The View Over Morning Coffee

I’ve yet to tire of the view

refined by changes over time

the tiny shafts of morning light

brighten landscape till it shines.

And on the grass the morning dew

reflects like diamonds on each blade

dampness slow to dissipate

it lingers under oaken shade

The shadows shift, the seasons pass

a single constant still remains:

I see the young man I once knew

despite the years, he hasn‘t changed.

How do you know if love will last,

as decades pass will it remain?

If face that greets you in the morn

in ages hence will still sustain?

I’ve yet to tire of your face

familiar as my mirrored own…

your smile lines, your silver threads;

our stories etched on skin and bone.

As morning breaks we pour a cup

and through the steam we greet the day,

again I’m taken with the view:

your smile takes my breath away.

©  Ginny Brannan 2015

For Chris and Rick, may the years be kind to you.

And for my Ray, whose smile still takes my breath away.

This Möbius Trip

I’ve walked through darkness and the light

forced to steer down unknown paths…           

no map or compass point to guide,

no stars visible at night;           

no angels here to walk beside me.

This life is constantly recast

transposed by circumstance unplanned.

We micro-shift to stay the course,

hope left dangling beyond grasp;

journeying on endless plight…

“You get no more than you can stand,”           

      what fool created such a quote?           

”Make lemonade” “Stiff upper lip”           

We skirt the borders of the damned…

      just struggling to stay afloat.

Now juggling this unsought load

for days on days without relief;

…threatening to take us down

     until we’re ready to implode.

Bent and broken, yet we cling

to one small voice that will not leave:

the one that whispers, “You’ll survive…”

 —that shaft of light upon rise—

praying not to be deceived,

bent and broken by more lies.

Ever-questing for the truth;

some inner strength on which to draw,

a rope to pull us from the depths,

to keep the devil from his due

Reaching for a second wind,

     another sigh…begin again.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Eventide

Image Magpie Tales #281

I recall the balmy summer nights of youth…

how soft gray gossamer mists hugged the meadow

settling on streams and lowland gullies.

We watched the stars appear one-by-one;

the Milky Way melting over the mountaintops

slipping away far past our sightline.

We chased fireflies through open fields

capturing in cupped hands, to release once again.

With child-like exuberance, we shared hopes and dreams

as countless as the luminaries twinkling overhead.

Oh for the simplicity of those long ago moments…

     how brief they were —

          how far we have wandered.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

lampyrus noctulaca from https://mtmuchmore.wordpress.com

The Golden Spiral

Life spirals

in ever widening circles,

elliptical orbits…

passing only once en route

to some unknown end;

sometimes we almost touch the past

but can’t go back again.

Through each mistake, in every trial—

conviction holds the key;

a lesson learned at every turn

upon our path to ‘be’

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Image shared by Tess Kincaid/Magpie Tales

The Golden Spiral is a non-linear shape occurring in nature, for example the arms of spiral galaxies, or in phyllotaxis of leaves, or the spiral of a nautilus shell, sometimes these are also referred to as a Fibonacci spiral. Perhaps this term isn’t exactly impressive on its own, until you realize that this ratio is the key to everything from encrypting computer data, to the numbers of spirals on a sunflower head, to our own limbs and why the Mona Lisa is so pleasing to the eye. The idea of this ever-widening yet proportionate shape intrigues me, because life in general is not linear, but full of  twists and turns. And so this piece was inspired, not just as reference to shape, but as reference to the spiral of  ‘life’ itself…

The Last Echo

And so the darkness leads to somber sway,

as graphite smudge on pristine page takes bloom;

avoiding past mistakes that would consume

or left to build could eat this soul  away.

My comprehension falters, starts to fray—

while searching for some purity of soul

I seek to find contentment to be whole

as stillness over-rides the end of day.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

A dear friend of mine recently shared a poem which inspired this, sort of an echo back to his thoughts and words.