Shackled

Image: Google Images

I watch you enter - eyes downcast

uneven gait, carrying a weight

too heavy for one so young.

What brought you to this place —

happenstance; circumstances

beyond your control?

Was it a conscious choice,

what played a roll?

Who where your role models

and where will you go from here?

Each one of us judged on what we take or leave behind

—or where we place the blame.

Will you be remembered for a future that you wasted

    or the past you overcame?

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Whether good or bad, we all have a past, and a choice to make on what we'd like our future to be. 

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

Where Were You in '62?

I grew up in the Viet Nam era,

the Cold War hovering over my shoulders…

fears and innuendo; living on the edge.

At work would sometimes wonder

Could I get home? Would there be time?

At least be with the ones I love

should “The Bomb” be launched?

…then I’d chastise myself for thinking a fool’s thoughts.

It’s a bad habit I have, pondering worse case scenarios —

  those particular fears had all but disappeared;

  turning into background noise over the years.

It’s funny how things creep back from the past…

with nothing good in the news these days,

and world leaders upping the ante on crazy...

 is it any wonder that the ghosts of fears long gone

       are coming ‘round to haunt again?

© Ginny Brannan 2017

In ’62 I was in second grade in small town VT. I do not remember ever crawling under my desk for bomb drills, but my husband, who lived on Long Island, does. I do remember the Cold War though, the ever-present shadow of communism throughout my youth and teens, and into adulthood.  

Carpe Diem

The dawn arrives with painted sky.

where Master’s stroke once more renews

our weary souls from winter grey.

Too long we’ve tarried, overdue,

while promises of spring accrue.

The sky suffused in pastel hues

of lemon crème and peach sorbet

now casts its light o’er sleeping plain

and beckons to us once again

to rise, to shine—to seize this day!

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Inspired by image taken by my friend Kyra near Amarillo, Texas.

Image: Kyra Lija Ferrigan Brown, shared with permission.

Revelations

Image: G.Brannan

Do you count your years in minutes passed,

each moment lived a memory refined—

a never-ending loop of lows and highs?

The passages of time wash with the tides

and in the passing hangs each soul, defined.

It’s really not a case of win or loose

the lessons learned, the wounds that leave us scarred;

but there’s a price to everything we choose…

there is no cheating boatman once we cross,

just foreboding in not knowing what we’ll find.

So we linger in each blissful moment seized

find comfort in the warmth of those we love,

while warding off the hurts that would consume:

—injustices oppression, fallacies—

transgressions that could taint to make us blind.

Awaiting intercession from Divine,

we come to find the truth within our hearts:

all loves and friendships forged, or lost in kind

endure like glowing embers in our mind—

to light our journey on this path unmarked

…yet blind and voiceless, do our gods concede;

           their explanations lost on winter breeze.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Metaphorically Speaking

Life is a series of relationships—

personal, casual, professional...

some filled with anticipation,

others reeking of ambivalence.

I swore I’d never again become enrapt

captivated by another…

the pain of loss is too great,

it weighs heavy and lives in half-lifes

slowly fading; never quite dissipating.

I don’t know when the change came—

when you went from being just a means to an end

to a necessary part of the whole—

but here I am again.

While another holds the strings

I go on, ignoring the voice

that nags inside my gut

while waiting to learn 

if

the

cord

has

been

cut.

© 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.