In the Shadow of the Night King

From heated debates venting so much hate,

temperatures rise; before our eyes

a storm rolls in; we’re at the beginning

of bigger things. Who could have imagined

this turn of the tides: whitewater churning—

every day now spent “unlearning”

the truth as we knew it? History shows that
we’ve been here before…hard to ignore

how it repeats, how it depletes our energy.

Once more drained, the power remains—

with whom you say? On any given day

we’re being slammed, completely hammered

with lies and innuendo. Who has the truth?

It’s been lost at a cost we cannot grasp.

When shit starts at the top and rolls downhill

the mirrors go up to reflect the swill

that we’ve become. It isn’t pretty…

When we ourselves get caught in the heat

then Evil Incarnate’s plan is complete

Ever further from middle ground

we wait for the “other side” to fall down.

When common sense itself rescinds

we divide to be conquered from within.

Brother to brother, friend to friend

that’s how a civil war begins.

Have we been played from beginning to end?

The climate is changing as leadership wanes

no respect in the masses, no political gains

stagnant, repugnant, recalcitrant too

how sad, indeed… What can we do?

No strong enough leader to rally behind

would it be surprising to see an uprising?

With daily inciting the Devil’s enticing us;

will we be caught up in his little game?

When every day promises more of the same.

We’ve stepped back into the Twilight Zone

where blatant hatred thought unknown

marches in the streets again—

everyone loses, no on wins.

So “savvy up” people, look around

only we can make the change that’s needed.

We see the writing on the wall,
how long before the warning’s heeded?

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Carrying the Torch

We are the tired, the poor

at one time elevated

now we’re denigrated;

we watch the “disillusionist”

slam our front door.

Where are the promises

that called to our elders

who risked life and limb

to come to this shore?

Who raised up their families

despite any hardship,

now find they are ‘pink-slipped’

and welcome no more.

We need to get back to the basics once promised

we need to return to the truth at our core

where hard work’s rewarded

where cheating is thwarted

where bullshit and liars are shunned and ignored

She stands in the harbor, where some call her ‘Lady’

yet others are known to have called her a “whore”

this symbol of “Liberty“ who welcomes the masses,

this emblem of all who have come here before.

Hold high your lamp, oh, Symbol of Freedom!

Call out the losers, and those who’d abhor…

Remind them our strength is not just in numbers

but in our allegiance for all we stand for!

Remind us stand tall, and help the afflicted

ravaged by hunger, by thirst, or by war.

Help us remember that we are their beacons;

and that trust only comes when you build a rapport.

Just like all families, sometimes we bicker,

yet when push comes to shove we are hard to ignore;

for we’re so much better when we stand together

diverse but united, our country endures.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

In the Still of the Night

Image by author: Back yard, hard edited.

Over the fence what was once a garden

ten, twelve, fifteen years ago

has rendered itself unrecognizable;

 a winding of undergrowth, an overgrown tangle

of weeds and vines, sumac and bittersweet.

The old owner of the land passed on long ago,

his tiny hoarder’s cottage left to a friend.

Uninhabited,  left as tinder to burn to the ground—

faulty wiring or arson for insurance­...we’ll never really know.

The sun has dipped now below the horizon,

dusk turns to darkness,  the former garden

takes on an other-worldly view—

shadow images of arms and hands

stretch out, reaching for the waning moon.

The soft rustle of leaves can be heard, interjected by

the crackle of a branch snapping now and again—

perhaps a skunk or some other wild denizen of the night,

but more than likely one of three feral cats whom

have adopted this yard and made it their home.

The sound of a passing shower, raindrops on tree tops

adds its whisper to the chorus

odors of wet leaves and dampened earth

come slipping through the screen.

There is a certain comfort

in the night sounds, a normalcy…

a sense of security;

counterbalancing the chaos

to erase the lunacy of the day,

I close my eyes now, and surrender

and to my dreams, now slip away.

"Goodnight room"

"Goodnight moon"

© Ginny Brannan 2017

* Quote from children's book, "Goodnight Moon" by Margaret Wise Brown

Judging You, Judging Me

“We all judge. that’s our hobby.

Some people do arts and crafts. We judge.”

—Stanford, Sex and the City

I heard you say you have no vices,

and see that you’ve taken to judging others

on a sliding scale of perfection;

with no one quite as perfect as you.

You know all that there is to know

on a myriad of subjects

and a multitude of points.

Alcohol, tobacco, drugs…

the bane of the 'weak-minded,'

and anyone with such affliction

should rid themselves of their addiction.

How fast you counter with your opinion,

to expose such ‘weaknesses’ to your minions.

—God forbid you ever knew the anguish of abuse

    the pain of infection that eats the bone

    the torment that rips out  the heart

    the invisible suffering that tears one apart.

I dare you to walk a mile

in the other person’s shoes—

yeah, that person whom you're sure

lit up that cigarette just to “spite” you;

the one you’ve deemed as thinking

“only of themselves”

polluting the air that’s there

for only you to breath

Perhaps they, like you, needed

a night out, a reprieve—

from the worries that they carry,

from a life you could never understand.

How hard it must be to keep up that image of the perfect man…

Don’t you see that they, too,  pull their pants on one leg at a time?

In another lifetime, you also might have been judged...

but we no longer talk of lifestyle choices

in once-hushed tones and whispered voices.

So best not judge lest you be judged...

We ALL have vices, some obvious

and some so subtle that even those affected

cannot see them for what they are.

Yet, if we take a good look in the mirror

we might realize —with some measure of shame—

inside all preconceived notions lies this truth:

   we really are the same...

not one of us is perfect, no matter what we claim.

So, be careful where your laurels rest

  and whom you would defame

© Ginny Brannan 2017

*TY to C.B. for the perfect quote above, which I saw and remembered on your page from such a long, long time ago.