Creative Cycle

What happens when you’re cold and dead

to all the words that you have read,

the stories floating in your head,

the inked-up pages you have bled?

Discover now that I'm resigned

to think our words are reassigned.

Like spirit, they can’t be confined

but born inside another’s mind.

© Ginny Brannan April 2012

image by Manu Pombrol

Shared at The Mag #115 -- image from Tess Kincaid.
She provides the image, we provide the story!

In Stasis

Image: Alex Stoddard, courtesy of The Mag

Held captive in a man-made womb

composed of glass and wooden stave,

adrift inside this watery grave

while oak and hemlock guard my tomb.

I rest on decomposing bed

of rotting life and fictile earth;

awaiting on some grand re-birth

I float in stasis state instead.

©  Ginny Brannan April 2012

Written for The Mag #114. By Tess Kincaid; she provides the image, we provide the story!

Portal / Old Friends

Through portal of advancing mind

I wander back to days of youth,

still unsure what I hope to find.

Through portal of advancing mind,

the sharpest edges now refined

where make-believe stands with the truth.

Through portal of advancing mind,

I wander back to days of youth...

Old Friends

As each one speaks,

I watch the years fall away

through eyes that remember

the girls we once were.

Together again…

we pick up where we left off,

not missing a beat,

always moving forward.

It’s impossible to compress decades into verse

and a river of memories into words…

your friendships sustain me --

each a treasured pulse
inside this grateful heart.

©  Ginny Brannan April 2012

Sharing two, a Triolet and Free Verse of similar theme. 
Posting this at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #41

On This April Morning…

In the cool of early morning,

I step outside my door;

petrichor envelops me…

I breath deep the

fresh-washed air.

Eyes note yesterday’s

naked limbs now half-clothed

in new-leaf camouflage.

The grass stands attention

as sun filters through the

last lingering clouds,

calling reveille.

As the season cycles,

I too, am renewed.

©  Ginny Brannan April 2012

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Open Link Night Week #40 4/17/12

City Sub-Texts

Feel the Beat

To know the pulse that beats

beneath the streets, the trains

that flow through blackened veins—

one must discover the world

awaiting through the gates,

past the turnstiles, down the stairs.

Mingle the crowds…breath the air …

pungent, offensive; assails the senses—

residuum of 5 million that

swarm this maze every day.

The dirt, the grit, the true city awaits--

          just below the surface

©  Ginny Brannan April 2012

Under the Hustle and Bustle 

Stepping out of the bright sun

to enter the subterranean

world under The Garden,

Get a ticket, find the gate;

maneuver the maze of halls

and stairs down to the platform.

Train stops: bodies off, bodies on,

Commuters, a strange breed,

heads down, read a book, read

a newspaper; whatever happens,

don’t make eye contact.

Train starts, slowly speeds up,

rocking and swaying on the tracks

New York City, Center of the Universe.

From here head north to the Bronx

riding the el past the war zone of

boarded-up, graffiti-laced buildings.

Or east to Brooklyn, Queens, the Rockaways.

Or maybe south, through Little Italy,

Chinatown, to Battery Park --

emotions still grip in the

shadow of buildings long gone.

To ride the subway is to experience

the world incognito, to become one in

a nameless, faceless crowd…

where people-watching is the norm

(as long as you don’t make eye contact)

© Ginny Brannan April 2012


*Images Wikipedia Penn Station
Written for and sharing at d'Verse Poets Poetics: Subway 4/15/12

What Do You Want?

Photo by: Donna Creamore (Used with permission)

What is it that you want from me?

it’s hard to know when you won’t say.

<sometimes I feel I'm in the way>

Give me a clue that I can see--

not just some squawk, we need to talk;

perhaps you'll find that we agree.

You preen and then you walk away...

what is it that you want from me??

© Ginny Brannan April 2011

This lovely photo of a Great Blue Heron was one of several amazing photos shared by Donna Creamore at New World Creative Union, with permission to choose one and write a poem.  

Out of the Shell

Image: Egg Island by Djajakarta

floating aimlessly…

a life of non-existence

in an empty shell

hull begins to crack

self-esteem eclipses pain

I emerge, unscathed

finding strength anew

I shed the broken pieces

to learn who I am

© Ginny Brannan April 2012

Written for The Mag #112--they provide the image, we provide the story!
and sharing at 
d'Verse Poets Open Link Night #39  4/10/12

Legacy

Bound, beaten, condemned;

the slight man didn’t fight back…

hoping by the path he now chose,

his legacy would never be forgotten.

We all aspire to be remembered . . .

but to set an example that will be

reflected upon through all ages hence--

that is an amazing achievement indeed.

© Ginny Brannan April 2012

"He was delivered over to death for our sins and was raised to life for our justification.”  Romans 4:25 

Images: 1)  Tripadvisor, Crown of Thorns tree 2) http://wellbehavedmormonwoman.blogspot.com

For the Birds/Bird Chatter

Image: Parke Harrison

For the Birds

Mr. Starling was his name,

Ornithology his game:

studying the birds both far and wide.

On researching the clues

he might take off his shoes

to get a better view of what’s inside.

Bird Chatter

We come into this world as naked as a jaybird.

Our parents give us wings, teach us to fly;

until we can finally leave the nest.

We tend to migrate toward similar people--

because birds of a feather flock together.

Knowing that the early bird gets the worm

we work hard to earn a feather in our cap.

When courting, we try not to ruffle any feathers,

hoping to find a wise owl rather than a silly goose.

We come home to roost, and feather our nest,.

Try not count our chicks before they’ve hatched,

then raise our brood until they can wing it alone

Once again empty nesters, we get our ducks in a row.

By now we should be sitting in the catbird’s seat,

maybe flying south each winter as snowbirds.

No longer a spring chicken nor cock of the walk,

just a couple of old crows that are happy as larks

we await our final swan song, 

to soar like an eagle into the sunset.

© Ginny Brannan April 1, 2011

Written for The Mag #111 Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides image, we provide story!!
AND
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #38 4/03/12

Nightmares

Written for d'Verse Poetics: Nightmare Verse hosted by Stu McPherson

Night falls, and Morpheus calls my name;

I start to dream, nothing seems the same.

Ghoulish creatures without features have appeared--

hellish sounds now surround me, feeding fear.

Toss and turn,  their voices churning in my head;

muscles tighten from the sight of living dead.

As dawn arrives, learn I’ve survived the night,

released and freed, the evil seed fades from my sight.

Each waking hour, still I scour each darkened shape

search out the doors on every floor for my escape.

©  Ginny Brannan April 1, 2011

Image: http://runkaleighrun.wordpress.com/2011/09/10/nightmares/