Tug o' War

We’re opposites in every way

I am the night and you are day

I am the storm and you’re the calm

the angry fist and open palm.

You toe the line from which I stray—

we’re opposites in every way.

The path I’ve chosen is uphill,

in endless battle of the will.

Once again, I’m called to write

I’m neither sorry nor contrite.

We’re opposites in every way:

you’re here and now; I’m faraway.

If attraction's opposite

then we are the perfect fit…

if you command, I won’t obey—

we’re opposites in every way!

© Ginny Brannan 2018

A wee bit of "tongue-in-cheek" humor on this lovely April Saturday.

But for the Grace...

I could share with you a story:

one of death and sadness,

of loss and hardship

but to what purpose, to what end?

Any person who has reached a certain age

has their own stories to tell.

We overcome adversity not by wallowing in  it

but by walking through it

They say: “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”

I much prefer, simply

“With pain comes strength.”

The person you knew decades ago is not the person I am now.

I am molded by all who have touched my life;

those who have left, those who have stayed.

All that we experience becomes part of our story,

not only the hardships, but the kindnesses;

and in the end, we are all stories…

how we choose to write ours is up to us.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Outside Intelligence

We ponder sentient life on other planets
and wonder if they came here what they'd see:
chaos and confusion, warring masses,
the dark defining lines of poverty?

Perhaps they would be drawn here by our music:
composers such as Bach, or Andrew Lloyd...
or maybe Rock would be more to their liking
as they listened to our broadcasts from the void.

Would they be drawn by colors in the darkness,
hues of blue and greens, and clouds of white;
and while they were observing would they wonder
why skin-tones seemed to trigger and incite?

And would they wonder why wealth seemed important,
where cash and stature fit into the game—
and why the few had pull over the outcome
of so many when we all should be the same.

I hope if others visited our planet
they'd see past who we are to what we'd be;
if we would treat this earthly home as sacred
not squander all our gifts prodigiously.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

MLK's Legacy

Intent to make change
you took your dream to the streets
fighting hate with love

We still remember
a man of infinite hope,
whose legacy lives on

© Ginny Brannan 2018

In honor of the 50th anniversary of Martin Luther King's death.

Snow Drops

So soft it falls without a sound

upon the fields and evergreens

sifting...drifting...tumbling down.

So soft it falls without a sound

to knit its patterns on the ground,

a new Spring coat of white pristine.

So soft it falls without a sound

upon the fields and evergreens.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

What the Birds Know

As nighttime shrinks and days stretch long

they come back to the woods and fields:

the mockingbird, the brazen jay,

the yellow finch, and whippoorwill—

unperceived, from far away.

Not steered by fear or politics

they search the woods and meadows, where

they gather bits of last year’s straw,

tiny twigs, discarded string,

to build new nests of grass and sticks.

Disagreements are but few and rare:

for only when they’re trespassed on,

when other birds invade their space,

their rights impinged—do they give chase.

How odd these days to coexist…

it seems to brush against the grain

of how we humans choose to dwell;

our instincts turn to other things—

it's rare to pause and contemplate

  and rarer still when calm remains.

A warm wind rises from the south,

the dappled sun shines through the tree,

a joyous trill burst through the air

from tiny bird on bayberry.

She sings without a cause or care

it echoes through the windowpane,

reverberates in amplitude—

and I, in turn, stop everything

to listen to her song of Spring.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Resurrection

The sun did not to rise on Easter morning—

it chose instead to hide in the shadows

and slip through clouded passages,

the wait of humanity resting on its shoulders.

Stuck in this twilight world

we search for a balance

where none seems to exist.

Our hope rests on the horizon line

where a thin crack in the veneer,

a small yet widening gap in the atmosphere

promises salvation.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Image by G. Brannan