Here I go . . . again

I read too much in the silences

the words unsaid between the lines

     Can’t you see the heart worn on this sleeve?

Hanging on this thread from your web of indecision

 while you ponder what to take and what to leave.

There was no “quid pro quo” offered,

— no ‘if; thens’ —

…and only I expected otherwise,

       over-thinking things again.

©   Ginny Brannan 2016 

Clinging

The rain-soaked leaves fall from the trees

to coat the asphalt avenues,

they cling to shingles on the roofs

and track inside stuck to our shoes.

They drop now as the raindrops do—

spinning, skipping in the squall;

muted vestiges of glory

upon the lawns and fields soon sprawl.

Each year the same old fate unfolds

by early frost and chill propelled,

this final blaze of reds and golds

as season bids her last farewell.

And as the colors dissipate

we feel that ever-growing pall;

the long cold winter lies in wait—

for now, we’ll revel in the Fall.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Off the Wagon

Image: Tom Harty Trapper's Fishcamp and Grill, Oklahoma City

Like a sponge I soak up the rosés  and burgundies,

golden Chambourds, Bourbons and Grand Marniers

the yellow-green Chartreuses and emerald Absinthes

… a sot in need of one. more. shot.

Just a steward in this cabinet of riches,

for six decades imbibing, sampling the goods,

savoring each flavor; knowing that soon

each one sours to brown, 
spilling to ground until gone.

Shaking with chill of withdrawal,

my twelve-step program starts now—

counted by months

until my next binge.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Image: G.Brannan Laurel Lake in Lee, MA

Seashell (written at 16)

Google Images: Seashell in Mui Ne Vietnam

Little seashell in the sand

uncovered by the lapping wave,

with your home here in Vietnam

I know you have seen better days.

Days when the sun shown bright

not hidden by the dust of war,

and peaceful days without a fight

when people could enjoy this shore.

These days of war will last awhile

while unsuspecting people die,

a war so ugly and so vile

and we who watch still wonder why.

Tiny shell don’t give up hope

because a soldier died today,

someday perhaps we’ll learn to cope

and maybe peace will find it’s way.

© Ginny Brannan written in 1972

The future I envisioned: Children playing on the beach. Nha Trang Vietnam.

What the reality was in 1972, Google Images: Vietnam coastline, 1972

Just a little background on the climate of the era: In 1972 I was just starting my Junior year of High School. For at least a decade and a half, the Vietnam war had been spoon fed to us on the nightly news, excerpts edited for our consumption. By 1972 I was aware of some of the realities, but mostly what was going on here at home, all of the antiwar protests and the fact that people I actually knew were being drafted now. The songs of the era: Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" and "Masters of War," Creedence's "Fortunate Son", Edwin Starr's "War" ('what is it good for? Absolutely nothin'), Lennon's "Give Peace a Chance" all spoke to the disenchantment of this war that had lingered much too long.

In our Junior year, one of my English subjects was poetry, and one of the assignments was to write a poem. My somewhat sheltered small-town Vermont life left me blissfully ignorant of the realities of the war on the other side of the world.  My poem, above, speaks a lot to my own naiveté.  My teacher panned the poem, part of her notes had to do with me "personifying" an inanimate object (the seashell). I do have to wonder if the underlying factor had more to do with my sympathetic views of that war. Hindsight is always 20-20, you know…

Anyways, for better or worse, first "real"poem I can remember writing.