A Bit of Spackle and Some Glue...

 

I can’t tell you how it will happen

the moment the light fades

and the darkness swallows  you,

of the crushing weight of just trying to catch your breath

I can’t tell you of the days that follow

one bleeding into another, running on autopilot

the fog of just getting through them.

And the rain that appears, unannounced,

falling whether we want it or not.

Milestones are the hardest,

every Monday, every 7^th,  every holiday.

“Keep your mind busy, it’ll get better”

the lie you tell yourself because you can’t imagine 

that this could be all that is left.

I can’t tell you when it changes;

when the boulder you carry 

becomes lighter, less noticeable, or when 

you can finally whisper the memories

and feel only their warmth, not overwhelming

regret for all that could have been.

I can’t tell you when the shadows will recede

or when the light will finally crack through the darkness

reflecting back the happiness you still ferry;

never actually gone, just lost for a while.

Time doesn’t heal all of our wounds

but it teaches us how to live with them.

We draw strength from all that we’ve been through

and all that that has brought us to this point.

Love comes in many forms,

and it is the love

that gets us through

that gets us past

and finally heals us.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Choices

 

I was raised a good girl, to toe the church’s line

with a God who sat in judgment, who read our hearts and minds;

who sent His son to guide us, to show a better way:

leading by example He held the people sway.

With faith in Him the blind man was healed to see again

the hungry and the thirsty found shelter from their pain.

The only time He angered was at the temple gates

at the merchants and the profiteers with gold upon their plates.

The hypocrites will tell you that they believe in God

while holding up a bible as proof that they weren’t bought.

They’ll tout themselves as Christians, and while they have your ear

they’ll bastardize the scriptures like God has sent them here.

I believe that we are here to help the marginalized

to speak for those who cannot speak, whom others criticize;

to balance words with actions, to temper our replies

ever wary of the wolves who wear a sheep’s disguise.

The scales of power and justice rarely balance out

it’s hard to compromise as the other side refutes,

it’s hard to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes

but if we cannot do this then everyone will lose.

 

You stand upon your pulpit and dictate your beliefs,

while narrowing our choices pretending you’re aggrieved;

You want to keep the destitute underneath your thumb;

and hammer us with hate and lies until we’re feeling numb

eroding all we know as truth somewhere deep inside

leveling our souls to try to make us compromise.

 The woman at the checkout is not some Welfare queen,

the homeless man down on his luck can get back up again.

The elderly, dependant on the benefits they’ve earned,

live in fear of finding out the laws are overturned.

The 10 year old who’s pregnant, a baby still herself,

is left without a choice of where to go for help

And uprooting the immigrants, while thinking you are clever–

only proves how black the hearts intent on this endeavor.

And that is why I penned this poem, to call out and remind

take to the polls November, so much is on the line.

© GB 2022

The news is filled with conflicting information, and he said, she saids. We all make our choices, I hope my own are rooted in science, common sense and decency, though some may dispute that.  I don't care, for they are my choices! I have attached links back to news articles including a local shelter who helps the homeless get back on their feet. There will be much back and forth between politicians who want your vote. Vote your heart, and let your voice be heard!

Fade to Black

 

She stares out of her window at the dust out in the street

traffic backed to corner, the drivers rally to compete,

and she dreams of being elsewhere, away from all this pain

of dancing ‘cross the rooftops as the daylight wanes,

and watching stars pop one by one, lanterns in the sky

she ponders of the life she’s had and all that it implied,

To her, death is quite romantic, fade gently into black

surrender to the calling, no regrets to retract.

So when the reaper comes for her,  she will not ask him why

just nod with her acceptance, and whisper her reply

surrendering to darkness, she’ll sail out past the moon

just another shining light to leave the world too soon.

©Ginny Brannan 2022

Written from a Prompt seen on  D'Verse Poetry under the guidance of Bjorn Brudberg  the prompt exploring Beat Poetry and particularly the lyrics of Bob Dylan. The challenge to write and use this particular line from Desolation Row from Dylan's 1965 record "Highway 61 Revisited:

"To her death is quite romantic"

I'm not good at prose, so I wrote this instead.

For One I called "Friend"...

Upon a spinning top we sit

caught up in our limitations

making sure our needs are met.

The days and years go rolling past

with little thought of time and tide;

always thinking there will be

another chance to say “hello”

to gather the periphery

and spend some time with those we know.

And so it is, and so it goes

till one’s called to another realm.

I see the old friend that I knew

in the light of who you were

youthful, teasing, schoolmate, chum

family man, who you became

excerpts shared upon the pages

interwoven through our lives.

I always waited for the joke

running through the words we shared

more oft than not a bit of snark—

somewhere in our conversation

a smile, the tease in your remark!

And so it was with you and me

and that’s how I’ll remember you

etched upon the times we shared

as we await new rendezvous

in the place where old friends meet,

in the place where laughter reigns

and all who were a part of us

still exist and still remain,

I believe we'll meet again

 

© GB 2022

A Fool's Lament

 

I wait for a day without anger and hate

no reckless remarks filled with venom and vile

from impotent men with a need to berate.

feeding some need to debase and defile.

We are defined by the words we have spoken

yet no one’s committed to fix what is broken.

Perhaps we are testing, awaiting our score,

to see how much discourse that we can endure.

There’s no compromise when deceit is abundant

as “normalcy” cedes to different incumbent.

Since when does America bow to sedition,

and what happened to keeping oaths that are pledged?

Forgiveness not found in some act of contrition,

where facts take a backseat to what is alleged.

We walk on a treadmill of misinformation

used to propagate bias and discrimination.

our proof to the contrary risks being maligned

but refraining from doing so just countermines.

So bury your head in the sand if you want to,

swallow the bait being used as a lure

follow the lies in the feed and the fodder

refrain from the data you choose to ignore.

Those who have known you now ask who you are

and you can't even see that you’ve gone too far.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Time and Tide

Unpretentiously, she enters a room

eyes no longer lift to acknowledge her 

there is no effecting command,

no second glance warranted.

Time takes who we were,

until those we know

no longer recognize us .

Yet inside, we do not change.

Hope is but a chimera perceived by those 

who’ve bought into the illusion.

There was always a ready smile behind the mask,

and eyes that danced in the place where the crickets still sing,

yet now she’s seen akin to the years she carries...

the clock ever ticking,  minutes, hours

days, years—ever forward.

She tiptoes in the sand and wonders 

if there really is some master plan.

She waits for time to pass, 

for change at last, for a stir in the wind…

 

where do we end and someone else begins?

where do we go when we close our eyes?

who do we become when who we’ve been disappears?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Safe Harbor

 

In the quiet calm I meditate

emotion held in momentary pause,

a temporary channel to escape;

yet lure of such is just ill-fated ruse

All the fantasies I’ve entertained

are locked inside a box without a key

I’ve nothing left to lose, but what’s to gain,

here beyond, where everything’s a dream.

The melody that weaves throughout our days

collides with cacophony from within;

I miss the song that blew in from the sea

the one that knows secrets that I hold

mindful where I’ve come from, who I am

yet always whispers “You are safe with me.” 

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Image: C. Parant Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed permission.

Tangled in the Rigging

 

 

“Don’t make waves” he’d always say, “Don’t rock the boat”…

 

We all make choices based on our beliefs

unveiling truth that’s hidden in the lies

study words, weighing what we know;

while wading through hypocrisy, deceit

in constant cycle: wash, rinse, and repeat.

And in due time, I’ve come to surmise

that neither ever will see eye to eye,

both of us trapped in the ropes and rigging,

of rehearsed rhetoric and politicking.

Until the hull is breached down to the core

we’re doomed to stay entrenched on different shores

and I will never swallow bait and lure;

so keep your fiction; I’ll take metaphor.

Ginny Brannan 2022

Imperfectly Perfect...

 

Artwork: Cesar Biojol

I like people who aren’t perfect–

the ones with scars and crooked smiles,

the ones with messy homes and messy lives;

the ones that have felt anger and pain

yet did not give up their souls,

the ones that so many would dismiss as ‘different.’

We are all flesh and blood. We are all finite.

We live, we work, we grieve, we love;

we breathe as one inside this fragile dome...

 

Hate holds no place here.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Through the Open Window

 

The air, sour and stagnant, 

hung heavy in the starless night

finally breaking with the passing shower,

the change announced by the tree frogs

singing with the joy of a children’s chorus,

unbridled and unconstrained.

The white light of an almost-full moon

slants across the yard;

in stealth form, it slips over the sill, 

casting odd shapes on the bedroom wall.

The summer nights of a childhood

long-passed have slipped in, too—

a time when rest came easy,

tucked between crisp linen sheets

we’d fold into our dreams,

the earthen smell of dampness in the air,

and the sound of crickets

 singing us to sleep.

 

© Ginny Brannan

Image Credit: Alexandr Vasilyev, Shutterstock 2013

Begin Again

Love once lived here…

built stone on stone, year on year,

mortar mixed with sweat and tears.

a photo worth a thousand words

of what was built back in the day.

now broken down and in decay;

Nothing ever stays the same,

all falls prey to wind and change,

and every tumbled brick and stone

reminds us of the things that were

and all that we once called our own.

Yet what is viewed a casualty

holds endless possibility…

so clean the cobwebs, sweep the sill,

shine the hearth and light a fire;

set the beams and cornerstone,

breathe new life into this place

once abandoned, overgrown.

Dreams are hope filled with desire

and lost inside this reverie

an aspiration from within;

that what was lost can be rebuilt,

just waiting to begin again.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, but credit where credit is due in that first line that inspired this is borrowed, but all that follow after are not.

Fault Lines

 

How do we know that a snake tempted Eve

to partake of the fruit there in Eden?

Where we there in the tree like a fly on the wall?

Could we hear what they said?  Did we see them?

Or is it a story passed down through the ages

placing censure each time it’s repeated?

According to speaker the woman is weaker,

a man would not be so defeated.

So the snake is the fall guy replete with forked tongue,

and the woman at fault for just listening,

and the man claims that he wasn’t near the said “tree,”

oh, and surely we see he’s the ‘victim.’

Yet story asunder, I truly do wonder

if woman fell prey to temptation

from the mouth of a man with the tongue of a snake

slyly convincing that she could partake,

no thought to exactly what was at stake

as he whispered his words of seduction.

A woman is made from the rib of a man

compassionate, nurturing, loving and kind

equal in all ways except save in one:

when push comes to shove, then the woman is done–

indicted as guilty before she’d begun

…and so, in a garden, the first man had won,

                            * * * * *

Passed down through the ages, a story conceived:

that a woman, a temptress, cannot be believed;

evermore faulted with stained reputation

to bear blame as the one who gave in to temptation.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

 

The Choices We Make

 

How many times can you drown in a lifetime,

how many times can you drift out to sea?

How many times can you skirt the abyss

before you are doomed to fall in, helplessly?

 

How many times does the wrecking ball swing

before it collides with the walls that you’ve built…

how do you cope when your hope turns illusive

and you’re stuck in the mire of self-doubt and guilt?

 

Where do you go when there’s no place to go to,

who do you talk to when you feel alone;

caught up in those wishes and dreams unrequited

as you wander on back-roads and byways unknown.

 

Do you concede when the dark overwhelms you,

and scream at the gods for every detour—

curse them and blame them for all of your ills

and all of the trials that you must endure?

 

The struggle is constant to fight or go under

our strength may not falter but sometimes it stalls;

we push our way forward, one step at a time,

through all the maelstrom, the darkness, the squalls,

and all of the what-ifs that tear us asunder

knowing the choice that we make says it all.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Green Sneakers

 

She wore green sneakers on her feet

a heart drawn on the toe

a Marine Biologist future planned

her dreams were set and well in hand

Corpus Christi she would go…

 

I wonder what he thought that day 

as he strode into the school?

What could make a person do

that things that he would do?

Was he lost inside his head,

could he hear their screams…

as he tore their lives apart

cutting short their dreams?

 

Another school has fallen prey,

how many look the other way?

“Thoughts and prayers,” is what they say,

then leave it for some other day.

 

Another child’s life cut short

how hard is it to know

you claim to be “pro life” and yet,

by avoiding you abet

with the 'same ol’ same' retort.

 

We birth our children, raise them up

they are the seeds we sow;

their dreams are ours, we hold them close

never to let go,

then find them in a body bag

a tag upon their toe.

     

The repetition of this crime

reminds us that there comes a time

when we can’t let it go—

for those green sneakers on her feet

 with the heart drawn on the toe.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Preaching to the Choir

I can banter with the best

engage in mindless conversation;

smile, laugh, share all the tells

to fool a casual observer,

make believe that all is well

while fending my anxiety

for just a moment's company.

Yet silence echoes in my head

without shape or definition

through endless strings of empty days

in never-ending repetition.

Perhaps these walls that I have built

to guard a scarred and crippled heart

are now a cell of my creation,

and I am locked in solitude,

a prisoner of my own volition.

The map I follow is obsolete

and I am lost, without direction.

The landmarks that I thought I knew

have been replaced since their inception.

I plot a course and forge ahead

along a path that’s overgrown

my footfalls padding unknown trails.

Yet, the air is sweet, a warm wind blows,

and slow and steady stays the course…

 if nothing else this life has shown

  that I can make it on my own.

 

© GBrannan 2022

Show Me Your 'Dark Side'

 

Ahh, poetry:

light and airy; peaceful, serene–

pretty words with dips and swells

to leave you feeing all is well

…even if it isn’t so

who’s the wiser; who’s to know?

I’d rather the sting of raw honesty

that rips out your gut 

and sets your thoughts free.

So send me your sadness

while holding me under,

take out the sweetness, throw it asunder.

Drown me darkness

emotional wreckage,

make me feel carnage;

write of your baggage.

Write of  your passion,

your madness, your anger;

the bowels of depression

the look from a stranger…

write of the blood that flows in your veins

or spills in the streets; write of your pain.

Fill me with words that you’re itching to share

ready when you are, please take me there.

© Ginny Brannan 2022