Monday, April 30, 2018

Soliloquy of an Autonomous Writer











‘If a tree falls in the forest with no one around
        does it still make a sound?’

The end is here…no more daily soliloquies,
ravings of a would-be poet on a rainy day.
                    No more weaving of tales 
nor brain droppings on an empty page:
We endeavor to leave our mark
nameless, faceless storytellers
whose words generally go unread.
But do not flatter yourself—we do not write for you
nor pander to those who’ll never understand
why we do the things we do.
Another April has passed…
we met the challenge, gave it our best.
We wore our hearts on our sleeves,
shared the inner workings of mind and soul,
opened the vault and gave a glimpse
exposing pieces of who we are...
not for you, but for us, and us alone:
exorcising our demons,
and finding our redemption  
somewhere in the words.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

#30 NaPoWriMo2018

Anam Cara

Google Image: The Dark Hedges, Northern Ireland












You’ve always had my back
understanding exactly who I am.
We see past the other's faults
in a friendship not defined by love
but by something deeper:
I see your heart;
I know your soul.
You listen without judgement.
You have lifted me from the depths
and carried me over the abyss.
To say “thank you’ would not be enough
Know that you are part of me,
my Anam Cara
my soul friend.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

It's All Been Done Before

Image: Flickr Trini 61

















There are no words 
that haven’t been said
in a thousand different ways
by a thousand different poets.
There is no turn of phrase
that hasn’t been used
to describe the complexities of life,
the turn of the seasons,
the turmoil within.
We write to capture the unique
in the every day,
to say something old in a new way,
searching for the note that sings,
and perhaps for a moment, we’ll soar
until the next poem is born.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Unfiltered

I don’t understand a person who thrives on controversy,
who taunts the leaders others fear;
insults the norms and twists the truth.
They say all that you do comes back to you…
I see a dictator behind a reality star
a bully behind a would be leader.
You reset the way things have always been done
set your own rules, then change as you go.
Are you brilliant or crazy or somewhere between?
Unfiltered, unbridled you hang on your fame,
a puppet or master who thrives on extremes
as you stand on your laurels while branding your name.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Friday, April 27, 2018

Threadbare












All the things we left unsaid
forgotten dreams and ‘I love yous’
are held in trust inside my head
All the things we left unsaid
old bridges clinging by a thread
abandoned by the life we choose
where all the things we leave unsaid
are scratched and scrapped as i.o.u.s

© Ginny Brannan 2018

All the Pretty Little Horses…












This is not my first rodeo;
I rode long before those boots of yours
ever saw a single stirrup or scrap of mud.
Yeah go ahead, ask me where
the bodies are buried…
if I tell ya, you might just be joining them.
Knowledge is power, power tends to corrupt;
absolute power corrupts absolutely.
So please...write your epitaph
and leave it by the door
—and don’t let it hit you on the way out.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

The Problem With Loving a Writer












Loving someone who writes
demands a certain kind of stability:
you never know which way the wind will blow
on any given day. There is no insight
no understanding the writer’s mind
It requires giving up your privacy;
her words may be direct or metaphor—
about you, or someone she once knew some years before.
You must become a willing casualty
to these thoughts she weaves, her poetry
if they don’t incite an all out war!

writer often feels things differently
they sense the moods of others, good or bad;
and when writing’s on there is rapport
but if it’s off, the reader will get bored.

Once again the writer takes her seat
with ideas flowing free, she’s in the ‘zone’
focused on the words and how they fall;
her mind adjusting inward till complete
no point of interrupting till she’s done.

You get to know her mood just by her tone
 then once again she leaves you all alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Tuesday, April 24, 2018

This Little Light of Mine


Image by author

















Being on time is not my forte
no land speed records
will ever be attained by,
nor would you set your watch to me.
But life is not a race—
we, each of us, must set our own pace.
If you choose to leave me in the dust,
      So be it!
I will stand up, dust myself off
and set my compass
back to my own true north.
Time is not important
only the journey is…
and our own light shines so much
brighter when we aren’t trying
to hold the candle up to anyone else’s.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Burying the Bones











I no longer fit into the format
that was once reserved for me,
the “Why aren’t you doing something constructive?”
goes unsaid—the look—enough.

...Guilt, the gift that keeps on giving.

You claim patience, say you don’t care,
    but those sighs say otherwise…
    our one bone of contention
    in this otherwise perfect union.

© Ginny Brannan

Monday, April 23, 2018

It's Such a Tragedy...


So often when we think of poetry
Shakespeare’s classic format comes to mind
the sonnet with its song-like quality
a structured poem with rhythm and with rhyme:

‘...if all the world’s a stage on which we play
each one of us an actor in their part,
then who do we become at end of day
when mask dissolves, persona disembarks...'

Yet every writer comes to understand
not every bit of writing’s meant to be
in format with each chosen rhyme well-planned
written in iamb so rigidly

And here, dear William, lies the tragedy:
 that modern poet chooses to write ‘free.’

© Ginny Brannan 2018

**************************************************

This is not one of Shakespeare’s sonnets, but one of my favorite excerpts of writing by him, as it speaks to the Seven Ages of Man, a theme I often write about. We are all “playing our parts” somewhere in the middle between birth and death…

From As You Like It,spoken by Jaques:
                                "All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion;
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.”


  *Quote in italics is my writing, an example of Iambic meter, inspired by, but not attributed to Shakespeare!


Sunday, April 22, 2018

Life in a Nutshell

Photo from author's personal collection.













It goes by at the speed of light—
becomes a blur of faces and events
“remembers” and “forgets,”
and yet I know you, your face is still the same;
the hair a bit different,
but my memory of you is ingrained.
We were friends on another plane,
in another lifetime where two children played;
where my friends were yours
and yours were mine.
We were teenagers,
passing in the school halls,
laughing at private jokes.
Time gets away from us—
it leaves us floundering
in awkward moments and half-baked dreams.
There is a finite line where once-merged paths
branch away from each other;
a place were once aimless goals
turn inward to focus upon whom we are
and what we’ll become.
Yet, even after a lifetime, almost two,
I still know your voice—
you are indelibly tattooed
into the white matter of my brain.

Today, childhood came running over to hug me;
       And I? I hugged her back!

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Today I heard my name and looked up into the face of a dear old friend. We are in touch on Social Media, but more than 40 years have passed since we last saw each other. What a wonderful thing to see her again!!

Saturday, April 21, 2018

Meteorologically Speaking...












Gray clouds and sunshine…
is it weather prediction
or maybe just life

© Ginny Brannan


Wednesday, April 18, 2018

Three to One












They say bad news comes in threes
it always seems to fall that way
perhaps it does, or it just seems to
because we are all looking
for the other shoe to drop,
another bad break,
another rotten throw of the dice.
If bad news comes in threes
how does good news come?
On a wing and a prayer?
On padded feet?
It never seems to balance out
the ‘threes’ to the one—
but at the end of the day
it gives us something to hang onto…

and given my d’ruthers,
   I’ll take it.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

"Company" Clean











Clean the kitchen,
clean the bathroom,
make the beds up
mop the floor.
Fold the laundry,
straighten bookshelf,
put the clean clothes
in the drawer.
Wipe the fan down,
clean out closets
scrub behind things
though obscure.
Company’s coming,
let’s get going…
must be spotless to insure,
a great impression evermore!

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Just Another Day in Paradise!

















We try to follow protocol
dot the “i’s” and cross the “t’s”
keep everyone on the same page
and anything that might befall
recorded noted kept on file

What difference when one plainly sees
that no one ever follows through
too busy to return the calls
no courtesy or decency
with interruptions, constantly.

The phone is ringing right on queue
another message taken down
filed under “to be done”
among the others left to do
the follow through now up to you.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Monday, April 16, 2018

Con Artist











To admit I was a con artist
might take some by surprise
“Who’d’ve  thought that she could write?”
I  imagine the look in their eyes.

And with that look they shake their heads
admitting they’d had their suspicions;
some saw through me so long ago
‘the odd girl with strange ambitions.’

But I’m no writer, I just pretend
as I work into the night
a new idea has struck again,
if I’m lucky the words fall right.

Yes, I’m truly just a poser of  sorts
I run a con with my words
while some may deem me brilliant
the rest think I’m absurd!

© Ginny Brannan 2018