Karma

You wear your attitude like a shield—

like a force field it surrounds you

emanating in the shift of your shoulders

the curl of your lip

the furrow of your brow,

exuding from your pores as you gorge

on the hurt and pain you leave in your wake.

Unhappiness is your cancer;

anger your disease.

So build your walls of brick and stone,

   wattle and bone—

I’ll hold my tongue while you dangle your bait,

knowing that fate eventually comes around…

and those who concede to hostility and hate

   die alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

The Undertaking

She views the world through autumn eyes

that on this day are cast in gray

as winter tries to tip the scale…

Weeks and months and years have passed

to leave eroded and refined

each moment lived; each bend and turn

etched in crease and smile line.

   And always playing in her mind

   the words that paint the world she sees—

   the people met, emotions felt;

   thoughts that bend and twist within

   and beg escape from their confines

When did such purpose come about—

a want, a need to somehow share

and bare the colors of her soul…

when even casual observation

implores discovery on a page.

   And the words…. always ruminating,

   to form and re-form, while creating

   background music heard by one.

   You’ll see her jot a line or two

   on any scrap or sticky note,

   or back of envelope will do.

   And on rare times when words align

   to culminate with her inflection

   she’ll deem a poem or piece complete

   or at very least well- honed

   to “acceptable” perfection.

She sees her world through autumn eyes

as winter creeps up on her trail.

Time has deepened tone and voice

—so often lost within the forest

of other voices in the chorus—

becoming still as life assails

till call to write once more prevails;

another story whispers, waiting,

   the challenge in the undertaking.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

This was written in 2016, and published in the collection: Poetry as a Spiritual Practice: Illuminating the Awakened Woman—a collection of poems by the Journey of the Heart Poets available at Amazon.com

What are the Odds?

The day breaks slow this January morn

the cloud filled sky cast in ombré gray,

cold sun reluctant to show its face.

As I scan across the barren yard

past the remnants of the last snowfall

still floating atop winter-brown grass,

it dawns on me that this is an odd year.

Not only in the political sense—

I mean, how strange is it that a reality T.V. host,

self-endorsed politician, business man, millionaire—

has promised to be a champion for the people?

—The man who would be President—

Yet, even more so for us, in the numerical sense.

Odd years have never been lucky years…

if bad luck or illness will transpire,

it always chooses the ‘odd’ year.

2001, 2003, 2005, 2009, 2011, 2015

surgery, illness, lay-off, more surgery…

I tick off our laundry list of misfortune and misery.

And yet, the optomist in me still struggles

to break the surface,  even as the sun itself

emerges from behind its gray cloud curtain.

I defer, as we so often do, to a movie quote,

an earworm reverberating through my head:

 “May the odds be ever in your favor”

Indeed—

           

            May they be in all of ours.

©  Ginny Brannan 2017

For You, the 'Other Writer'…

So at this time I would profess

—if the truth were to be told—

how every poem that you’ve refined

whispers through my heart and mind

and touches deep within my soul

Oh, that I had such gift as yours!

With subtlety and fine inflection

each story line and each reflection,

each lover's conflict you’ve endured

frozen there upon the page

seeks and speaks to inner core.

Where indeed do such words come

that touch upon such highs and lows,

to paint the hollows so profound

and grapple the unpolished truth?

I hang suspended and spellbound;

for in your words I see myself—

in this mirror that you’ve shared

each fault and glorious imperfection

through introspective interjection

my secrets called out and laid bare.

And so to you, I now confess,

to maestro wielding quill in hand—

I’ve seen my story on your page

as much as you have shared your own.

Through lines transcending time and age,

your tales regale what we have lived,

revealing secrets I have known.

While some aspire, others lead

in ever reaching for that bar,

as each one tries to plant a seed

in hopes that some may stop and read…

Seems for a moment I’ve digressed,

so venture, somewhat tentative

to credit one where credit’s due:

With admiration and respect

that’s earned or ascertained by few—

from moment when we first connected,
my benchmark has been set by you.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Linked to dVerse Poets OLN #187

With Certain Inevitability

We know neither time nor place, only that it is inevitable…

… but in this world nothing can be said to be certain, except death and taxes. 
                                                                                    — Ben Franklin

In “Tweets” and “Posts” the world responds
to Death’s uncertain rendezvous—
  just two of many that we knew…

As one day ebbs, another dawns
and real or feigned, we mourn each name—
   another faded star now gone.

“Celebrity” does not preclude…
    in ‘Tweets” and “Posts,” the world responds.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Actress Carrie Fisher 10/21/1956 — 12/27/2016
and her mom: Actress Debbie Reynolds 4/01/1932 — 12/28/1932
The 'Force' was strong between mother and child.

Actively Passing

I wonder does subconscious hear a calling,

like songbirds’ urge to sing before the dawn;

sensing that there will be no denying

and no forestalling when one's time has come.

In recent days we’ve watched you shift, withdrawing—

your focus turning inward to your soul;

a bird with broken wings no longer soaring,

slipping while the decades take their toll.

There is no turning back, becoming “whole” again,

no splint to cure what age and illness wrought.

Words whispered soft, appeasing and consoling…

as you slide ever deeper into thought…

time stands still, the caged bird finds release,

  our consolation—hoping you’ve found peace.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

For L, whose light and love we will carry in our hearts.

Not Quite Faded

You carry the visible remnants

of pain endured,

fissures closed,

wounds still healing.

My blemishes mask hidden

tarnished through tears,

sullied in sleepless nights.

Scarred, broken—

two fractured halves

struggling to become whole again.

Don’t look too close,

    you may still see the cracks.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Linking to d’Verse Poets Pub, where we are sharing our “Scars,” both seen and unseen.  This is a Quadrille, a new form for me, a poem of exactly 44 words.

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