Fade to Black

 

She stares out of her window at the dust out in the street

traffic backed to corner, the drivers rally to compete,

and she dreams of being elsewhere, away from all this pain

of dancing ‘cross the rooftops as the daylight wanes,

and watching stars pop one by one, lanterns in the sky

she ponders of the life she’s had and all that it implied,

To her, death is quite romantic, fade gently into black

surrender to the calling, no regrets to retract.

So when the reaper comes for her,  she will not ask him why

just nod with her acceptance, and whisper her reply

surrendering to darkness, she’ll sail out past the moon

just another shining light to leave the world too soon.

©Ginny Brannan 2022

Written from a Prompt seen on  D'Verse Poetry under the guidance of Bjorn Brudberg  the prompt exploring Beat Poetry and particularly the lyrics of Bob Dylan. The challenge to write and use this particular line from Desolation Row from Dylan's 1965 record "Highway 61 Revisited:

"To her death is quite romantic"

I'm not good at prose, so I wrote this instead.

For One I called "Friend"...

Upon a spinning top we sit

caught up in our limitations

making sure our needs are met.

The days and years go rolling past

with little thought of time and tide;

always thinking there will be

another chance to say “hello”

to gather the periphery

and spend some time with those we know.

And so it is, and so it goes

till one’s called to another realm.

I see the old friend that I knew

in the light of who you were

youthful, teasing, schoolmate, chum

family man, who you became

excerpts shared upon the pages

interwoven through our lives.

I always waited for the joke

running through the words we shared

more oft than not a bit of snark—

somewhere in our conversation

a smile, the tease in your remark!

And so it was with you and me

and that’s how I’ll remember you

etched upon the times we shared

as we await new rendezvous

in the place where old friends meet,

in the place where laughter reigns

and all who were a part of us

still exist and still remain,

I believe we'll meet again

 

© GB 2022

For David Paine

Friend. Family.

A Fool's Lament

 

I wait for a day without anger and hate

no reckless remarks filled with venom and vile

from impotent men with a need to berate.

feeding some need to debase and defile.

We are defined by the words we have spoken

yet no one’s committed to fix what is broken.

Perhaps we are testing, awaiting our score,

to see how much discourse that we can endure.

There’s no compromise when deceit is abundant

as “normalcy” cedes to different incumbent.

Since when does America bow to sedition,

and what happened to keeping oaths that are pledged?

Forgiveness not found in some act of contrition,

where facts take a backseat to what is alleged.

We walk on a treadmill of misinformation

used to propagate bias and discrimination.

our proof to the contrary risks being maligned

but refraining from doing so just countermines.

So bury your head in the sand if you want to,

swallow the bait being used as a lure

follow the lies in the feed and the fodder

refrain from the data you choose to ignore.

Those who have known you now ask who you are

and you can't even see that you’ve gone too far.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Time and Tide

Unpretentiously, she enters a room

eyes no longer lift to acknowledge her 

there is no effecting command,

no second glance warranted.

Time takes who we were,

until those we know

no longer recognize us .

Yet inside, we do not change.

Hope is but a chimera perceived by those 

who’ve bought into the illusion.

There was always a ready smile behind the mask,

and eyes that danced in the place where the crickets still sing,

yet now she’s seen akin to the years she carries...

the clock ever ticking,  minutes, hours

days, years—ever forward.

She tiptoes in the sand and wonders 

if there really is some master plan.

She waits for time to pass, 

for change at last, for a stir in the wind…

 

where do we end and someone else begins?

where do we go when we close our eyes?

who do we become when who we’ve been disappears?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Safe Harbor

 

In the quiet calm I meditate

emotion held in momentary pause,

a temporary channel to escape;

yet lure of such is just ill-fated ruse

All the fantasies I’ve entertained

are locked inside a box without a key

I’ve nothing left to lose, but what’s to gain,

here beyond, where everything’s a dream.

The melody that weaves throughout our days

collides with cacophony from within;

I miss the song that blew in from the sea

the one that knows secrets that I hold

mindful where I’ve come from, who I am

yet always whispers “You are safe with me.” 

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Image: C. Parant Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed permission.

Tangled in the Rigging

 

 

“Don’t make waves” he’d always say, “Don’t rock the boat”…

 

We all make choices based on our beliefs

unveiling truth that’s hidden in the lies

study words, weighing what we know;

while wading through hypocrisy, deceit

in constant cycle: wash, rinse, and repeat.

And in due time, I’ve come to surmise

that neither ever will see eye to eye,

both of us trapped in the ropes and rigging,

of rehearsed rhetoric and politicking.

Until the hull is breached down to the core

we’re doomed to stay entrenched on different shores

and I will never swallow bait and lure;

so keep your fiction; I’ll take metaphor.

Ginny Brannan 2022

Imperfectly Perfect...

 

Artwork: Cesar Biojol

I like people who aren’t perfect–

the ones with scars and crooked smiles,

the ones with messy homes and messy lives;

the ones that have felt anger and pain

yet did not give up their souls,

the ones that so many would dismiss as ‘different.’

We are all flesh and blood. We are all finite.

We live, we work, we grieve, we love;

we breathe as one inside this fragile dome...

 

Hate holds no place here.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022