Waiting

Written for The Mag #150! 
Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides image, we the story!

Image by Daniel Murtagh

Ashes to ashes...

I watch another year come and go

the final embers glow

as it burns down and snuffs out,

joining all the others

in a pile of spent ash.

The promise of a bright, clear tomorrow

   still as elusive as smoke on the wind.

© Ginny Brannan January 2013

Image: R.A.D.Stainforth

Written for and shared at THE MAG #149.

Image provided by Tess Kincaid--She provides the image, we the story!!

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #77 January 1st, 2013!

On the Periphery

Summer Night, 1913, by Albert Bloch

Felt but never seen,

dancing on peripheral vision--

a movement, a shadow...

Lights flicker upon entering a room,

automatic doors open to no one there,

footsteps echo on empty stairwells... 

What magic is this?

Stories sieved through generations,

folklore igniting imaginations;

spectres, fairies, will-o’the wisps…

What happens to life energy when we pass?

Does it dissipate to a different state,

drifting astral plane until final calling?

Fine hairs on back of neck stand attention,
mysteries passing comprehension--

as truth awaits our circumspection.

© Ginny Brannan September 2012

Image by Author

Sharing at The Mag #133: They provide the image, we the story! 

On the Cusp

Big Room, 1948, by Andrew Wyeth

The shadows wane against the wall

as summer burns and slowly turns,

ebbing quietly to fall.

The trees take on a different hue,

blazing bright in fading light…

A hundred thousand words imbue--

yet insufficiently recite,

nor validate, substantiate

these visions captured in our sight

Ambivalent, the songbirds sing --

their hearts rejoice with tempered voice

while dormant winter waits in wing.

© Ginny Brannan   August 2012

Written for The Mag #132
Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides the image, and we, the story!!

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #59

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.

Drink Up!

 Ladies & gents, a toast....

Excerpt from image by John Singer Sargent

I raise this glass to all who’ve gone,

and love that cannot be…

but I am strong, I’ve carried on,

I raise this glass--to me!!

©  Ginny Brannan August 2012

Written for and inspired by the image posted at The Mag #129! Image provided by Tess Kincaid.

Seeking Clarity

Figure Eight by Franz Kline

life in constant flux

we explore our center core

seeking clarity

much like yin and yang

attempting to find balance

in uncertainty

embracing the gray

in a world of black and white

a constant struggle

inner peace renewed

chaos ceases to exist

once more we are whole

© Ginny Brannan July 2012

Chinese symbols, Yin and Yang

Sharing at The Mag #127 ~ they provide the image, we provide the story!

Ophelia

Ophilia by Odilon Redon

With soft pastels in colors bright,

the artist draws with loving hand;

through rendered image, shares his view --

her gentle face, the long dark hair,

the azure sky and yellow flower…

in choosing carefully each hue

creates her likeness, best he can.

At last complete, Ophelia “breathes,”

while Shakespeare’s ghost observes, appeased.

© Ginny Brannan July 2012

Sharing at The Mag #124

Juke Joint

Website for this image: 16sparrows.typepad.com

Got her hair combed up and she’s dressed so fine

just a sweet young thang lookin’ so sublime;

men are flockin’ like moths to her slow burn

jus’ standin’ in a line, awaitin’ their turn.

Grindin’ to the blues, or some ol’ ragtime,

downin’ local hooch, tastes like ‘turpentine.’

Gettin’ liquored up, spoilin’ for a fight

o’er juke joint mama on a Saturday night.

Better watch your step while you’re on the floor,

she brings top dollar for the comp’ny store;

struttin’ her stuff could drive a man insane,

but one wrong move’ll bring a heap o’pain…

Still it can’t be wrong, ‘cause it feels so right

watchin' juke joint mama on a Saturday night.

© Ginny Brannan June 2012

Image provided by The Mag: A Touch of Evil

The Juke Joint from 'The Color Purple' came to mind when I saw this image.

Written for and shared at The Mag #123 --They provide the image, we provide the story!

A little background from Wikipedia:

The origins of juke joints may be the community rooms that were occasionally built on plantations to provide a place for blacks to socialize during slavery. This practice spread to the work camps such as sawmills, turpentine camps and lumber companies in the early twentieth century, which built barrel-houses and chock-houses to be used for drinking and gambling. Although uncommon in populated areas, such places were often seen as necessary to attract workers to sparsely populated areas lacking bars and other social-outlets. As well, much like "on-base" Officer's Clubs, such "Company"-owned joints allowed managers to keep an eye on their underlings; it also ensured that the employees pay was coming back to the Company.

Juke joint music began with the black folk rags ("ragtime stuff" and "folk rags" are a catch-all term for older African American music[7]) and then the boogie woogie dance music of the late 1880s or 1890s and became the blues, barrel house, and the slow drag dance music of the rural south (moving to Chicago's black rent-party circuit in the Great Migration) "raucous and raunchy"[8] good time secular music. Dance forms evolved from ring dances to solo and couples dancing. Some blacks, those seeking white approval, opposed the amorality of the raucous "jook crowd."

Reflections

Image: M.C. Escher, Puddle, 1952

Surreal silhouettes mirrored

in mud; refracted reflections…

upside-down negatives

reposed in rutted silence.

Beauty hides in fractured spaces

and unlikely places. Each nebulous image,

perfect within its imperfection,

awaits our discovery.

©  Ginny Brannan June 2012

Written for The Mag #122.  Image provided by Tess Kincaid.
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #49

Bits and Pieces

Still Life, 1670, detail by Jean François de Le Motte

I saved them all, you know…

the first note that you wrote;

the ticket stub from our first date

that card that you gave me,

the one with the rose on it--
you probably don’t even remember...

While others look to money

and accumulated possessions

as proof of a life well spent,

I look to these simple scraps;

each one whispers another

precious memory, and I know

that I am wealthy…

indeed.

© Ginny Brannan June 2012

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #48

Written for and shared at The Mag #121--they provide the image, we provide the story!

Unbound

House at Dusk, 1935, Edward Hopper

Need to escape from these concrete spaces

this city prison to which I am bound…

flee to the country, and leave no traces--

can’t catch my breath in this high-rise town.

Give me the mountains,  dirt paths beseeching…

no well-groomed parks under vapor lights.

No horns, no sirens, no tires screeching;

I prefer cricket-song on starlit nights.

Some thrive in fast-paced electric lifestyle;

bred for the city life right from the start.

Keep the excitement, I’ve done my trial--

always the country beckons to my heart.

© Ginny Brannan May 2012

Written for The Mag #119.
Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides image, we provide story!

Behind the Mask

He hides behind the perfect guise,

obscures the truth with well-masked lies

so audience will never know

assume its all part of the show.

Immersed in jagged compromise,

he hides behind the perfect guise,

and wields his pride like two-edged blade

while sinking deeper in charade.

Sequestered in this circus tent

and contemplating life misspent,

he hides behind the perfect guise --

within some rings there is no prize.

Well-camoflauged by painted smile,

he swallows back the bitter bile;

and even friends don’t realize ...

he hides behind the perfect guise.

© Ginny Brannan  May 2012

Image: The Circus with the Yellow Clown, 1967, Marc Chagall

Written for The Mag #118  (Magpie Tales), image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides the image, we provide the story!

In River’s Wake

Image: Stainforth-River Irwell

The rains came, fast soaking

already saturated ground

till it could swallow no more;

ten thousand rivulets finding

snow carved ruts and valleys,

racing to join mountain streams,

flooding fields, washing over rocks,

white water on  a gray day--

until even rocks were covered

and all became one churning

river of yellow mud and silt.

Waters recede to a landscape

changed forever; and the resolve

of a people whose fortitude

could not be destroyed.

© Ginny Brannan May 2012

A smaller river flowing into the Connecticut River

Sharing at The Mag #116-they provide the image, we provide the story!
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week 43.


 In 2011 Hurricane Irene dropped 15'' of rain in Vermont onto already saturated soil, flooding the quiet rivers and streams, destroying homes, historic covered bridges and devastating many villages. Vermonters, a tough breed, are already rebuilding and rebounding!

Creative Cycle

What happens when you’re cold and dead

to all the words that you have read,

the stories floating in your head,

the inked-up pages you have bled?

Discover now that I'm resigned

to think our words are reassigned.

Like spirit, they can’t be confined

but born inside another’s mind.

© Ginny Brannan April 2012

image by Manu Pombrol

Shared at The Mag #115 -- image from Tess Kincaid.
She provides the image, we provide the story!

In Stasis

Image: Alex Stoddard, courtesy of The Mag

Held captive in a man-made womb

composed of glass and wooden stave,

adrift inside this watery grave

while oak and hemlock guard my tomb.

I rest on decomposing bed

of rotting life and fictile earth;

awaiting on some grand re-birth

I float in stasis state instead.

©  Ginny Brannan April 2012

Written for The Mag #114. By Tess Kincaid; she provides the image, we provide the story!

For the Birds/Bird Chatter

Image: Parke Harrison

For the Birds

Mr. Starling was his name,

Ornithology his game:

studying the birds both far and wide.

On researching the clues

he might take off his shoes

to get a better view of what’s inside.

Bird Chatter

We come into this world as naked as a jaybird.

Our parents give us wings, teach us to fly;

until we can finally leave the nest.

We tend to migrate toward similar people--

because birds of a feather flock together.

Knowing that the early bird gets the worm

we work hard to earn a feather in our cap.

When courting, we try not to ruffle any feathers,

hoping to find a wise owl rather than a silly goose.

We come home to roost, and feather our nest,.

Try not count our chicks before they’ve hatched,

then raise our brood until they can wing it alone

Once again empty nesters, we get our ducks in a row.

By now we should be sitting in the catbird’s seat,

maybe flying south each winter as snowbirds.

No longer a spring chicken nor cock of the walk,

just a couple of old crows that are happy as larks

we await our final swan song, 

to soar like an eagle into the sunset.

© Ginny Brannan April 1, 2011

Written for The Mag #111 Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides image, we provide story!!
AND
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #38 4/03/12

"Anna Marie"

Image by Sarolta Ban 

Old-fashioned rouged cheeks, 

a touch of lipstick on your lips,

fire engine red to match the

personality smoldering beneath;

and those  eyes--eyes sparked 

by ten-thousand memories …

You must’ve been something

in your day, a rare commodity,

a trendsetter ahead of your time.

Sacrificing love for career…

how many men tossed,

how many hearts lost

to those red lips and those

beautiful, savvy, lonely eyes?

© Ginny Brannan March 2011
Sharing at "The Mag" 107, image courtesy Tess Kincaid (she provides the image, we provide the story!)

One of my "Tales from the Inside." I work with the elderly and this is about one of them. At 96 she still wears red lipstick, using it also to "rouge" her cheeks much like my aunts used to do years ago.

Red Kryptonite

With super-powers
on high alert, senses
finely tuned, wary of being
trapped again by familiar
enemy disguised behind a
different face, a different shell

My eyes scan you,

check how you carry

yourself, how you interact

with others, how you fit

into your environment

My ears listen for clues

telling me that you

are not exactly who 
you appear to be

So busy watching, listening,

did not notice when the

lead wall came down until

limbs grew weak,

heart beat faster

words stumbled,

and through strange

telepathic connection,

felt I had known

you forever

Looking back, I wonder…

was it red kryptonite that 

altered this life all those years ago

or the heart hidden behind it?

© Ginny Brannan February 2012

For my dear husband, Ray… who brought the wall down.
***Written for The Mag #103, they provide image, we provide story!
*Image: a grave at the Novodevichy Cemetery, Moscow
********************************************************* 
On seeing image, my first thought was Kryptonite--too many comic books read as a child, what can I say? Here are some of the curious facts about this:

*A Note on Red Kryptonite--from DC Comics database, by Brian Kurtz

 Red Kryptonite inflicts random effects on Kryptonians, typically creating an initial "tingling effect" in those affected, and causing, in part, some of the following:

• Loss of power
• Gained telepathy
• Losing his invulnerability (along the left side of his body)
• Unable to speak or write anything (but Kryptonese)
• Loss of balance and manual dexterity
• Mental transference
• Personality alteration

Disconnected

Red Spot II, Wallisy Kandinsky

Divided between worlds,

I find myself in pieces.

So many paths…

choices, possibilities; even

otherworldly options--

no guideline which to take.

Negative images darken peripherals

elicit emptiness, imminent doom.

Contrary, life looms bright.

Time distances itself…as

each day I find myself a little more
disconnected 

©  Ginny Brannan January 2012

Sharing at "The Mag"  (Magpie Tales)1/29/12
Photo courtesy Tess Kincaid.