Clinging

The rain-soaked leaves fall from the trees

to coat the asphalt avenues,

they cling to shingles on the roofs

and track inside stuck to our shoes.

They drop now as the raindrops do—

spinning, skipping in the squall;

muted vestiges of glory

upon the lawns and fields soon sprawl.

Each year the same old fate unfolds

by early frost and chill propelled,

this final blaze of reds and golds

as season bids her last farewell.

And as the colors dissipate

we feel that ever-growing pall;

the long cold winter lies in wait—

for now, we’ll revel in the Fall.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Off the Wagon

Image: Tom Harty Trapper's Fishcamp and Grill, Oklahoma City

Like a sponge I soak up the rosés  and burgundies,

golden Chambourds, Bourbons and Grand Marniers

the yellow-green Chartreuses and emerald Absinthes

… a sot in need of one. more. shot.

Just a steward in this cabinet of riches,

for six decades imbibing, sampling the goods,

savoring each flavor; knowing that soon

each one sours to brown, 
spilling to ground until gone.

Shaking with chill of withdrawal,

my twelve-step program starts now—

counted by months

until my next binge.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Image: G.Brannan Laurel Lake in Lee, MA

Seashell (written at 16)

Google Images: Seashell in Mui Ne Vietnam

Little seashell in the sand

uncovered by the lapping wave,

with your home here in Vietnam

I know you have seen better days.

Days when the sun shown bright

not hidden by the dust of war,

and peaceful days without a fight

when people could enjoy this shore.

These days of war will last awhile

while unsuspecting people die,

a war so ugly and so vile

and we who watch still wonder why.

Tiny shell don’t give up hope

because a soldier died today,

someday perhaps we’ll learn to cope

and maybe peace will find it’s way.

© Ginny Brannan written in 1972

The future I envisioned: Children playing on the beach. Nha Trang Vietnam.

What the reality was in 1972, Google Images: Vietnam coastline, 1972

Just a little background on the climate of the era: In 1972 I was just starting my Junior year of High School. For at least a decade and a half, the Vietnam war had been spoon fed to us on the nightly news, excerpts edited for our consumption. By 1972 I was aware of some of the realities, but mostly what was going on here at home, all of the antiwar protests and the fact that people I actually knew were being drafted now. The songs of the era: Dylan's "Blowin' in the Wind" and "Masters of War," Creedence's "Fortunate Son", Edwin Starr's "War" ('what is it good for? Absolutely nothin'), Lennon's "Give Peace a Chance" all spoke to the disenchantment of this war that had lingered much too long.

In our Junior year, one of my English subjects was poetry, and one of the assignments was to write a poem. My somewhat sheltered small-town Vermont life left me blissfully ignorant of the realities of the war on the other side of the world.  My poem, above, speaks a lot to my own naiveté.  My teacher panned the poem, part of her notes had to do with me "personifying" an inanimate object (the seashell). I do have to wonder if the underlying factor had more to do with my sympathetic views of that war. Hindsight is always 20-20, you know…

Anyways, for better or worse, first "real"poem I can remember writing.

Autumn Opus

The harvest moon abates and fades away

another summer drawing to a close

as autumn slowly steals the longer day

we cede to darkened curfew now imposed

           

Just tiny specks on tilted globe we spin,

the seasons blend into a muted haze;

old stories long remembered now rescind,

while Fortune calls the shots and sets the pace

With season’s change, I feel a quickening,

I wonder, then, if you might feel it too—

the song comes carried on October’s wing

as once again her promise is renewed.

   Another year, another note transposed

   to amplify this opus we compose

©  Ginny Brannan 2016

**Image taken by Kyra Lija Ferrigan Brown 9/19/16. View from our street at sunset.

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

Bait and Switch

The bait was dangled from the pole

a promise wrapped in veiled disguise

a deadline set, so too - the goal.

The bait was danged from the pole

you sold your body, heart and soul

for story riddled, full lies…

the bait left dangling from a pole,

the promise— just a veiled disguise.

©  Ginny Brannan 2016

Forgotten

I exist in a limbo where memories slip 

from the tip of my tongue,

where sentences fade, incomplete  

  What was I just saying… I forgot…

Such profound loneliness in this place

where strangers surround me

Where is my family?

Where is my home?

Where are the people I once knew?

I cling to any kindness shown…

though I can’t find the words

      I still “feel”

In this ever-shrinking existence

images of my youth pass swiftly

and anticipation of death…
 no more loneliness nor pain

            ...now reign

© Ginny Brannan 2016