Life in Metaphor

 

Along the road past open fields

and pale grey trees wrapped in snowy shawls,

we converse about the current

and reminisce of memories past.

Our voices rise and ebb—

caught up in the moment, 

comfortable in the silences

in time spent together.

Even now I am still amazed at how

we see things through the other’s eyes.

A dark line captures our attention.

You comment how it looks like a “black satin ribbon”

in stark contrast to the winter white.

We watch as it weaves to and fro, 

at once close to the road, 

then disappearing into the tree line

to reappear further down the lane.

We are captured by its tenacity:

that despite the odds to impede it,

to slow it down, to freeze it in place,

it still moves forward.

 

Life lessons on a winter’s day.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

 

Heartwood

I remember how you looked at me, eyes bright, dancing. Unseasoned, 

we navigated the newness of each other…likes, dislikes, discovering 

that our threads were more common than different. How fast 

the course when you are comfortable in your own skin, 

how fleeting the years when time matters not, just who you are with. 

  And just like that, forty years have passed.

Some say, “It’s a testament.” A testament to what? Longevity? Age? 

It is not hard being with you; it is a necessity, as necessary as breathing itself.  

We are akin to a tree, the seeds of which were planted in the first words 

we spoke to each other. Our roots grew from the smiles, the laughter; 

the common base of our ideals and shared beliefs.  We grew as one 

in strength through our love and convictions. Our limbs stretched 

to embrace our friends and family; who in turn have given their light to nourish 

us. And perhaps one day we will provide the pages for our son; and the seeds

for all who come after, the stories yet to be written.

 

You are my heartwood, my strength; the sap inside my veins;

and I, I am exactly where I’m meant to be.  

Time ceases to exist, everything else eclipsed

  till only love remains.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Good Trouble

 

 

Is it the songs of the ancients, the words of the prophets

the echoes of angels that sound in our heads?

Or perhaps it’s a whisper, the tone of our own voice

the cry of our own thoughts that we hear instead.

Yet where does it rise from, this new intonation

as we meditate on just how far we’ve come:

the escape from repression, affirmation of valor

a reclamation of spirit; what we’ve overcome.

Unless you’ve known pain, then peace has no meaning.

Without all the trials, there’s no victory.

We open this page to newfound validation;

and thus reaffirming, we’ll write history.

 

A song or a whisper, change begins slowly,

we are the builders, we carry the stones.

We rise from the ashes, creating new bridges:

with faith and forbearance, unrattled persistence,

and righteous resistance, we’re never alone.

  

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Wayposts

I am the quiet one

the one who hid in the background

who didn’t make waves.

I am the socially awkward one

who never got asked to dance

and hung my hopes on “perhaps someday…”

I am the one who envied

all who were not me

imagining the wonderful homes they came from

longing for their social life

–imagining I was anyone but who I was.

I am the one who learned through experience

how to stand on my own two feet

because at least I knew I could always depend on "me."

I am the one who found my voice

and who will never hide in the corner again.

They say we are "not given more than we can handle."

I say, “Yes, we are” but it’s in the handling that we either break

learn how strong we can be.

Some may still remember that awkward kid

—I  haven’t been her since I was 16.

There is no going back, only forward, we either sink or swim…

I choose to swim.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

The Reign of the 'Baffle King"

 

The change began slowly as things often do

we tuned out the missteps and hoped for the best

 we watched the attacks when the press shared their stories

most of us hoping he’d give it a rest.

But he pedaled his thoughts and his misinformation

—If you say it enough times then it must be true—

his people believed and thought him their savior,

taking all at face value without a review.

And then the vote came, the people had spoken:

they’d seen through his lies, enough was enough,

though the margin was wide, his reign finally broken,

he’d never concede, he’d rebuke and rebuff.

And so comes this time in this great nation’s trials

where a leader spews racism, division, and lies,

never yielding to go ‘gently into that good night’

there’d be no transition and no compromise.

How many bought into his tales and his falsehoods

distortions, dishonesty that changed by the hour

his tainted relationships with all of our allies

the forging of friendships with communist powers?

There was truth to be found in his constant barrages

examine the wording, what’s being said—

more often than not the ones he’s accusing

were being accused of what he’s done instead.

And now an attack on the seat of our nation

enablers empowered by discourse and hate

and he sits alone in his ivory tower

a byline in history, he can’t see his fate.

We mustn’t forget how this all came to pass

our guilt notwithstanding, it’s something we own

unless and until recognition’s forthcoming

all of us liable for the silence we’ve shown.

And those we’ve elected seem no better for it

“Hands tied, “ they have said, there is “naught to be done.”

as we watch in horror and shock at the havoc

the blame is all ours, and none of us won.

I wonder how long it will take to deprogram?

How many years, how much discipline?

His reign has revealed that we’re broken and hurting

that bigotry, bias lies just ‘neath the skin.

Denial won’t heal all the wounds of this country,

there’s work to be done, four years to rescind

and we must admit that we too are complicit

before we can ever move forward again.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

 

 

Solstice at Newgrange

 

Through the miracle of technology

I watch the shaft of light enter the tomb

some three-thousand miles from my home.

How did the ancients build this wonder?

It gives me pause on this darkest day of the year—

  this reminder to celebrate the sunrise

  to find the bright spot in the darkness.

It speaks to my latent sensibilities

for even as the light fades from the tomb

our days grow longer.

Sunlight and shadows, light and dark;

around us…within us… inherent to us all. 

Old to new, passing down through the ages—

that we can still find hope for the living

   in this tomb for the dead.

© Ginny Brannan 2020

In the Wind

 

A wild wind blows on the hill

to fell the leaves still clinging on

it chases them across the road

and leaves them scattered on the lawn

We are like the fallen leaf

chastened by a feral wind:

spun by gales in tempests tossed

no symmetry, undisciplined.

A voice emerges from the past

it echoes through the barren tree

calling out through rasping gale

to such unworthy progeny.

Yet heartened by this song I hear,

held captive in this solitude;

in its chords my fears are quelled

all stress and pain have been subdued.

I mourn the days of youth, misspent

but in the years that have ensued

there’s not a thing that I’d repent

the cherished friends that I’ve accrued

 

…a wild wind blows upon the hill

    and in its voice I hear you still.

© Ginny Brannan

Image by Charlie Parant at Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed written permission. Thanks, Charlie.