Vultures

 

To be scrutinized for what we say

—was what was said what we intended?

And was it really conscious choice,

or just something you invented?

It’s strange, those ready to believe

the worst in one who gives their best.

Perhaps this life is just a test.

And if a test, I doubt we’ll pass.

When our judgment comes at last 

and we sit before the throne

will we be judged by who we are

and all the good that we intoned?

Or by misspoken word or line

that followed us through space and time

as vultures that we’ve never met

sit inside their cozy homes

and through their window screens attempt

to cast their multitude of stones

and shatter lives they’ve never known.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Sisyphus

 

Who knew how steep the path would be?

How every step exacts a cost?

I’ll not solicit sympathy

for we each carry our own loss.

 

Like Sisyphus we climb that hill

along a slow and winding path;

the boulder rolls before us still

cruel penance from a god who laughs.

 

So accustomed we’ve become

of so much loss, so little gained…

our limbs grow tired, our body numb

while acclimating to the pain.

 

We cannot dwell on might-have-beens

in lieu of all we’ve known and seen;

the hour grows late still we contend

the endless torment of this dream.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

First Light

Castings of white in the early morn ­

soft blanket of frost upon the grass;

it coats the barren sleeping oak,

the maple and the evergreens—

what, pray tell, has come to pass?

The fairies and woodland sprites

have enlisted the north wind to their aid

and in the sleepy, predawn light

we are greeted by this sight

woven throughout a winter’s night.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

A Bit of Spackle and Some Glue...

 

I can’t tell you how it will happen

the moment the light fades

and the darkness swallows  you,

of the crushing weight of just trying to catch your breath

I can’t tell you of the days that follow

one bleeding into another, running on autopilot

the fog of just getting through them.

And the rain that appears, unannounced,

falling whether we want it or not.

Milestones are the hardest,

every Monday, every 7^th,  every holiday.

“Keep your mind busy, it’ll get better”

the lie you tell yourself because you can’t imagine 

that this could be all that is left.

I can’t tell you when it changes;

when the boulder you carry 

becomes lighter, less noticeable, or when 

you can finally whisper the memories

and feel only their warmth, not overwhelming

regret for all that could have been.

I can’t tell you when the shadows will recede

or when the light will finally crack through the darkness

reflecting back the happiness you still ferry;

never actually gone, just lost for a while.

Time doesn’t heal all of our wounds

but it teaches us how to live with them.

We draw strength from all that we’ve been through

and all that that has brought us to this point.

Love comes in many forms,

and it is the love

that gets us through

that gets us past

and finally heals us.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Choices

 

I was raised a good girl, to toe the church’s line

with a God who sat in judgment, who read our hearts and minds;

who sent His son to guide us, to show a better way:

leading by example He held the people sway.

With faith in Him the blind man was healed to see again

the hungry and the thirsty found shelter from their pain.

The only time He angered was at the temple gates

at the merchants and the profiteers with gold upon their plates.

The hypocrites will tell you that they believe in God

while holding up a bible as proof that they weren’t bought.

They’ll tout themselves as Christians, and while they have your ear

they’ll bastardize the scriptures like God has sent them here.

I believe that we are here to help the marginalized

to speak for those who cannot speak, whom others criticize;

to balance words with actions, to temper our replies

ever wary of the wolves who wear a sheep’s disguise.

The scales of power and justice rarely balance out

it’s hard to compromise as the other side refutes,

it’s hard to put ourselves in someone else’s shoes

but if we cannot do this then everyone will lose.

 

You stand upon your pulpit and dictate your beliefs,

while narrowing our choices pretending you’re aggrieved;

You want to keep the destitute underneath your thumb;

and hammer us with hate and lies until we’re feeling numb

eroding all we know as truth somewhere deep inside

leveling our souls to try to make us compromise.

 The woman at the checkout is not some Welfare queen,

the homeless man down on his luck can get back up again.

The elderly, dependant on the benefits they’ve earned,

live in fear of finding out the laws are overturned.

The 10 year old who’s pregnant, a baby still herself,

is left without a choice of where to go for help

And uprooting the immigrants, while thinking you are clever–

only proves how black the hearts intent on this endeavor.

And that is why I penned this poem, to call out and remind

take to the polls November, so much is on the line.

© GB 2022

The news is filled with conflicting information, and he said, she saids. We all make our choices, I hope my own are rooted in science, common sense and decency, though some may dispute that.  I don't care, for they are my choices! I have attached links back to news articles including a local shelter who helps the homeless get back on their feet. There will be much back and forth between politicians who want your vote. Vote your heart, and let your voice be heard!

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.