With Naught to Fear but Fear Itself...

It’s said that on All Hallows Eve, the Spirits are allowed to enter and roam the realm of man… 

There’s a chill that abides in damp Autumn days

a feeling of sadness that cannot be shaken

a sense of misgiving, a deep trepidation

as grayness adheres, the mountains encased

in a heavy gray shroud, barren trees now erased.

Midday gives way to a sinister pall

casting the world in an evening like somber

Increased sense of dread tells us “linger no longer!”

composure implodes to deter and forestall 

stirring fear uncontained that we’d best not allow… 

 

There’s something that rides on an October wind

a mist of contention that soaks to the ground,

in a fog of misgiving that coats and impounds.

Even those who possess a strong rational

feel a panic that rattles the sanest and sound

The lost spirits wander, just hidden from sight

concealed under cover of drizzle and gloam,

doomed between worlds, unseen and unknown.

—shadowy creatures that roam undeterred,

searching for pathways to find their way home

 

Feel the goose bumps that rise to make hair stand on end

hear the wailing that drifts on an inclement wind

light the fires to chase all shadows within

to bury the fears which we can’t circumvent

and the deep-seated nightmares that never relent.

 

The end of October just hours away­–

  All Hallows eve ascends even now

the late autumn juncture seems darker somehow…

even now the gates open, the spirits hold sway

     but will they be gone by the light of new day?

© Ginny Brannan Halloween 2020

Leveling the Beast

 

Darkness rolls in early

a chill hangs in the air

there’s howling in the distance,

is it a wolf that tarries there?

Up inside the tower

the doctor’s working hard

a creature waits to come from life

built from parts discarded

And in the swamp, the water churns,

what lies beneath the reeds?

It crawls to the embankment

in darkness now he creeps.

‘Neath the headstones comes a scraping,

in the dirt a hand is seen

as undead hear the calling

and rally to convene.

Overhead there comes a cackle

of witches on the fly;

the bats are in the belfry,

and vampires are nigh.

The spirits have all arisen

the creatures of the night,

wandering among us

hidden in plain sight.

From sky and swamp and graveyard

the horrors come call,

but the orange man with tiny hands

is  the scariest of all!

No one knows from whence he came

with beady eyes and scowl

to strike discourse with no remorse 

and makes their dead skin crawl.

Yes, even gruesome monsters 

who slither from the earth

watch their step around him

while keeping a wide berth.

They say that only humans 

—us ordinary folk—

can rid the earth of such a beast

with a simple ‘vote’.’

It’s up to every one us

so put away your fear

and bridge the rift November 5th

to stave off 4 more years!

© G. Brannan 2020

Hook, Line and Sinker

You’ve swallowed the bait and surrendered your pride

caught in the netting of copious lies,

entangled in alternate facts you’ve been reading

so numb to the truth and the anger you're breeding.

 

What happens when ideals are thrown to the side,

when you swallow the bait and surrender your pride–

fueling intolerance, such deep-seated hatred

with morally bankrupt beliefs you’ve inflated?

 

You flounder to swim with the sharks in the school,

Yes, it’s said ‘even God attends children and fools’

while you swallow the bait and surrender your pride

for an alternate world where deception resides.

 

Comes now a time I would never conceive

as I witness the bias of what you believe,

and how in your heart now such darkness presides

since you swallowed the bait and surrendered your pride.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2020

Written in the rhyme scheme of a Quatern, but not a true Quatern as that would be 8-syllables per line only.

Requiem for an Apple Tree

 

The lawn is littered with inedible fruit

dropped from a tree too tired to bear.

Insects wreak havoc on worn, cankered bark

the wasps feed on discards, taking their share.

Once magnificent, she bore a full yield

bushels upon bushels, apportioned to all…

I still can recall the sweet smell of perfume–

of pastel pink blossoms, blooming in spring,

and the tiny wrens nesting in the house on her branches

with their resonant melody… how they did sing!

 

Next year we know she will have to come down

we will mourn the loss of this kindly old friend

who provided such succor for many a year

seems all living things truly come to an end.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2020

Image by author from 2014

 

I Wouldn't Trade a N.Y. Minute

 

While some might say that they’d “go back”

to where they might begin again,

 that would surely not be me­

 — I wouldn’t trade a moment spent.

When decades pass you realize

 it’s not about what’s gained or gone,

but who you're with that matters most

upon this road we’re travelling on.

When I look into your eyes,

I see the man who lives inside

No matter what the odds have thrown

together we have faced them down,

we know exactly where we’ve been

 and how together we have grown.

 

We can’t foresee what lies ahead

nor cannot linger on what’s passed…

no longer hampered by our youth,

our promise takes on different truth.

And I’m reminded once again

  —amid October’s rusts and golds,

of that day once, long ago,

and as our story still unfolds

I still can say with certainty

  that you and I were meant to be.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2020

For Ray on our anniversary 10/3/2020