Best Foot Forward

For some it appears to be effortless

like breathing or blinking your eyes—

the words just form and fall into place…

–yet others, like me, still search nonetheless

to extricate perfect expression.

Devices and adages paint a disguise

where only the baptized might see,

the truth that is masked inside of our lies,

and whether each story is real or contrived,

in pursuit of our own evolution.

Did we rely, perhaps too heavily,

on abstract ideas or deflection?

Could you decipher the writer’s approach?

Did language and narrative flow fluently,

or did storyline lose its intention?

It really depends on the reader’s perception

just how they interpret the words,

and if they can feel what you’ve tried to reveal

and if so, give some vindication,

in this ultimate quest for redemption.

A writer shares stories with hope they’ll be heard,

that others will find a connection…

in each poem that’s shared,  there’s a piece of our truth,

and a glimpse of the pathways that we have incurred

in each word, a new revelation

on this journey to find our salvation.

© Ginny Brannan 2020

NaPoWriMo #28 I was shooting for 30, but this is a long one so maybe it counts for more! That's my story and I'm stickin' to it!!

What Evil Lies...

Smiling face with orange skin
seems harmless on first observation—

what foul things can pumpkin do?

What rancid seeds are held within,

such benign thing with orange skin?

And yet we feel such trepidation

every time we look at him.

Expression morphs before our eyes

and slowly takes a new formation:

guileless smile, or evil grin?

As we observe we catch a glimpse

of ugly fire deep inside

blackening its pith and soul—

what once was cheerful turning grim;

what once was bright is turning dim.

Observing change, we must confide

as it decays from inside out

and melts to earth from whence it came,

that we feel somewhat mollified

and hang our hope that it's contained.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

The Problem With Loving a Writer

Loving someone who writes

demands a certain kind of stability:

you never know which way the wind will blow

on any given day. There is no insight

no understanding the writer’s mind

It requires giving up your privacy;

her words may be direct or metaphor—

about you, or someone she once knew some years before.

You must become a willing casualty

to these thoughts she weaves, her poetry

—if they don’t incite an all out war!

A writer often feels things differently

they sense the moods of others, good or bad;

and when writing’s on there is rapport

but if it’s off, the reader will get bored.

Once again the writer takes her seat

with ideas flowing free, she’s in the ‘zone’
focused on the words and how they fall;

her mind adjusting inward till complete

no point of interrupting till she’s done.

You get to know her mood just by her tone

 then once again she leaves you all alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Just Another Day in Paradise!

We try to follow protocol

dot the “i’s” and cross the “t’s”

keep everyone on the same page

and anything that might befall

recorded noted kept on file

What difference when one plainly sees

that no one ever follows through

too busy to return the calls

no courtesy or decency

with interruptions, constantly.

The phone is ringing right on queue

another message taken down

filed under “to be done”

among the others left to do

the follow through now up to you.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Safe Haven

Times were so much simpler then

the world so big and far away,

future bright and full of promise—

had our family, had our friends

no worries to get in the way.

But as we grew, our differences

rose more pronounced with each new day,

yet our core values still remained

beneath it all, the emphasis:

no matter what, we’d be okay.

Perhaps it is naïveté

to think that things could stay the same…

nestled safe in our cocoons

where outside world was kept at bay,

and innocents were not consumed.

But life, we learned, is not a game—

the moral values we once claimed

no longer deemed necessity;

coping skills, so long ingrained,

now lost inside complacency.

The darkness spreads now unconstrained,

our safety net has long been torn.

We can’t go back to where we were

but can’t continue in this vein

where daily shootings are the norm.

As NRA renews platform;

quotes amendments, seals their base,

how do we protect our children?

No safe haven from this maelstrom

so those “paid off” will not lose face.

Comes a time to stop discussing

before another school’s laid waste

words are nothing without change

until then there is no trusting.

Don’t forget now, we are watching

when vote comes you’ll be replaced.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Another day, another school shooting. Thoughts and prayers, or voices and change. You decide. 

My love goes out to all the mothers, fathers, families and friends in Parkland who have had their hearts ripped out in this horrible massacre.

Just Three Simple Words

How sweet the innocence that’s found

in children and the elderly;

the joy unbounded they exude

with love both simple and profound

that for the rest of us, eludes.

The young with their straightforwardness—

a child giggles, happily

untainted by the world beyond

with no reserve or attitude

their love shared, unabashedly

both color-blind and rainbow-hued.

In turn, receiver then responds

in kind, to share this special gift

that’s given, unsolicited;

and so we’re captured in this bond

that we embrace with gratitude.

The elderly live time reversed—

they’re locked inside their solitude

so often jaded and despondent.

Yet laughter often lifts this curse:

we watch their spark return once more

to leave us humbled and subdued.

I heard your words, my heart expands

within this bond that we have shared,

this momentary interlude

between two friends of circumstance.

Within a world of happenstance,

so often words get misconstrued

or took for granted once they’re said.

Without reward or recompense

they’re left ignored as they accrue.

And what is learned through this review?

    —We must embrace each "I love you."

© 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.

Statute of Limitations

How long can such corrosion last

that wears and tears down to the soul

to eat away the waking hours…

by now it seems it should have passed

its half-lives clinging, lingering on.

Cruel entity that gained control

to augment into monstrous thing—

where anger nourishes the hate

it manifests, exacting toll;

malignancy that won’t abscond.

                  I heard the words and felt the sting,

                  your verbal dagger bruised the bone;

                  no salve was offered to appease—

                  accelerating to the brink

                  where loathing and resentment spawned.

And thus the seeds of scorn were sown

to root and grow for seven years

till animus has run its course…

Now comes a calling to atone

will peace be found in my response?

Too long the anger has adhered

to scourge and scar, insult, cajole;

to mar the surface to the bone.

The acid cuts through my veneer;

yet in its tenure, I have grown.

                  The time has come to cede control:

                  once more I morph, becoming whole.

©  Ginny Brannan 2016

The Key

http://globe-views.com/dreams/piano.html

She floats her way through shadowed halls

as thought escapes from its confines,

an image of a younger self

so long ago she can’t recall—

absorbs once more into her mind.

Her later years have not been kind,

perception fades into a fugue—

old names and faces cast a blur

and all the memories left behind

have slipped away, eluding her.

But still she finds familiar route

to afternoon’s sweet interlude:

pale parchment hands touch ivory

and without pause or moment’s doubt

she reaches out to find the key.

A moment later song concludes—

in haste, the memory disembarks;

she fades again behind the veil…

   locked away in solitude

   an aging soul with body frail.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Amazing how the mind works: because music is stored in a different part of the brain, someone who has dementia may still find comfort in music; the hands remember what the mind cannot. Written about a dear nonagenarian who still manages to 'tickle the ivories.'

Balancing the Quill's Edge...

Life calls us to participate

to be involved,  appreciate

at times diverting from our dreams

     —that other world where we exist 

     among the words; between the lines—

ever poised upon quill's edge

stretched and bent, not letting go

till something snaps or something gives.

The time arrives for us to choose

between two lovers courted long:

impassioned mistress that we love
or family and common bond

    — only we can weigh the cost

      of which we can afford to loose.

Our choice it seems was always clear
     —  ambivalent as we may be

       to have to choose between the two…

we must defer to loved ones near,

relinquishing the stranger's pull,

just for a time we sever ties

to re-embrace our blood and bond.

But…

dreams cannot be pacified

nor circumscribed, nor stilled for long

We type a word, pick up the pen

slip in a moment now and then…

    —for to ignore our muse’s call

      would mean we do not "live" at all

©    Ginny Brannan 2014

For a friend I observed being 'torn between two loves,'  family and writing; and for all of us who've felt this tug of war.

The End of the Line

We observe the sick and frail

the aging refuse life forgot

 the ancients leaving one by one;

we watch the sands of time prevail

cognizant when course is done.

A chronic tale with twisted plot

one that no one can forestall—

alone and holding stranger’s hand

the soul escapes this juggernaut;

there’s no repeal and no remand.

Who cries for those with none at all,

and holds their memory when their gone?

Who whispers prayers on their behalf?

You’re called to take your final bow

— no family left to carry on.

And learning that you’ve taken leave

'tis I, the stranger, who will grieve.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Google Images/various sites

I work in a Skilled Nursing facility, and have grown rather fond of some of the residents. One of my favorites: a sweet Italian lady who reminded me of one of my aunts. She loved her bright red lipstick, and talking about life “back in the day.” Shortly after celebrating her 97^th birthday, she spent a lovely day having her hair done and enjoying the sunshine and fresh air out  on the patio.  I learned the next day that she’d passed during the night. She had no family; she was the last of her line. 
I will miss her.

Discordance

Tension ignites the charged atmosphere

as sky oxidizes to gunmetal gray—

obscuring horizon where clouds meet the range...

a deep thrum advances, its levies unclear;

an ominous rumble, a rampant exchange.

Observed on the cloud-line a bright ricochet…

another, then strong scent of sulfur appears;

closer now, tremors are felt on the ground…

What is this insurgent and vapid display;

this building percussion, crescendo of  sound—

 conducted in part by some crazed cannoneer,

a maestro or madman—we’ve yet to decide.

The cymbals are crashing, the timpani rolls…

and yet the true threat hasn’t made itself clear—

just who will remain when campaign exacts tolls?

For now we stand strong while the forces collide.

Way off in the distance we watch the clouds swarm

the thunder approaches just over the rise…

with feet on the ground, trust our stance justified

soon we will know if the gods empathize.

One ear-piercing volley and we are forewarned;

            we rotate to face the oncoming storm.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Thunderstorm stock by Apothicbeauty on deviantART
Original image by Apothicbeauty, overlaid with author's images from Gettysburg reenactments.

Sharing at dVerse Meeting the Bar—Following Through on Metaphor

A Game of Patience

Meredith Frampton, 'A Game of Patience' 1937

Take me back to the place where time stood still…

Would each one of us were able

to read the other’s thoughts so well—

            anticipate the other’s fate...

to lay our cards out on the table,

expose what’s guarded deep within.

How discomfiting to tell

what it is you feel inside…

            Might there be something left for me?

I never knew that when we fell

then stood again, a piece was lost…

And so compelled, I now confide

no poker face; my cards exposed...

(yet through the years you’ve never shared;

            nor have I, although I’ve tried)

constrained in limbo to remain 

            ever by another’s side.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

On concept of 'love's labours lost'

Sharing at Magpie Tales #226. Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story!

Five a.m. on an April Morning

I stare across this mid-night sea

and ponder in that stillness found

the vastness of this vernal plain;

appearing first as ebony

and yet I know it isn’t so…

A hundred billion stars abound—

celestial embers in the dark

whose gasses burned out long ago,

and still they manage to astound.

Left humbled by their reverie,

as if by watching they’ll impart

the knowledge of the centuries…

Yet could we grasp enlightenment

from moment genesis embarked?

More learned men may share insight,

I myself embrace the night

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Sharing at d'Verse Open Link Night April 2014

Daft Poetic Fools

Some call us daft, poetic fools;

Monets who use their words to paint—

inspired by some inner voice

known to stretch and bend the rules

in search of perfect turn of phrase.

We don’t abide much with restraint—

we walk to different drummer’s beat;

Plath and Poe and Frost and Keats…

we read their poems to reacquaint,

then hold our own course once again.

Sometimes the words call in our sleep;

we wake and run to fast transpose

our thoughts, lest they should slip away...

left often feeling incomplete

with need to find that perfect line.

How different then, this path we chose…

exposing all our truths and scars,

yet something from the depths takes hold—

an inner voice held in repose,

an entity that lives inside—

  we must conclude now, insofar,

      this choice to write was never ours…

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Image by author

River Song

The voices of the forest sing your name

just a melody upon the breeze

inside this stream of consciousness, it guides

to navigate the path from whence you came,

through time and space to place where you begin.

Your story whispers soft among the trees,

where oldest of the old are long since gone;

yet life renews as well as it rescinds

to flow again from roots to tips of leaves.

This ancient woodland biding out its days

was born from stardust scattered at first dawn;

a paradox that kens through cosmic core...

an ancient entity that lives and breathes

yet knows no stillness, bears no word for pond—

rewrites your name instead to 'River Song.'

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Marooned

When all falls dark upon this world

the daylight lost to hardened night

our compass stuck within the void

our sails slip tattered and unfurled.

When even moon can’t guide our course

the clouds have swallowed all its light;

and waves are stilled to silent calm

our hope abandoned on the shoals.

When ink has robbed us of our sight

despondency infests our bones

we stave the dark to wait for dawn…

For in His light the shadows flee—

we mend the sails, reset our tack…

the soft warm breeze soothes like a balm;

we stem the tide to carry on.

© Ginny Brannan October 2013
Sharing @dVerse Open Link Night #118

C. Parant Sunrise, Wells, Maine Appetite for Photos (with permission)

The Soft "Hello"

What change is this that whispers in

on padded feet in stealth disguise…

inspiring poet’s pens to write—

to try to capture once again

the vistas spread within our sight?

In silent awe we feast our eyes  

on scarlets, ambers, wines and gold;

we struggle ever to describe—

in thoughts expressed—to realize

with words, though often used before—

retell the story, fresh and bold.

“How to reveal such season, grand?”

concedes the writer, meek and small.

Our poems join with the thousandfold;

yet still, they fail to verbalize…

for brushstrokes from the Master’s hand

fall short within the words of man.

©  Ginny Brannan 2013

Image: Google Images: Rob McKay 2010

Sharing at dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week 113. Come join us!

Demons and Angels

Image: Angels Grunge Artwork, Alex Cherry

It’s funny how that early pain

still trickles down through all the years,

to seep into those shadowed spaces.

Who knew how much there still remained

to bleed the heart, invade the soul.

Its funny how the hurt adheres

even if one never mentions

the wounds concealed in hidden places.

It’s hard to talk about past fears

with those who’ll never understand.

In you, there was no condescension.

You listened, bowed, as though in prayer--

then stood and wrapped me in your wings;

(it must have been some odd reflection,

for one can’t see what isn’t there).

We shelve our anger and despair;

raise fast the shields, choose to ignore;

never opting to confide

neglecting life in disrepair

till someone cracks those firm defenses.

Through you, my spirit was restored

the scarring finally reconciled;

my soul redeemed in graced reward.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

*For my co-worker and colleague:

I’d watched the devil from the outside,

you’d faced your demons from the inside;

two different sides of alcoholism.

We are survivors.

This one is a little more personal than most. Our pasts need not define us, and yet they are still a part of us. This is inspired from a lunchtime conversation shared with a coworker, a kindred spirit, sharing stories not often shared.