On Silver Fields

http://www.grassclothwallpaper.net/winter-night-wallpaper/

I long to walk the silver fields

under half-cast haloed light:

the chilled night air calls out to see

such wonders that may be revealed

unto this stagnant, indoor sight.

I step into the waiting night,

my footfall bold on crusted snow,

aberrant sound disturbs the air—

my prints emboss the winter white,

such foreign-size in nature’s eyes.

Along the old stonewall I go,

the winterberries almost past;

the slightest touch, the softest brush

impressed into the powdered snow

reveal where tiny birds have fed.

I cut across toward sleeping wood

to intersect another path…

the deep and cloven prints reveal

where deer have trekked in search of food—

stripped sapling bark a tasty meal.

Now turn along the sleeping brook

to hear beneath its frozen glass

the water pulsing, pushing past—

awaiting thaw, again to dash

and splash this bed from whence it births.

And there, across this barren tract

more imprints seal another tale

two long, two short; then stroke of wings

where preying owl perchance prevailed

on snowshoe hare; small life curtailed.

Upon these silver fields I’ve trailed

over shadowed tracts I’ve roamed…

I’ve read the tales the snow’s revealed—

oh, how its stories have regaled!

Now cleave to path that leads me home.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Sharing at dVerse Poet's January 2015 Open Link Night.

Inspired on the drive home last night, in part by many winter treks through our New England snow, and in part by an article recently read in Yankee Magazine "Return to Silver Fields" about author Rowland Evans Robinson, Ferrisburg, VT1833-1900; the title somewhat "borrowed"from his 'Silver Fields and Other Sketches of a Farmer-Sportsman'

Je ne suis pas "Charlie," mais je suis avec lui…

I am not "Charlie," but I stand with him...

Global community shrinking daily,

one terrorist attack at a time. 

Fanatics will do what they do,

regardless of the provocation.

How sad the religion

whose God condones

violence, not love.

Shall we confront the camel that spits in our eye?

Neither cower….nor ridicule,

but stand firm for the truth.

Beware “ignorance” and “want,”

silent precursors of rage and contempt

“Protect and defend’

isn’t the same

as “attack and destroy.”

How can we let strangers

dictate our ‘freedoms’ from afar?

Be the cure that suffuses the veins

of rabid misunderstanding.

  

I am not “Charlie, but I stand with him…

You?

 © Ginny Brannan 2014

Prompted by d'Verse Poets Meeting the Bar: 10 Word Poetry. Not sure that I would call this poetry, just the musings and ravings of a rather medicated, cold-ridden writer on the world news of the past week. Much food for thought, and as you can see, my thoughts skip all over the place...

This Winter Wood

C.Parant, Appetite for Photos Used with Permission

This tree was young once long ago…

smooth of bark and lithe of limb;

but trunk has broadened over time,

and outer skin’s defined by lines

that countless seasons have bestowed.

                  I wonder then, upon what whim

                  would someone choose to seek its form;

                  no longer green—youth’s bloom dispersed—

                  what would prompt to steal a glimpse

                  of thing so weathered and well worn?

Perchance the seeker’s misinformed:

 for often tree is just a tree.

As summer into autumn flows

the heavy frost belies the snow

and time moves on without reprieve.

                  Perhaps you’re searching for the source…

                  the roots from where the words are formed.

                  Like sap in spring, sometimes they flow;

                  more often though, the drip is slow

                  till bucket fills and poem is born.

You’ve asked to meet on middle ground,

this fledgling friendship to endorse

our known conceptions reinforce…

Yet there are others more profound

than aged timber unrenowned.

                  So I have left this bid ignored—

                  floating stagnant days on weeks…

                  and ever further from its youth

                  the timber shies, afraid in truth

                  that it is not this tree you seek.

Shall we let meeting run its course

and through rapport some kinship form?

  There’s no reward for those who stall…

Like wilted leaves on damp gray morn,

we bend toward light to be transformed.

           

© Ginny Brannan 2015

The Writer

How do you describe someone

   with a depth of thought,

   emotions etched inside his words,

   and a heart worn on his sleeve?

We hang on the snapshots of his life…

   the love, the anger, the hope,

   the dreams, the joys and sorrows…

We follow him down sunny paths

   and decaying streets

   and see life through eyes

   both jaded and ever hopeful…

For his story is our own...

we recognize ourselves in it—
and we are touched and
changed forever in the reading.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Nick Gentry, Capture 2014

Written for d'Verse Poets Poetics: Nick Gentry

Snow Moon

The full moon of January is known as the 'Wolf Moon,' as it appeared when wolves howled in hunger outside the villages. It is also known as the 'Old Moon' and to some Native American tribes, it was the 'Snow Moon,' a term often now applied to the next full moon in February.