Monday, July 23, 2018

Sea Glass

The smell was in the air tonight,
drifting in on an eastern wind
recalling those summers at the Cape.
We’d walk along the shore, collecting
shells and bits of colored glass,
watching the sun wrap itself in threads
of peach and pink and purple and gray
before slipping slowly past the horizon.
A chorus of crickets would be heard,
mixed with raucous laughter that trickled
down from the road and tickled our ears
as cars cruised by, windows open,
searching for relief in the cool night air.
Up the lane colorful lights beckoned to the line
forming outside the ice cream shack,
frosty reprieve on a warm summer's eve.

One of the great unproven laws of physics is
that the closer you get to the beach,
the longer the days seem to stretch.
We’d finally crawl off to bed, our
sunburnt bodies finding cool respite
between soft cotton sheets.
If we listen carefully, we can hear the sound
of the waves kissing the shore; as the
warm breeze rustling through the trees
calls us back to the sea once more.

 © Ginny Brannan 2018

Cape Cod near Harwichport, MA 2016

Top Image: Seamarias/Etsy
Bottom Image by author, taken on Cape Cod.

Sunday, July 22, 2018

Breaking "Even"

Lady Luck is a fickle bitch
making random choices—
who will win…who will lose.
We play a steady and patient game
biding our time, knowing the odds
are rarely in our favor.
In this game, sometimes just
breaking even counts as a ‘win’
and given my 'druthers'
I’d druther walk away
with what I came with
      ...than end up in the hole.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Saturday, July 14, 2018


Outside now, night has fallen
over hill the moon doth creep,
the sweet boy child with impish smile
says “Mommy, sing me down to sleep.

"I’ve searched for hidden treasures
and climbed up on Mt. Doom
then slipped down through the rabbit hole
and landed in my room.”

The dinosaurs watch from their shelves
the books are put away
the toys are tucked inside their box
to play another day

And so I hug my ‘sleepyhead’
and sing familiar tune
of cowboys and of cattle
as we gaze out at the moon.

Too soon I know this child will grow
for time does not retreat;
I watch his face in sweet repose
and as he falls asleep….
I pray the angels keep.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Images: Top, Google Images Art.Com
Bottom: Pinterest  Best Moon Image

Monday, July 9, 2018


What was it that you did that caused
so many to be so angry…
was it the color of your skin,
or that you were educated, well spoken
rose to a position that they couldn’t fathom
because they were so color-blind?
With an impeccable record, devotion to wife and family,
class, faith, dedication, selfless love of country
you were everything they were not.
They hated that you were unimpeachable.
They thwarted you at every turn,
resorting to epithets and insults.
Maybe it was your easy manner, your ready smile,
your rapport with others
your unwavering sincerity,
and the ability to see through lies,
identifying those who’d try
to pass something by you.
Your one fault: your faith in humanity;
your belief that even those who disagreed 
would finally see, would come around
to recognize the end results, 
this legacy that you would leave…
but they couldn’t get over the anger they felt
or the color, the color, the color of your skin;
discrimination by any other name is still the same.                  
The ugly green-eyed monster embarks on his campaign
using fear and ignorance to build up his own gain.
his constant rants become a chant, the anger his achievement
at every turn he’d watch you burn while citing disagreement.

Yet history will long denote the ones who gave their best
who knew the laurels of the past are not a place to rest;
the ones who shored democracy; unselfishly they stood,
the ones who had integrity, who worked for greater good…
no matter who comes after, their legacy remains
known not just for who they were, but the leader they became.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Image credit: Stencil by Stencilstarter JB at DeviantArt

Friday, July 6, 2018


Though each part of some other story
we have our own to tell—
concentric circles overlapping
filled with truth and allegory
expanding and expounded on
within the script we’re dealt.

 Bit players playing out our parts
with each line improvised—
and when another takes the lead,
we're left to wing it from the heart
as each new chapter brings a turn
of ‘hellos’ and ‘good-byes.’

Sometimes the mainstays can’t be found
they skip an act or two—
reappearing just in time
to prompt the now forgotten line,
they bring the story back around
—again our play renews.

With every turn, with each new scar
the tale becomes our own—
the narratives that we reprise
recall the people in our lives
not by their stories, but the part
that each has played in ours.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Vesica Piscis is the elliptical space in the center where circles overlap. I imagine each of our stories like as circles overlapping,  to become ripples in the ever-expanding sea of time.