Teasels

You teased my skin with silken touch

immersed my soul in your embrace,

we whispered dreams to distant moons

divined our future by the runes.

Between the dusk and morningtide

chased shooting stars and will-o’-the-wisps;

explored each crag, each dampened cave, 

and carved our names in hieroglyphs.

No matter how secure life seems

               time devours youthful dreams…

Yet sometimes ‘tween the dusk and dawn

when full moon dips in western sky

and shines through blinds to chart the sill,

I still recall those days long gone—

   time cedes her secrets from the deep

   and in the cache where memories keep

              the taste of you still lingers on.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image: Jackie Curtis:A stand of teasels in yesterdays mist

Anonymous

Like a B movie actor

hiding behind pseudonym

and sepia image...

weaving tales,

painting poetry,

eliciting emotion,

begging response—

How do I find the truth in your words

 when the writer is but an apparition?

© Ginny Brannan 2019

And So It Begins...

April is National Poetry Writing Month or NaPoWriMo for short—30 poems in 30 days. Going to give it my best shot! So here's the first, a small acrostic, should you care to read the letters downwards. Happy April! Happy Writing my friends!

The Thing With Feathers....

Where did it come from, this lightness of being,

erasing the darkness that’s dwelled here so long?

What is this feeling that’s rising within me

coursing these veins without calling or prompt?

We’ve faced down each challenge, each rebel demon

calling them out, destroying their keep—

yet I would be lying if I was denying

that there was no threat when it calls from deep.

Sometimes our tipping point needs to be challenged

as we keep on reaching for our 'ring of gold,'

and ever more quickly do we stop believing

while letting the negatives tighten their hold.

I don’t know what trials await our tomorrows

but here at this juncture the light filters in;

the weight that I’ve carried seems less of a burden

and just for a moment the darkness rescinds.

Oh, that this might last,  leaving past far behind us

—erasing these doubts that I carry within.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Hope is illusive, but springs eternal, and sometimes swells up from within...

The title borrowed from the words of one of my favorite authors.

Spinning

Do not confuse my anger with how I feel about you.

My anger is borne of frustration,

perhaps because I set the bar so high for myself

that I expect…no demand…the same from others

Patience thins quickly:

the nurse that should know her job

but must come back

because of tests forgotten;

the ones who plow through

despite the sign in front of them that says “Stop.”

Is there no one that understands?

Each small infraction grows and compounds

fueling this loss of control

—and I cannot–fix–this...

Perhaps I have lost sight of the bigger picture,

floundering in the minutia

searching for the light;

for someone that can tell me

You’ll get through this...

  and we’ll be all right. 

  

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image: Nature's Landscape Supercell pictures, storm, Wyoming.

Observations from the Peanut Gallery

Guilt breeds…it spreads like disease

in the heart of deflectors and liars

so riddle me this—though I might be remiss:

is the art of the deal to conspire?

What motivates all that anger and hate,

if not guilt, then some darkness within you?

What do you conceal behind each rant and spiel

while background and warrants accrue?

An innocent man would have nothing to hide

and truth comes by way of accounting;

yet with each new conflation there comes revelation

your dubious motives are mounting.

So tell me now, sir, why do you stir up,

if not to deter from the queries?

If repeated enough, do the lies become truth

as you spin your alternative theories?

We’re tired of the hatred, the endless debasing

instigation, denigration, and enmity—

when facts are revealed, and if we should heal,

if we find our way back to some sanity…

will these new truths we learned help us hold firm,

will love conquer anger and bind us

or will some other enemy find us?

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Fairy Dust

Magic wand in maestro’s hand

directs the powder where to land,

adorns the firs in lace-edged dress

where fact and fiction coalesce.

Soft on barren twigs alight

painting all in winter white;

and landing on the leafless tree,

to capture in pure reverie.

Smitten by such view, pristine

subscribe to all that lies unseen…

enthralled within this wonderland

concur that sprites have had a hand—

so call it 'snowfall' if you must

but I'm inclined to‘fairy dust!’

© Ginny Brannan 2019