Saturday, June 6, 2015

Searching for the Silver Lining


The minutes have turned to hours…
days slowly stretch into weeks—
a storm rolled in and took you down
            for a moment, thought you drowned
…still you 'stood' upon storm’s retreat.

Helpless, we watched the skies darken.
Unknowing, observed the clouds swarm.
Without any warning
            the red haze was forming
too quickly to steer from its harm.

How long till the lightening passes,
to assess all the damage that’s done?
Through the wind and the rain
            and the endless pain
we chase the elusive sun.

And I search for the “silver lining”
some sign we’ll return to the norm—
as we wait a bit longer
            while you grow stronger…

          I still cannot see past this storm.

©  Ginny Brannan 2015


Saturday, April 25, 2015

Neap Tide

Image taken by G.Brannan 2006













Somewhere …
between the here and there;
between a rock and a hard place
between midnight and four a.m.

I slip into limbo while you
balance the brink of extinction.
Tied inside this surreal reality
is a game where the winner takes all
or at least gets to walk away.
I navigate the sea of good intentions
bearing the burden of your pain…
and I lay awake at night wondering
if things might ever be ‘normal’ again


© Ginny Brannan 2015


Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Breathing Lessons

Image: galleryhip.com










I listen to the sound of your breathing,
the rhythmic sound of expansion, contraction—
and try to remember that I must breathe too.
I whisper sweet distractions in your ear
I only hope that you can hear.
Come on and fight—pull yourself free—
rise to the surface, come back to me.
I listen to the sound of your breathing
and try to remember
   that I must breathe,  too


© Ginny Brannan 2015

Tuesday, April 7, 2015

The Stray

There was a time when she ensconced
inside of youth’s naïveté…
the truth was surely understood—
she ultimately knew the cost,
but she stood strong—ignored the loss.

In her head she chose to see
her life as no one ever would;
she would not be classified
as someone without family
nor circumscribed by childhood.

A family may take many forms,
and blood does not a kinship make:
accepting who a person is—
with love and warmth that isn’t faked,
forms bond that will not break

She showed up at their door one day
never seeking out their help
They spoke awhile among themselves,
and like some lost or homeless stray
they invited her to stay.


© Ginny Brannan 2015

Friday, April 3, 2015

April Showers

Image by R.A.D. Stainforth

















We step out softly to the night
our footfalls sharp upon the stone
the dampness chills us to the bone
we turn our collars to the bite.

Our voices break against the drone
of rhythmic rainfalls' steady beat,
we sidestep puddles in the street
while slowly making way through town.

Felt on the breeze, a tease of warmth
we hope will loosen winter’s grasp,
it calls the colors to unmask…
for in the showers, spring is born.

And walking village streets in rain,
we embrace the season’s change.

 ©  Ginny Brannan 2015

Sharing for Magpie Tales #263. Image provided by Tess Kincaid.

Saturday, March 28, 2015

The Key


http://globe-views.com/dreams/piano.html


She floats her way through shadowed halls...
as thought escapes from its confines,
an image of a younger self
so long ago—she can’t recall—
absorbs once more into her mind.

Her later years have not been kind;
perception fades into a fugue;
old names and faces cast a blur
and all the memories left behind
have slipped away, eluding her.

But still she finds familiar route
to afternoon’s sweet interlude:
pale parchment hands touch ivory
and without pause or moment’s doubt
she reaches out to find the key.

A moment later song concludes—
in haste, the memory disembarks;
she fades again behind the veil…
   locked away in solitude
   this aging soul with body frail.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Amazing how the mind works: because music is stored in a different part of the brain, someone who has dementia may still find comfort in music; the hands remember what the mind cannot. Written about a dear nonagenarian who still manages to 'tickle the ivories.'