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!

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!

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? 

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

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.

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!

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. 

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 

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

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!

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!)

Autumn Rain

Crystalline drops—

cabochon beads on gold leaf

nature’s perfect jewels

© Ginny Brannan 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.

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

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)

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...

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