Spring Rituals

 

Determinedly it shows up every year

when the snows have finally melted

and Spring finally shows her face

and brings with her the rhubarb 

that was planted long ago.

I never sought to grow it, find it bitter to the taste

unless it’s mixed with strawberries and sugar

in a jam or pastry dough. 

I often share with neighbors so it doesn’t go to waste.

But there’s still another reason why it still has its place–

this bitter medicinal herb that was valued long ago...

I remember when you planted it, the look upon your face

when the warm days had arrived  

before you had to go.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

NaPoWriMo #17 The prompt: Today’s challenge asks you to write a poem that contains the name of a specific variety of edible plant – preferably one that grows in your area. In the poem, try to make a specific comparison between some aspect of the plant’s lifespan and your own – or the life of someone close to you. Also, include at least one repeating phrase.

It Wasn't What We'd Planned...

 

You took no notice of me when I met you

I don't recall how you wore your hair

nor that neither of us heard the others; 

voices mute as if they were not there.

  

I took no notice of our conversation

(or that your eyes were the deepest of blue)

nor if I’d shared a very good impression

left to be mulled over by you.

 

Don't know if you felt a connection

or were there to escape the mundane;

if you’d run away after reflection,

or would we see each other again?

Nor how we'd each pay for this interaction.

one of us must be insane.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

Unmasked

 

I saw you as someone who could always do 

almost anything that you had a mind to.

Everything came easy as if on a silver platter...

and I always felt 'deficient,' not that it matters.

It’s funny how distracted we are caught, up in illusion

how good fortune in others causes distrust;

caught up in the struggles that shape our conclusion

that life is much easier for anyone but us.

We don’t see the worries that someone else carries,

that none are exempt from the thunder and rain

nor how their aloofness, their absence of worry

is worn to disguise deeper sadness or pain.

In a moment of doubt when the mask slips away,

and we finally realize we’ve been duped­­–

and just for an instant see their pain on display:

–how hard it must that they can’t share their truth.

And it finally hits home how much we’re the same

that we couldn’t see it, perhaps more the shame.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

At What Price?

 

Can you feel the thunder

as it echoes through the valley?

Did you see the sky flash

from the latest storm?

Can you sense the danger

sneaking up beside you?

Just another shooter 

bent on doing harm.

 

Did you feel the shudder

from the latest volley?

Did you hear the screams,

see how the children ran?

Did the guards rush on in,

did they dare to face the bullets,

to stand between the unarmed

and the angry gunman?

 

Once more we hear the thunder

as it echoes through the valley

we watch another shooter

cut short a dozen lives–

See how the owners lobby

for their right to carry...

How many of our children

will have to pay the price?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Lessons from 'The Doctor'

"Never be cruel

never be cowardly

and never, ever eat pears!

Hate is always foolish,

love is always wise.

Always try to be nice,

but never fail to be kind.

Laugh hard.

Run fast.

Be kind."

      —The 12th Doctor

 

I  will not grow old and bitter,

I will watch the words I choose.

I’ll build a wall around my heart

to try and save from being bruised.

I’ll not give up, I won’t succumb,

and never lose my empathy.

I’ll not cede into dark despair

nor reach the point where I don’t care.

 

I will not grow old and bitter,

—I say without apology!

I’ll keep an open mind to change

embrace new ideology.

We’re all different, yet the same

I  accept each as they are,

my strength and my resolve remain

for nothing that we do’s in vain.

 

I will not grow old and bitter,

I’m not here to criticize.

I will walk along beside you

and won’t insult or patronize...

I’ll call out all who speak in anger

and every hate-filled, knee-jerk spew.

No, I will not grow old and bitter

and maybe, someday, all will see 

that each of us has higher purpose

it all comes down to you and me.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

 

Note to Self

 

Note to self: on composing a sonnet­–

a poem that’s written in fourteen lines

in a form that’s considered quite iconic

where the style of sonnet sets the rhyme.

Old Bill was a famous sonnet writer,

so were Wordsworth, Keats and Browning too.

And me? I’m just an impersonator,

often misunderstood and misconstrued.

O, that I might create you a love song

in the style that the classic poets use­!

Composed with angst and deep-set longing—

Would you be befuddled? Or just amused?

Alas, such style of writing doth elude me...

 And so I shall abscond, and leave it be.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

So many types of sonnets, so little time!

This is created in style of an English sonnet: abab cdcd efef gg.

*Image: Oil Painting: "Romeo and Juliet" Frank Bernard Dicksee 1884

 

Star-Crossed

You were

the summer rain,

the moon in the night sky

the brightest star that I could see...

and I,

the darkness of a cloudy night

I knew we wouldn’t be.

'Twas you who left

not me.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

Attempting my first Cinquain. I thought I'd written one before, but if I had, I never labeled it. There are several styles. This is a nine line Cinquain with a syllabic count as follows: 2,4,6,8,2,8,6,4,2.