Paved with Good Intentions

The future on hold

unmet goals notwithstanding

and so April ends

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Sorry that I did not meet my goals. Juggling too many balls at the moment. Congrats to my friends who did 30 in 30!

For the Reckoning

Spring cares not of dates or time—

the earth turns, the axis shifts...

warmth returns to frozen ground.

Rains come to green the grass

coaxing buds to spread their leaves.

Flowers explode in pastel profusion.

There is a lesson here

that a power larger than us exists.

It controls the things that we cannot.

Call it nature or miracle, science or grace.

It exists in spite of us—

in spite of the reckless will of man.

A gift for our reckoning…

a reminder for the apathetic,

a call that coexistence, not resistance,

is not only the best, but the only

way to live.

We may think we dominate the world

yet from the slightest to the largest

each creature has a role to play.

Remember, we are but one

of over eight million species

perspective is everything

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image: Charles Parant, Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed written permission.

Learning Curve

No one tells you that life is messy, 

that our days are rarely

sunshine and rainbows…

that there will be losses and gains

hard work and struggle

trials and pain.

Yet…

There are moments  when our better angels rule—

when life returns in shades of lavender and green,

in brief glimpses of blue between the gray.

It’s for these days that this heart yearns—

when, for a moment, the havoc subsides,

when we can feel the sun on our face again.

When we can finally breathe again.

© Ginny Brannan

Tick–Tock

 Time isn’t fluid…

   it stops and starts—

   at once speeding up

   running rampant off its track;

   then slowing to a crawl…

   as the seconds tick by 

   with no negligible change.

Clocks are only part of the equation

   as we wait to see what comes next.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Not my 'Strong Suit'

An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.

Time heals all wounds.

Would that we could go back?

Would that we could foresee

 and fix the future before it happens?

Life doesn’t work that way.

So we become reactive

 instead of proactive–

trying to repair what is broken

 rather than prevent it in the first place.
Trying to heal what is beyond our scope

 when we don’t even know the cure.

Patience is a virtue.

Slow and steady wins the race.

All good things come to those who wait

             …I’m waiting

© Ginny Brannan

Waiting on Divine Intervention

Once more it seems I fall behind,

and drag what’s left of my esteem,

wishing I could take the time

to write down thoughts, to share my dreams.

My ideas smashed to smithereens—

while torn between the here and there,

and trying to row this boat upstream

with all my oars in disrepair.

I flounder here amid extremes

somewhere among the lows and highs,

still searching for some subroutine

that will not leave me paralyzed.

I teeter in this “in-between”

  and wait on God to intervene.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image by author

On the Anniversary of Your Birth...

I see you in the early hours

 a ghost, a spectre come and gone...

I’ve dreamt your face a thousand times

inside the quiet before the dawn,

yet as another day begins

I watch you fall away again…

We cannot stop the flow of time,

this steady passing of our days—

the love we share will see us through,

 and deep inside, I carry you.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

We three: three neighborhood friends, three school buddies...through high school, college, marriage and children, through the highs and lows. More friends would join us, but from the beginning, there was always us three. Now, there are two.  On this anniversary of your birth, know that I will never forget you...you have been and will always be my friend.

Our Lady of the Ashes

I gazed upon the scene, surreal,

  a theater of the absurd,

and wondered deep within this heart

  How could such thing occur?

I watched her cry through stained glass eyes

  as ash and soot rained down,

yet in the nave where fire raged

  the angels stood their ground.

And in the streets the voices rose

  avowed their love for thee,

and from the ash, a spark of hope,

  against such tragedy.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

My heart was heavy watching the scene unfold in Paris on Monday 4/15/19. And yet even as she burned, in the streets Ave Maria could be heard as local Parisians lifted their voices. A spark; a glimmer that she will rise again from the ashes. Besides, we all know that you can't keep a good woman down.

Eyes on the Prize

We don’t know where we’ll be from one moment to the next,

even on the best of days the worse can happen.

We are in this game together,.

We tag-team each other.

No matter what we’re dealt,

we go for the win.
I have no 'poker face,' but
I still play a pretty damn good game.

Our ultimate goal, always–

 to get to the end without folding.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Obvious metaphor, needs work, but where my head's at today.

Theorizing the Atlas Curse

I’ve had enough of this endless curse,

the highs, the lows, the stop and goes—

it slows for a moment and speeds up again;

can’t seem to cut a break, can’t seem to win.

Like Atlas,  are we condemned  to carry 

the weight of the world on our shoulders

through all of  eternity?

In theory, there is no rest for the weary

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Awake at 4 a.m.

I wake up at 4 a.m., no hope of falling back asleep

and the film in my head is already

running the odds and worse case scenarios.

Just can’t get away from them.

And I pray for the surgeon's steady hand,

 and I pray you’ll be whole again—
Does God even hear the prayers of fools and sinners?

So many dreams and hopes

colliding with so many unknowns...

I know you’re strong—

I just hope I can be strong enough now

for the both of us.

© GB 2019

Wearing my heart on my sleeve today...

No Excuses

I’m sorry I was late today,

I really don’t know what to say.

Could blame the traffic or the clock

—but that would be a bunch of crock.

The sky dawned bright, for once, not gray

I’m sorry I was late today—

a moment in that April air

prompted me to tarry there.

I stopped to gaze upon the trees,

and ponder possibilities…

I’m sorry I was late today

the new spring blooms got in the way.

I’ll plead the 5^th and then recuse,

(there really is no good excuse)

I’d rather stay outside and play…

…  I’m sorry I was late today

© Ginny Brannan 2019

From a suggested prompt from a previous year for NaPoWriMo: to write an apology. The format is called a Quatern.

...But First, Coffee

The yard calls to me…

“You need to finish raking!” it says.

There is a sink full of dirty dishes—

like magic they’ve appeared overnight.

Am pretty sure they belong to the two trolls

that live in our basement—

the “mole people,” as we fondly call them:

working nights, they come up from the depths,

blinking sleep-filled eyes against the light of day.

Two loads of wash sit sorted in the corner ready to go

  and I don’t yet know what I’m making for supper.

Psyching myself to take on the world

        …but first, coffee!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Circlin' the Drain

We don’t know when we’ll pay our dues

but we all have to check out sometime.

Death is a fact of life,

and these eyes have seen too many

'facts' already for this lifetime.

At what point is enough enough?

How many more circles ‘round the sun are left?

I guess that’s between the good Lord and me,

or perhaps the devil on any given day.

I’m still here, and until I start ‘circling the drain’

I’m not plannin’ on goin’ anywhere too soon.

Hear that, ya vultures?

Hopin’ my next home likes ‘em sassy, ‘cuz I aint ‘bout to change now!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Checked out the Day 8 Challenge for NaPoWriMo that suggested using a slang term as metaphor from one of several professions. I chose my “profession”  sort of loosely, (medical as I am support staff for skilled nursing) and the slang term “CTD”  “circling the drain”, a ‘metaphor’ for actively dying. It works.

Image: Pinta Dora

Hello, Cutie!

I hear the squeak of the chair 

   as he enters my office—

“Hello,Cutie! Can I have a coffee?”

His smile is infectious!

Some days, he reminisces.

Most days, he is focused on his coffee,

...and sometimes, the person behind it.

Kindness truly is the “universal” language…

and those smiles—both given and received—

          the best reward!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

One of my tasks at work is to serve coffee to those who ask. We used to have it out for folks to help themselves, but for safety reasons it has to be served now. "Barista" is my new middle name! (Or "Cutie." I'll answer to that too!)

Carefully tiptoeing HIPAA guidelines here: No name, no age, or identifying markers.

Second Chances

I was the quiet one, the odd one,

the one that you whispered about in the hall...

How many times a day did you walk by me?

How many times a day did you remind me? 

Still, we were friends once, for a minute.

You were the social climber,

busy collecting new friends.

I was the one with no social graces;

never knowing exactly what to say

so never saying anything.

Some hurts are easier to let go of than others,

       and some, not so much...

  

Funny, isn’t it, how time becomes the great equalizer—

It's taught me that we are all less-than-perfect,

that we’ve all been through stuff,

and that it’s okay to let our sleeping pasts lie.

Besides, I'm liking you so much better the second time around!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Between the Darkness and the Light

Hope" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all"

                 Emily Dickinson

    * * * * * * * * * * * * 

It matters little who we have
we face the darkness on our own;

though well-intentioned offer help

deep inside we stand alone.

We reach for lifelines out of grasp

while seconds float away, unmeasured;

till finally we face our foe.

Courage comes when all is lost—

on tattered wings fly hidden treasure:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

So we adapt as life evolves

and often we must start again,

set a course in new direction—

make conscious choice to sink or swim.

Through each trial a lesson learned

yet there’s so little we control--

still we search to find completeness,

even as the songbird seeks

the melody that makes it whole;

one that perches in the soul.

Ever striving for perfection

as indecisive egos fail;

hitting road blocks without signs,

emotions cloaked behind gray veil.

Where’s the person we once knew?

Suddenly the lines are blurred—
we barely recognize ourselves,

and friends—they see a ‘mournful’ dove

the humblest of all the birds—

that sings the song without words

This tune should be familiar now

we hear it echo through the night,

as we balance on that brink

between the darkness and the light.

Determined now, we seek the dawn

while guided by that lone bird’s call

the path grows clearer with each step

and ever forward, we trek on

and "hope” survives despite each fall

and never stops at all

© Ginny Brannan 

Started in 2013, One of two Glosa's using lines from "Hope" by Emily Dickinson.
There are several slant rhymes sprinkled throughout this, I think Miss Em would approve!

First share here for April NaPoWriMo 2019

The first Glosa to use these lines, shared in 2013: "Finding The Melody"

Before the Fall...

I remember the warmth of an April morn…

the songbirds singing before the dawn,

the mourning dove with her call forlorn;

the gathering clouds before the storm.

I still feel the sway of a summer breeze…

the breath of God blowing through the trees;

the sound of His whisper inside the leaves

and come the evening, a cool reprieve.

Can still smell the scent of an autumn day

the dry fallen leaves turning to decay

with deep earthen smells of soil and clay

and nature’s full pallet on display.

Last to arrive came the ice and snow,

the garden, now frozen, down below

wood smoke arising from fire’s glow

the world spread before us in white tableau.

I still remember all of these things:

how far we’d come before the fall,

so little of that time remains…

 We never really had a plan.

Now dust storms howl over barren plains

while all things precious turn to rust—

so too, this world returns to dust…

 thus dies the golden age of man.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Teasels

You teased my skin with silken touch

immersed my soul in your embrace,

we whispered dreams to distant moons

divined our future by the runes.

Between the dusk and morningtide

chased shooting stars and will-o’-the-wisps;

explored each crag, each dampened cave, 

and carved our names in hieroglyphs.

No matter how secure life seems

               time devours youthful dreams…

Yet sometimes ‘tween the dusk and dawn

when full moon dips in western sky

and shines through blinds to chart the sill,

I still recall those days long gone—

   time cedes her secrets from the deep

   and in the cache where memories keep

              the taste of you still lingers on.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image: Jackie Curtis:A stand of teasels in yesterdays mist

Anonymous

Like a B movie actor

hiding behind pseudonym

and sepia image...

weaving tales,

painting poetry,

eliciting emotion,

begging response—

How do I find the truth in your words

 when the writer is but an apparition?

© Ginny Brannan 2019

And So It Begins...

April is National Poetry Writing Month or NaPoWriMo for short—30 poems in 30 days. Going to give it my best shot! So here's the first, a small acrostic, should you care to read the letters downwards. Happy April! Happy Writing my friends!