Wednesday, June 29, 2022

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


Monday, June 13, 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

Wednesday, June 8, 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

Monday, June 6, 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