So Close, and Yet So Far

 

I can’t believe we’ve come this far

and yet, no nearer to our goal.

So much hate and anger here

it breeds disdain, corrupts the soul.

 

With each new day the tension builds...

I can’t believe we’ve come this far–

the lies the twists, the rising scorn

with facts and truth in disregard.

 

Another day and we’re on par

to disassemble what we've built...

I can’t believe we come this far

  just to see our garden wilt.

 

I hear the scorn and am repulsed–

the animus in each remark:

like poison creeping through our veins

—I can’t believe we’ve come this far.

 

© Ginny Brannan

Sisyphus

 

Who knew how steep the path would be?

How every step exacts a cost?

I’ll not solicit sympathy

for we each carry our own loss.

 

Like Sisyphus we climb that hill

along a slow and winding path;

the boulder rolls before us still

cruel penance from a god who laughs.

 

So accustomed we’ve become

of so much loss, so little gained…

our limbs grow tired, our body numb

while acclimating to the pain.

 

We cannot dwell on might-have-beens

in lieu of all we’ve known and seen;

the hour grows late still we contend

the endless torment of this dream.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Con Artist

To admit I was a con artist

might take some by surprise

“Who’d’ve  thought that she could write?”

I  imagine the look in their eyes.

And with that look they shake their heads

admitting they’d had their suspicions;

some saw through me so long ago

‘the odd girl with strange ambitions.’

But I’m no writer, I just pretend

as I work into the night

a new idea has struck again,

if I’m lucky the words fall right.

Yes, I’m truly just a poser of  sorts

I run a con with my words

while some may deem me brilliant

the rest think I’m absurd!

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Spit and Polish

Polished wood and brass rail

stools lined up— just so—

labels from around the world

reflect in candle glow.

The leather booths are empty,

yet voices echo still—

the murmurs of camaraderie,

of laughter and goodwill.

Saddened that the hour is late

and all the world’s at rest;

when the pub is full again

is when it’s at its best.

So come ye poets… come ye bards….

to share your thoughts and lines,

your adjectives—your metaphors—

your dreams and your designs…

Come and  share the wonders

unleashed from deep within:

each note part of the symphony

let our song begin!

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Donovan's Irish Pub Springfield, MA (Our local pub!)

The 3rd Anniversary celebration at dVerse is winding down, but we aren't quite ready to call it over.  Stop by and see what others are sharing!

Speculation

Image by Francesca Woodman

From whence she came we do not know--

all torn and tattered from her plight

and shiv’ring hard against the night,

found on the beach in dawn’s first glow.

This sad-sweet girl could only speak

in guttural sounds amix with sighs.

Was she mute or traumatized;

wet seaweed clinging to her cheek?

The speculation was intense

awaiting her recovery,

but fragile life was not to be;

she’ll never utter her defense.

Perhaps a mermaid washed ashore

found grasping conch shell in her hand

near-naked body in the sand …
the tabloids just reported “whore.”

© Ginny Brannan August 2012

Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we provide the story!

Written for The Mag (Magpie Tales) #130. 
***********************************************************************

Loosely based on the victims of the Long Island Serial Killer, on whom I’ve recently seen a couple of television news documentaries.

Hallowed Ground

Photo: G.Brannan

On hallowed ground today I stand,

come to the battlefield at last...

as voices echo from the past,

from depths of this historic land.

Swept back through time my mind can see

the Union blue and Rebel gray;

and hear the gunfire from that day

as both sides fought for victory.

For three long days the battle wore --

brother 'gainst brother, friend pit to friend,

not knowing how their fight would end…

wounded and weary to their core.

Names like Chamberlain, Grant and Lee,

and many more we do not know,

met on these fields so long ago

and turned the tide of history.

To Gettysburg today I’m drawn

to stand on consecrated ground,

to honor those to which we’re bound;

their spilled blood issued this new dawn.

© Ginny Brannan 2010 

Photos from author's personal collection. From a rocky outcrop on Little Round Top in the Gettysburg National Battlefields, the statue of Brigadier General Gouverneur Warren (5th NY Infantry) stands where the General himself was said to have stood during battle, July 2, 1863

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Poetics--Sculpting a Poem 2/26/12
This is an earlier poem, written in 2010.

The Wayside Inn

For centuries this inn has stood

in Massachusetts neighborhood

with food and warmth for tired guest

along this wayside by the wood

Its sturdy walls can still attest

to revolution and unrest--

as “shot heard ‘round the world” echoed,

and British rule we did protest

So many stories have been told

about this humble old abode,

which saw militia troops amass

and march along its well -worn road

Not far from fields of unmown grass

past window panes of leaded glass

through heavy doors with knobs of brass

this inn still welcomes all who pass
©Copyright Ginny Brannan February 2011

Longfellow's Wayside Inn, Sudbury, Massachussetts

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow wrote his "Tales of a Wayside Inn" inspired by his stays here
Photo: G. Brannan, from personal collection.