No Excuses

I’m sorry I was late today,

I really don’t know what to say.

Could blame the traffic or the clock

—but that would be a bunch of crock.

The sky dawned bright, for once, not gray

I’m sorry I was late today—

a moment in that April air

prompted me to tarry there.

I stopped to gaze upon the trees,

and ponder possibilities…

I’m sorry I was late today

the new spring blooms got in the way.

I’ll plead the 5^th and then recuse,

(there really is no good excuse)

I’d rather stay outside and play…

…  I’m sorry I was late today

© Ginny Brannan 2019

From a suggested prompt from a previous year for NaPoWriMo: to write an apology. The format is called a Quatern.

...But First, Coffee

The yard calls to me…

“You need to finish raking!” it says.

There is a sink full of dirty dishes—

like magic they’ve appeared overnight.

Am pretty sure they belong to the two trolls

that live in our basement—

the “mole people,” as we fondly call them:

working nights, they come up from the depths,

blinking sleep-filled eyes against the light of day.

Two loads of wash sit sorted in the corner ready to go

  and I don’t yet know what I’m making for supper.

Psyching myself to take on the world

        …but first, coffee!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Circlin' the Drain

We don’t know when we’ll pay our dues

but we all have to check out sometime.

Death is a fact of life,

and these eyes have seen too many

'facts' already for this lifetime.

At what point is enough enough?

How many more circles ‘round the sun are left?

I guess that’s between the good Lord and me,

or perhaps the devil on any given day.

I’m still here, and until I start ‘circling the drain’

I’m not plannin’ on goin’ anywhere too soon.

Hear that, ya vultures?

Hopin’ my next home likes ‘em sassy, ‘cuz I aint ‘bout to change now!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Checked out the Day 8 Challenge for NaPoWriMo that suggested using a slang term as metaphor from one of several professions. I chose my “profession”  sort of loosely, (medical as I am support staff for skilled nursing) and the slang term “CTD”  “circling the drain”, a ‘metaphor’ for actively dying. It works.

Image: Pinta Dora

Hello, Cutie!

I hear the squeak of the chair 

   as he enters my office—

“Hello,Cutie! Can I have a coffee?”

His smile is infectious!

Some days, he reminisces.

Most days, he is focused on his coffee,

...and sometimes, the person behind it.

Kindness truly is the “universal” language…

and those smiles—both given and received—

          the best reward!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

One of my tasks at work is to serve coffee to those who ask. We used to have it out for folks to help themselves, but for safety reasons it has to be served now. "Barista" is my new middle name! (Or "Cutie." I'll answer to that too!)

Carefully tiptoeing HIPAA guidelines here: No name, no age, or identifying markers.

Second Chances

I was the quiet one, the odd one,

the one that you whispered about in the hall...

How many times a day did you walk by me?

How many times a day did you remind me? 

Still, we were friends once, for a minute.

You were the social climber,

busy collecting new friends.

I was the one with no social graces;

never knowing exactly what to say

so never saying anything.

Some hurts are easier to let go of than others,

       and some, not so much...

  

Funny, isn’t it, how time becomes the great equalizer—

It's taught me that we are all less-than-perfect,

that we’ve all been through stuff,

and that it’s okay to let our sleeping pasts lie.

Besides, I'm liking you so much better the second time around!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Between the Darkness and the Light

Hope" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all"

                 Emily Dickinson

    * * * * * * * * * * * * 

It matters little who we have
we face the darkness on our own;

though well-intentioned offer help

deep inside we stand alone.

We reach for lifelines out of grasp

while seconds float away, unmeasured;

till finally we face our foe.

Courage comes when all is lost—

on tattered wings fly hidden treasure:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

So we adapt as life evolves

and often we must start again,

set a course in new direction—

make conscious choice to sink or swim.

Through each trial a lesson learned

yet there’s so little we control--

still we search to find completeness,

even as the songbird seeks

the melody that makes it whole;

one that perches in the soul.

Ever striving for perfection

as indecisive egos fail;

hitting road blocks without signs,

emotions cloaked behind gray veil.

Where’s the person we once knew?

Suddenly the lines are blurred—
we barely recognize ourselves,

and friends—they see a ‘mournful’ dove

the humblest of all the birds—

that sings the song without words

This tune should be familiar now

we hear it echo through the night,

as we balance on that brink

between the darkness and the light.

Determined now, we seek the dawn

while guided by that lone bird’s call

the path grows clearer with each step

and ever forward, we trek on

and "hope” survives despite each fall

and never stops at all

© Ginny Brannan 

Started in 2013, One of two Glosa's using lines from "Hope" by Emily Dickinson.
There are several slant rhymes sprinkled throughout this, I think Miss Em would approve!

First share here for April NaPoWriMo 2019

The first Glosa to use these lines, shared in 2013: "Finding The Melody"

Before the Fall...

I remember the warmth of an April morn…

the songbirds singing before the dawn,

the mourning dove with her call forlorn;

the gathering clouds before the storm.

I still feel the sway of a summer breeze…

the breath of God blowing through the trees;

the sound of His whisper inside the leaves

and come the evening, a cool reprieve.

Can still smell the scent of an autumn day

the dry fallen leaves turning to decay

with deep earthen smells of soil and clay

and nature’s full pallet on display.

Last to arrive came the ice and snow,

the garden, now frozen, down below

wood smoke arising from fire’s glow

the world spread before us in white tableau.

I still remember all of these things:

how far we’d come before the fall,

so little of that time remains…

 We never really had a plan.

Now dust storms howl over barren plains

while all things precious turn to rust—

so too, this world returns to dust…

 thus dies the golden age of man.

© Ginny Brannan 2019