An Obstinate Lot

 

I come from an area of proud tradition

filled with people as tough and as strong

as the seasons that rule it—

Farmers who toiled the rock strewn fields

turning soil to grow their food

learning to make do; to build stone walls

with the rocks they turned each spring.

We forged the rivers, sending lumber

from the northlands to the mills 

 and factories in the south.

We built bridges. 

We built the first navigable canal.

We stood our ground against tyrants and kings.

The "shot heard round the world?"

That was us!
We know that democracy is right,

that oligarchy can never be our course.
We gave birth to founding fathers

and Presidents: John Hancock,

 John Adams, John Quincy Adams

Calvin Coolidge, Franklin Pierce, 

and John F. Kennedy were born here.

Our heroes did not wear capes.

They stood their ground against tyranny.

Ethan Allen, Deborah Sampson, Paul Revere,

just some of the names from our past.

Ordinary people placed in extraordinary circumstances

carving their place in our country’s proud history.
People like Joshua Chamberlain of Maine

who, at 34,  despite  the odds,

led his troops to victory in the battle

of Little Round Top at Gettysburg.

When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

Today I've chosen remind you of just who we are—
We are a tough and obstinate lot, we New Englanders.
We are not afraid to ruffle feathers and go against the grain.

We don’t hold to lies nor cruelty; we grew up around cows

and can smell the bullshit long before we see the bull.
Our countenance is as tough as the hills, the valleys

and the rocky shorelines that we come from.

Our humor is as dry as our August summers.

We stay here not because of the frozen winters

the muddy Springs, the heat of our summers, 

nor even the brief reprieve of autumn.

We stay because we are as a surly lot

as surely a part of this place

as it is a part of us...

and we are family, and like family

we may argue amongst ourselves

but, God forbid, you go after any one of us,

then you face the wrath of all!

Never forget who you are 

Never forget the ones who forged the path you walk.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Image: Early view of Bellows Falls, VT borrowed from Bellows Falls Historical Society page.

 

 

Procrastination!

 

Oh look! A dusting of soft snow!

It falls so gently on the lawn.

I watch the flakes as they alight

to paint the boughs in pristine white.

 

It fills these eyes with such delight!

It purifies the grit and grime;

and brings me back to childhood days

transforms me to a different time.

 

Now old bones ache with winter chill–

Oh, to be that child still!

Those winter days that I recall,

no worries should I slip and fall.

 

I watch here from my warm cocoon

through the frosted window pane

and contemplate if I should wait

to see if snow will turn to rain.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Ode to the Days of Wonder!

 

Dawn breaks, I awaken to find

that overnight new snow has fallen,

coating lawn and trees alike.

It softens harsh lines and, to our delight,

brightens the monotone landscape

with untainted softness and purity.

Even the gray hills, once indistinguishable 

from the clouds above, have donned caps of winter white.

As children, we relished the new-fallen snow

Bundled in warm jackets and snow pants

boots, hats, scarves and mittens, barely able to move,

we would pull our sleds from storage sheds

heading for the nearest hill, cocoa and cookies

awaiting our return. Years pass, and time takes it’s toll.

We no longer see snow as a welcome reprieve

but more of a chore, an obstacle to get past

I miss the days of mittens drying by the heat, 

of rosy cheeks, of less worry and no hurry.

In every adult fraught with concern and responsibility

 lives an inner child yearning to be free.

 

 

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Image One: Three Children Sledding by Vickie Wade, full credit to the artist

Image Two: Photo of author and friends, circa early 1960's

October Roads

 

October rolls in once again

as Mother Nature sets the stage

with her Autumnal foliage.

Oh, how we would anticipate 

what the season had in store

its yearly call hard to ignore...

We'd head westward on the two lane road

stopping at our favorite inn

a glass of wine out in the courtyard

or dinner by the fire within…

long drives on forgotten byways

those hills are calling once again.

Or northbound up along Route 7

past apple barns to Bennington

where poet Frost found inspiration

reveling in the golden days 

and grieving that which cannot stay.

Instead we might head to The Cape

where summer crowds have dissipated

with stops at all our favorite places

and long walks on the empty beaches

sharing tales of years gone by

under a gray gunmetal sky

Or maybe we’d point east to Rockport, 

to see the famed Motif once more

browsing through the tiny shops

we’d savor the hours by the shore,

as we watched the boats in the harbor quay

framed in blue on this bright fall day 

I’ll miss those long drives that we took

when October bid us “Come…”

we’d jump into the waiting car

and travel out to who knows where

ever contented just to be

in each other's company.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Images by author, 

top: Old Deerfield

bottom: Rockport Harbor

Our Heart's Desire

What happened to those days of yore

shopping in the village stores

midnight mass with church bells chiming

then off to bed, our folks reminding

“Say your prayers, sleep tight.

  Santa comes tonight!!”

It doesn’t seem so long ago

through children’s eyes, we watched the glow

of festive trees with colored lights

and candles burning in the night.

And filled with bright anticipation,

we couldn’t wait for school vacation!

Decembers were all cold and white

and yet, our whole world seemed right

            …in those Christmas days of long ago

Many years have passed since then

and so little from the past remains;

the trials of life have changed our views

such anger in the evening news.

As each one bears a certain weight

and loss, the illness culminate,

  we get caught up in the pain

    seems so little left to gain

            …what happened to the joy of long ago?

Ahead our future lies uncertain

it hides behind an opaque curtain—

and it's us who must decide

if we should stay, or run and hide…

Oh! That we might feel the wonder

find the Peace, and shun the thunder

and that we might stake our claim

for the love that still remains…

 Perhaps then we might find the door

   that leads back to those days of yore            

   to  capture joy and to light our way 

                                         once more.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

The title comes from Dorothy Gale, who said  "...If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard." We can't change the world, but we can change how we view the world, we have that power inside of us. May you feel the light and know the wonder of Christmas.

Photo Credit to: BalancingHome.com

In the Waning

Cooler days and longer nights,

late day showers soak the lawn;

no longer parched from summer sun.

As summer passes her baton,

I wonder “Do the crickets know?”

Do they sense the subtle change

as daylight wanes and time moves on?

Their song’s as loud as first they sang

when winter’s thaw bloomed into spring—

Do they discern the shorter days,

the shift arriving on the breeze

the  autumn chill that’s in the air?

Their tune belies the changes seen

as winter creeps upon our door...

yet, one thing that I know for sure

is in the long and quiet months

we’ll long to hear their song once more

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Photo taken by Charlie Parant. Find this and more at his website Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed written permission.

Before the Fall...

I remember the warmth of an April morn…

the songbirds singing before the dawn,

the mourning dove with her call forlorn;

the gathering clouds before the storm.

I still feel the sway of a summer breeze…

the breath of God blowing through the trees;

the sound of His whisper inside the leaves

and come the evening, a cool reprieve.

Can still smell the scent of an autumn day

the dry fallen leaves turning to decay

with deep earthen smells of soil and clay

and nature’s full pallet on display.

Last to arrive came the ice and snow,

the garden, now frozen, down below

wood smoke arising from fire’s glow

the world spread before us in white tableau.

I still remember all of these things:

how far we’d come before the fall,

so little of that time remains…

 We never really had a plan.

Now dust storms howl over barren plains

while all things precious turn to rust—

so too, this world returns to dust…

 thus dies the golden age of man.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Snow Drops

So soft it falls without a sound

upon the fields and evergreens

sifting...drifting...tumbling down.

So soft it falls without a sound

to knit its patterns on the ground,

a new Spring coat of white pristine.

So soft it falls without a sound

upon the fields and evergreens.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

What the Birds Know

As nighttime shrinks and days stretch long

they come back to the woods and fields:

the mockingbird, the brazen jay,

the yellow finch, and whippoorwill—

unperceived, from far away.

Not steered by fear or politics

they search the woods and meadows, where

they gather bits of last year’s straw,

tiny twigs, discarded string,

to build new nests of grass and sticks.

Disagreements are but few and rare:

for only when they’re trespassed on,

when other birds invade their space,

their rights impinged—do they give chase.

How odd these days to coexist…

it seems to brush against the grain

of how we humans choose to dwell;

our instincts turn to other things—

it's rare to pause and contemplate

  and rarer still when calm remains.

A warm wind rises from the south,

the dappled sun shines through the tree,

a joyous trill burst through the air

from tiny bird on bayberry.

She sings without a cause or care

it echoes through the windowpane,

reverberates in amplitude—

and I, in turn, stop everything

to listen to her song of Spring.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

March is a Surly Old Cat

Dusk falls quickly this early March day,

winter not ready to cede to spring;

another nor’easter’s heading our way…

anticipation—bordering aggravation—

as we wait to see what this storm will bring.

And so the flurries begin to fall

floating…swirling…giving chase—

racing over hedges and open lawn,

settling on treetops and old stone wall,

the wind picks up and quickens pace.

We set aside our mixed emotions

awed by wonder that we see:

nature has waved a magic wand

passing her paintbrush in slow motion

over the crooks of twigs and limbs

as pure white crystals settle in

to cloak the bald and barren tree.

A fine sift of confectioner’s sugar

powder-coats all within our sight;

soft pussy willows bend under the weight

while new spring birds have taken flight.

And so it builds—flake on flake

layer upon layer— drifting down;

frozen, heavy, muting sound.

The first signs of spring beat a hasty retreat

as March Lion rears its head and roars,

and plows come out to scrape the  street.

Inside we listen as they make their rounds,

and under this mantle of new-fallen white

we knit our poems on this cold March night.

© Ginny Brannan March 2018

Image: G. Brannan 3/8/18

Come November

How fast now fade the autumn hues

chill wind gives chase across the fields

as cooler season now ensues

Once camouflaged with leaves profuse

stand barren trees, their limbs revealed

while on the ground, their autumn hues

And Mother Nature takes her cues

as to the longer nights, she yields

this change of season that ensues

Warm summer days have long diffused

as chill November comes to steal

the disappearing autumn hues

Once more does Autumn bid adieu—

her white coat frosts the ground to seal

this cooler season that ensues

And so the shortened days accrue

too soon by winter snow concealed

the dry and faded autumn hues

as cooler season now ensues

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Image: C. Parant Appetite For Photos Used with Permission

In the Still of the Night

Image by author: Back yard, hard edited.

Over the fence what was once a garden

ten, twelve, fifteen years ago

has rendered itself unrecognizable;

 a winding of undergrowth, an overgrown tangle

of weeds and vines, sumac and bittersweet.

The old owner of the land passed on long ago,

his tiny hoarder’s cottage left to a friend.

Uninhabited,  left as tinder to burn to the ground—

faulty wiring or arson for insurance­...we’ll never really know.

The sun has dipped now below the horizon,

dusk turns to darkness,  the former garden

takes on an other-worldly view—

shadow images of arms and hands

stretch out, reaching for the waning moon.

The soft rustle of leaves can be heard, interjected by

the crackle of a branch snapping now and again—

perhaps a skunk or some other wild denizen of the night,

but more than likely one of three feral cats whom

have adopted this yard and made it their home.

The sound of a passing shower, raindrops on tree tops

adds its whisper to the chorus

odors of wet leaves and dampened earth

come slipping through the screen.

There is a certain comfort

in the night sounds, a normalcy…

a sense of security;

counterbalancing the chaos

to erase the lunacy of the day,

I close my eyes now, and surrender

and to my dreams, now slip away.

"Goodnight room"

"Goodnight moon"

© Ginny Brannan 2017

* Quote from children's book, "Goodnight Moon" by Margaret Wise Brown

A Feast for the Eyes

Image: G. Brannan

A soft rain falls upon the garden

coaxing life from winter’s sleep.

The birds return, reverse migration

in their song lies winter’s pardon;

as season shares an invitation

that we, in turn, attempt to reap.

Lilac, dogwood, rhododendron—

the apple blossoms drift like snow…

they share again their ageless story,

as in succession, so they grow.

The Spring explodes in all her glory

and we embrace her bright tableaux.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

April Showers

Image: G. Brannan

The rain falls soft upon the grass

erasing signs of winter passed,

it calls out to the barren trees

“Release your buds now, spread your leaves!”

The stage is set, the players cast

as soft rain falls upon the grass;

the robins have come out to play,

to chase their worms in light of day.

It seemed that winter wouldn’t end,

just days ago watched snow descend.

Now soft rain falls upon the grass…

—a change is in the forecast.

We hope indeed that Spring has come

to lift us from this winter slump;

as April slowly lifts her mask,

the rain falls soft upon the grass.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

In the Stillness of the Night

Late winter’s eve and all is still

the lawn lies bathed in silver light—

gray shadows race across the yard

and climb atop the windowsill

to draw my gaze upon the sight.

I stare out to the moonlit night,

across the deck and wooded path

fresh–painted by new fallen snow.

The scene infuses with delight;

this gift inside storm’s aftermath.

Half–buried now, the old birdbath

stands shadowed deep in indigo—

it waits on promise of the spring

when arctic chill has finally passed

and snow gives way to new green grass.

With gratitude, I hedge to go;

tranquility allays my soul…

I turn and feel the warmth within

still basking in the afterglow

of winter’s calm and still repose.

©  Ginny Brannan 2017

When life becomes rote, and frustration grows from being immersed in the same routine—different day, sometimes we need to remind ourselves that peace is still there—within our grasp— if we just take a moment to pause and  enjoy the  stillness and beauty around us.