Walking This Beaten Path

We walk this path together, you and I…

through warm spring breeze and sunburned summer days

in autumn wind while yellow grasses sway;

through winter’s frost beneath a gray-green sky.

Our footsteps pad in time—a metronome,

while carefully we tread familiar trail—

past up-heaved slabs that threaten to curtail;

with intimate awareness of each stone.

It’s surely not smoothness of the road

nor bright clear days we know will never last;

but through this partnership that we hold fast—

that helps to balance life’s uncertain load.

I listen to each footfall on the stone;

our syncopated rhythm beats as one.

© Ginny Brannan 2013
Shared at The Mag #188--image provided by Tess Kincaid.

Image by Mark Haley for The Mag

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Open Link Night #116

Fatal Attraction

She skirts the edges of the night

drawn like magnet toward his light.

Enamored by the pale orb’s call,

her shadow dances ‘cross the wall.

Such allure could prove unwise—

to linger close would mean demise…

but moth still flutters toward the flame;

her prize just waiting to be claimed.

©  Ginny Brannan 2013

Cesar Santos: The Moth & the Lamp

Inspired by image for The Mag #187,  posted too late to share. Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story!

Of Magic Pumpkins and Glass Slippers

The lovely blond-haired maiden fair

took the stage and lived the tale;

a real life fairy story told

of talent and a voice of gold—

born with music in her soul.

In excerpts I remember her,

the pretty one I so admired…

I still see her as I look back,

belting out that rock and roll—

she sang from deep within her soul.

The clock has chimed and she must go—

the coach awaits its weary guest

to bear her home once more, to rest…

where she can heal— again be whole;

her voice still ringing in our soul.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

This is about a slightly older cousin whom I really barely knew. Yet one of my favorite childhood memories was her performance in a school musical of Cinderella where she sang the lead. Heck, she stole the show!! I can remember her in her teens when she was all about Woodstock, then hearing her sing at her brother’s wedding, then at a club in VT— lead singer in a band. Shortly after she left for California to sing and record. Then few years ago she came back her New England roots. Sadly, she passed yesterday, lost to early-onset Alzheimer’s. 
For Patti…you will always “Cinderella” to me.

The Pipes, the Pipes are Calling...

Their haunting sound calls out to me:

“Come home...come home;” across the sea

to highlands, and to castle keeps,

to lowland lakes with monster deep.

The Shetland Isles, the Hebrides—

I feel them calling out to me.

This ancient land, a mother’s pride;

it’s in her dream that I abide.

I feel the pull deep in my bones—

The pipes, the pipes…they call me home.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Map Image, St. Ninian's Isle, Scotland, provided by The Mag

Poets often write in different “voices” and this is written in the "voice" of my husband.  His Scottish heritage hails from his mother's family, with names of Wilson from the Gunn Clan from Caithness; and Gibson from the clan Buchanan— with history dating back to 11^th century origins on the eastern shores of Loch Lomond. We've been to Ireland and hope to visit Scotland someday. Those pipes are calling...

Written for The Mag #186. Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides the image, we the story!

Bits of Stardust

You don’t know me…

The day started

like any other,

until the fires of hell

rained down upon us.

A wife, a daughter,

a husband, a father:

I was all of these,

and then I was none.

You don’t know me…

en route home we heard the news.

Mid-air,  the question was

not whether we would die,

but who we could save.

We knew the consequences,

we made our choice.

You don’t know me…

I passed you coming down

as I was going up.

I trained for this moment

all of my life. I did my duty

until The World crumbled

around me, and all went black.

You don’t know me…

I watched in horror

as my country was attacked.

I cried for those I’d never know

and resolved that those responsible

would not go unpunished.

You don’t know me…

I am but a bit of stardust

drifting through time and space...

We are remembered not for who we are,

but who we become in the face of adversity

 9/11/2001...Let Us Never Forget!

Ginny Brannan 9/11/2013

Remembering those lost at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, in the sky over Pennsylvania, doing their duty as first responders. My heart still cries for those who were lost.

The Soft "Hello"

What change is this that whispers in

on padded feet in stealth disguise…

inspiring poet’s pens to write—

to try to capture once again

the vistas spread within our sight?

In silent awe we feast our eyes  

on scarlets, ambers, wines and gold;

we struggle ever to describe—

in thoughts expressed—to realize

with words, though often used before—

retell the story, fresh and bold.

“How to reveal such season, grand?”

concedes the writer, meek and small.

Our poems join with the thousandfold;

yet still, they fail to verbalize…

for brushstrokes from the Master’s hand

fall short within the words of man.

©  Ginny Brannan 2013

Image: Google Images: Rob McKay 2010

Sharing at dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week 113. Come join us!

On the Rail

Pulled this older piece up to share at The Mag #185.

I love the sound

of trains…

the “whoosh-shhhh”

as the brakes disengage

the “chuh . . .chuh . . .chuh . . .”

as those pistons start

moving, slowly picking

up speed, hear the

clickety-clack, clickety-clack

as steel rolls against steel.

Watching farmland,

small towns,  cities

roll by; a shared

communion with

travelers fifty,

seventy-five,

a hundred

years ago.

Coal cinders have

given way to

electricity;

polished wood,

velvet and brass           

to steel, vinyl

and chrome.

My uncle was

a trainman;

riding the rail

is in my blood.

In the distance,

I hear that

lone whistle

calling,

my heart quickens…

“Aaaall aboaardd!!

© Ginny Brannan September 2011

Train Station, my hometown Bellows Falls, VT

Rockwell Image shared by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story. 

Originally shared at dVerse Poetics, 2011: Sorry I missed the Train_n_n_n_n  with Claudia on Poetics this past weekend. 

Are We All ‘Mad’ Here?

Suicide, homicide, genocide, war—

so much anger; we can’t keep score.

Everyone saying another’s to blame;

are we all players in some crazy game?

Where will it end, why isn’t it clear:

have we all gone mad here?

Struggle—good and evil—which one is which?

No one is ‘clean’ here,  there’s always some hitch.

“Intervention” “assistance,” call what you will;

as self-righteous commenters spew out their swill,

then sit there paralyzed;  loath to interfere—

Have we all gone mad here?

Mothers lay moaning, children lay dead;

who makes those tough choices, or watches instead?

Do we observe and let evil win?

How can a leader kill off his own ‘kin,’

and suffer his people to cower in fear…

Have we all gone mad here?

Suicide, homicide, genocide, war

….so much anger, we can’t keep score

 © Ginny Brannan 2013

Just one person's point of view, mine--in light of certain current events. Do I think we should be involved? Only if the U.N. provides incontrovertible proof, and only if other countries step up to the plate first. It's not our job to "police" the world. Still, as a mother, it sickens me to see the images of the murdered innocents.