Con Artist

To admit I was a con artist

might take some by surprise

“Who’d’ve  thought that she could write?”

I  imagine the look in their eyes.

And with that look they shake their heads

admitting they’d had their suspicions;

some saw through me so long ago

‘the odd girl with strange ambitions.’

But I’m no writer, I just pretend

as I work into the night

a new idea has struck again,

if I’m lucky the words fall right.

Yes, I’m truly just a poser of  sorts

I run a con with my words

while some may deem me brilliant

the rest think I’m absurd!

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Shoring Up Liberty

Havoc reeks against these shores—

so many want to tear us down,

to break our spirit, see us drown.

But freedom screams within our hearts,

her spark still burns deep in our soul

to lift us up and make us whole..

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Withdrawn

You were always here,

 like background noise...

a thread that ran through my life

almost as long as I have memory.

While some friends

 fall by the wayside

—you never fell.

I thought you’d stay forever.

I reach through the airwaves

to feel you, and all is silent

where you once stood.

I will miss your laughter

   most of all...

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Wherever Path May Lead

Hills and valley lay before us

stretched behind, it’s much the same,

not quite seeing past the next rise

only know the trail we came.

Thunderheads eclipse the sunshine

shadows race the valley floor,

blissful hours yield to darkness,

trust the light to shine once more.

Shall we wander through that gate,

observe the view with our own eyes?

The unknown pathway begs to follow,

perhaps this journey is our prize.

The heavy clouds from passing storm

    cede the dark to golden morn.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Friday Morning with Miss Em

I stopped today to say hello

and though I knew that you were gone,

I lingered by the empty drive

and strolled a moment on your lawn.

I wondered how it was back then

when horse drawn buggy was the mode

of transportation for these parts,

as cars align this busy road.

Did you find contentment here,

 was it a prison or retreat?

Perhaps that’s why the writing came,

the words you penned made you complete.

Oh, would that I could speak with you!

Would conversation be in vain?

To understand this world you knew

where women had to show restraint.

You laid the stonework, paved the way

for others who would deem to write.

I hear your words inside my head

while I walk this revered site

The time has come for me to leave,

I bid adieu, Miss Emily;

for all the writers that I know,
I thank you for your poetry.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Image by author: Emily Dickinson home, Amherst, MA

One Thread, Two Views

Life and death are one thread, the same line viewed from different sides.

                                                                           Lao Tzu

We are kindred spirits, you and I,

old souls birthed anew.

We each carry broken shards

of past lives inside of us;

yours, tangible… viable…

mine, spiritual…ethereal…

Each breath we breathe is a priceless gift;

each wound and scar, a reminder

of those who gave us continuity

whom we carry now and forever in perpetuity.

It is not ours to squander what is given

but to honor the giver.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

The Time Thief

There’s this man I’ve come to know

he stops each day to say hello

he stays for just a little while

with gentle voice and ready smile.

The Time Thief’s taken quite a lot

so many things now he’s forgot;

and though he still recalls the past

he isn’t sure what he did last.

His lovely wife arrived here first

and he, for better or for worse

came to join her, followed suit—

unhappy, yes,  but resolute.

 He struggles now to understand

this place he’d never thought he’d land.

His voice grows quiet, fades away…

forgetting what he wants to say.

a shadow furrows his thin brow,

then he returns to here and now.

He smiles, then he says “goodbye”

and turns to leave without reply.

The Time Thief watches from the wings,

knowing that he pulls the strings.

He lies in wait to take away

all that we would do or say.

He scrambles thoughts and spits them out

and he is, without a doubt,

the worst threat to the elderly

…unable to just let them be.

Yet for moment on this day,

we held the evil thief at bay.

© Ginny Brannan 2018