Unwoven

Pound the world with your lies,

your avant-garde tries at distraction;

your predilection for chaos, the joy

you take watching others crumble:

there’s nothing humble about you.

How you take satisfaction—

throwing insults, no retraction:

you live in denial, just file it away.

Spreading the hypocrisy, dismantling democracy,

shifting the blame in this game that you play.

You claim no collusion while stirring confusion

at best you’re delusional,  spreading the fear.

We see through the hoax of your mirrors and smoke,

each story you’re spinning seems more absurd

your followers unswayed as they hang on each word.

You no longer hide that you’re trying to divide us

and we’re left to wonder “Who pulls the strings?”

Spreading derision with each repetition,

while faking the words to the song that you sing.

You’re good at complaining, better at blaming

but what will remain of those lies that you’ve spun?

The tales that you’re spinning will be your unpinning,

the web that you’ve woven is coming undone.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

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

Disinterred

I believe you…

Buried for decades, comes a time

to heal yourself from the cancer

that day-by-day eats away

pieces of the person you once were.

Don’t listen to those who question your motives

that scream “fake news”

as if to say that it's okay

to lust after a 14 year old

or force the hand of a 16 year old

to justify their own perversions.

I believe you…

I know that there are certain truths

invisible to naked eyes

that take the innocence of youth.

Even those who know you best

might never know or realize

that you felt you were to blame—

inside bleeding from the shame.

I believe you…

For every Weinstein, Trump or Moore

are other unknown predators

ones with little the cash or fame

that prey upon the vulnerable.

Their victims each recall their name,

and every look and every leer—

how vivid still their face remains.

I believe you…

Those who choose to speak up now

who’ve forged ahead despite the cost;

it can’t make up for time that’s passed

or what was taken, what was lost;

the naysayers may ridicule,

but those who’ve been there know the truth.

I believe you…

Though by the past we’re not defined

at times its shadow lingers on.

We should not let it blight our soul.

The truth should never be confined—

admission waits, long overdue:

I add my voice and say

          “Me too”

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Judging You, Judging Me

“We all judge. that’s our hobby.

Some people do arts and crafts. We judge.”

—Stanford, Sex and the City

I heard you say you have no vices,

and see that you’ve taken to judging others

on a sliding scale of perfection;

with no one quite as perfect as you.

You know all that there is to know

on a myriad of subjects

and a multitude of points.

Alcohol, tobacco, drugs…

the bane of the 'weak-minded,'

and anyone with such affliction

should rid themselves of their addiction.

How fast you counter with your opinion,

to expose such ‘weaknesses’ to your minions.

—God forbid you ever knew the anguish of abuse

    the pain of infection that eats the bone

    the torment that rips out  the heart

    the invisible suffering that tears one apart.

I dare you to walk a mile

in the other person’s shoes—

yeah, that person whom you're sure

lit up that cigarette just to “spite” you;

the one you’ve deemed as thinking

“only of themselves”

polluting the air that’s there

for only you to breath

Perhaps they, like you, needed

a night out, a reprieve—

from the worries that they carry,

from a life you could never understand.

How hard it must be to keep up that image of the perfect man…

Don’t you see that they, too,  pull their pants on one leg at a time?

In another lifetime, you also might have been judged...

but we no longer talk of lifestyle choices

in once-hushed tones and whispered voices.

So best not judge lest you be judged...

We ALL have vices, some obvious

and some so subtle that even those affected

cannot see them for what they are.

Yet, if we take a good look in the mirror

we might realize —with some measure of shame—

inside all preconceived notions lies this truth:

   we really are the same...

not one of us is perfect, no matter what we claim.

So, be careful where your laurels rest

  and whom you would defame

© Ginny Brannan 2017

*TY to C.B. for the perfect quote above, which I saw and remembered on your page from such a long, long time ago.

A Matter of Trust…

Children should be seen and not heard.

Trust those who love you.

Age = knowledge and experience.

Always respect your elders.

          

                * * * * * * * * * *

So many lessons in our youth

are learned and re-learned early on

the main one is “You’re just a child,

who speaks in stories and half-truths

no time to listen, move along…”

           

            But there are evils that are wrong

            a side that others may not see;

            when shared aloud, they won’t believe

            cannot handle,  won’t respond…

            until you think you’ve misconstrued.

While lost in youthful fantasy

a grandpa breaks a sacred bond:

to fondle adolescent girls

who happen to be family—

easy prey; then he absconds…

            And they are left to carry on

            in silence carrying the shame,

            not understanding what he did

            nor quite the way they should respond

            —they shelve away and then move on.

Senility might be blame

at  ninety did you even know?

While decades pass and they retain

the scars you left so long ago,

mistrust of loved ones still ingrained.

     I always thought that I’d outgrow

     the guilt I carry deep inside.

     No, you were not a paragon

     and over time I’ve come come to know

     through all the years that you’ve been gone

     how thoughts of you bring mixed reviews

     ….yet you and I still knew the truth…

   

 ©Ginny Brannan 2016

Written in first person, inspired by a story I recently read, and another story heard long ago.

Some things are never forgotten…

Deception

Shining beacon in the night

incandescent, phosphorescent

hollow glowing orb of light…

In my quest for something new

I flew to you, drew to you,

in blissful blindness I pursued…

—till ever late, I see the lie:

your brilliant luster misconstrued

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Written for Magpie Tales #236, image provided by Tess Kincaid.
She provides the image, we the story. Come by and see what others are sharing!

On Building Walls…

Smiling fortitudinous,

the wall goes up

Rebuking family;

obscured in chosen oblivion...

Soul saved; who saves

the rest, my sister-friend?

Why don’t you fight?

Are we selfish to want you to stay,

or you, in giving up so easily?

We ache, knowing inevitable destiny

…as you smile behind your wall.

© Ginny Brannan January 2012
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #27 1/17/12

Ignoring the Current

The fog slips heavy through the hills

Image: Moevs, Marina River

creeps slowly ‘cross the valley floor

Peaceable river gently flows,

mirror meandering through the woods

Reminds me of you, once more.

Like river, we skirt certain issues

that nobody else seems to see;

disguised like the fog, in thick camouflage,

burying feelings, burying thoughts

as current turns past, silently

©  Ginny Brannan January 2012

Photo courtesy of Tess Kincaid, TheMag--she provides image, we provide story! Sharing at The Mag #98 

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #29 1/31/12!

Odd Lots #1: On 'Denial'

Not every thought I have can be expressed or expanded into a poem. Sometimes an idea will pass through my head that I need to write down and want to remember--something that encompasses how I am feeling either about myself and my life, or about something that I've heard, seen, or read that has given me pause to share my feelings on. Each writer or poet I know has these from time to time. They are our little "shorts." I am calling my random quotes "Odd Lots & Brief Thoughts" (or just "Odd Lots" for short) as these will likely be about a little bit of everything.