home.

Well-sheltered behind frost-etched glass

we watch the seasons as they pass

and dream of Spring should Fates allow...

as autumn ebbs toward final bow.

© Ginny Brannan October 2012

Image provided by Tess Kincaid/The Mag.  The Mag #139

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #66.

On Fear and Falling Leaves...

d’Verse Poets Pub Poetics: Poeticaphobia has invited us to share our fears this week. Sharing mine...

The leaves drop steadily, as

though last night’s frost

released some hidden trigger;

they race to hit the ground--

yellows, oranges, golds, reds

covering the lawn,

bidding final farewell

before frozen blanket again 

coats my world.

I observe this spectacle

from inside, and wonder 

of the trees bared weeks ago;

the gray ones, sap no longer

flowing to limbs' furthest reaches.

Will winter weigh heavy,

snapping limbs,  destroying hope

for another season, another chance?

My biggest fear…

not of of my own mortality,

as death is as inevitable…as

uncontrollable… as season’s change.

No, my fear is that of not living enough…

to never experience all I hope to see,

people I’d like to meet , all the

wonders that lie waiting while I

juggle and struggle this reality

just to make ends meet

…no more leaves to drop,

fading into final season

without chance of at least one
ultimate, glorious farewell

©  Ginny Brannan October 2012

Caught in Your Deadlights

How intricate those lies you spin--

well-shrouded in the perfect guise,

as subtly you hypnotize . . .

then soft, your touch against the skin

ever so light--until the bite

that paralyzes life within.

Your silken web now my demise,

entrapped within the lies you spin.

© Ginny Brannan October 2012

“For if you stay, you’ll lose your little mind in my deadlights.”

  Pennywise,“It,” by Stephen King

*Image taken by author of Nebscona Crucifera (Brown Orb Weaver)
**Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #65. Stop by and read a spell!