After the Rain

Image by author

I step into the waning light

engulfed in scent of rain-soaked earth

as daylight edges into night.

The peepers chirp with rare delight

from nearby pond in mud immersed,

as I step into waning light.

Now hear lone mockingbird recite,

calling out his six-note verse

while day transposes into night.

I feel at one with all, in spite;

renewed in seasonal rebirth—

when I step into waning light.

Remaining rainclouds take to flight,

I watch them scatter and disperse

as daylight edges into night.

Just for a moment sun shines bright,

then slips horizon-line, submersed;

as I step into waning light

and daylight merges with the night.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Glimmer

Photo by Kelsey Hannah

The veil recedes as in a dream…

in shadowed corners once concealed

now by soft rays of light, revealed.

They skip and soar within the stream,

exposed uncloaked—these faerie folk

dance with delight upon the beam.

In sunlight now, their world unsealed;

till veil recaptures to the dream.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

 Written for Magpie Tales #214  

Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story!

Five a.m. on an April Morning

I stare across this mid-night sea

and ponder in that stillness found

the vastness of this vernal plain;

appearing first as ebony

and yet I know it isn’t so…

A hundred billion stars abound—

celestial embers in the dark

whose gasses burned out long ago,

and still they manage to astound.

Left humbled by their reverie,

as if by watching they’ll impart

the knowledge of the centuries…

Yet could we grasp enlightenment

from moment genesis embarked?

More learned men may share insight,

I myself embrace the night

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Sharing at d'Verse Open Link Night April 2014

Daft Poetic Fools

Some call us daft, poetic fools;

Monets who use their words to paint—

inspired by some inner voice

known to stretch and bend the rules

in search of perfect turn of phrase.

We don’t abide much with restraint—

we walk to different drummer’s beat;

Plath and Poe and Frost and Keats…

we read their poems to reacquaint,

then hold our own course once again.

Sometimes the words call in our sleep;

we wake and run to fast transpose

our thoughts, lest they should slip away...

left often feeling incomplete

with need to find that perfect line.

How different then, this path we chose…

exposing all our truths and scars,

yet something from the depths takes hold—

an inner voice held in repose,

an entity that lives inside—

  we must conclude now, insofar,

      this choice to write was never ours…

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Image by author