Saturday, February 28, 2015

This Cynical Heart

Imagine a place with no pain existing,
where ills that are carried through life disappear.
Like Thomas, this heart is quite bent on resisting,
yet lingering questions insist on persisting;
their answers illusive and ever unclear.

And still I am finding my mind keeps returning
whenever the stillness and quiet appears.
I ponder the purpose of life, disillusioned—
the darkness that settles with no set conclusion;
for ages I've tarried, alone and austere.

I wonder how long I've withdrawn in seclusion,
closed off from emotion, my goals cast unclear—
Where cynical thoughts thrive without absolution,
despondent, in need of insightful intrusion…
does anyone notice behind this veneer?

In my heart I envision a child that’s running
and playing with others, no longer constrained—
surrounded by light of the love that he carries,
his purpose fulfilled, this small emissary
reminds us “Be happy, we'll meet once again.”

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Sharing at dVerse Poets Pub February 2015 OLN. Come celebrate the changing of the guard! Brian & Claudia, we are indebted to you both more than we can express—many thanks to both for all you have done, and for all of your support to the writers that share here. And all the best to both the old and new pub-tenders!

Thursday, February 26, 2015

Time’s measured in a thin line on a cat’s back...

From the moment we are born we begin to die…’
 I no longer wonder what these words mean.

Aging is subtle and barely perceptible at first—
the skin etches one molecule at a time
& the cracks in our mask move with us
keeping illusions complete.
and time stretches seemingly forever before us—
    “Carpe Diem—seize the day.”
The days turn into years, the first gray hair appears
and the smile lines etch ever deeper,
    (not wrinkles, not I)
and I wonder “Where did time go?”
  I need no reminder

  the cost
no reminder how fleeting life is.

So, like the cat stretched & purring beside me
I immerse in the moment
For much too soon…
 … tick //TocK//tick
&time stands still

© Ginny Brannan 2015 (with Brian Miller & Claudia Schoenfeld

Written for D'Verse: Pick a Line

Sorry Claudia & Brian, you both had such great lines I couldn't choose, so I used two from each. (Lines borrowed in italics, Brian/light gray, Claudia title and lavender) Having just passed another mile-marker on this road of life, and still being in that melancholy mood of contemplation that follows this event, this was not difficult to write. Thanks for the inspiration!

Wednesday, February 25, 2015


I hear your frozen words upon the wind
no doubt of the intent by their inflection;
like drifting snow, they sting and burn the skin
and often mid-discourse they change direction.
When did the icing of your heart begin?
No longer feel the warmth of this connection.
We rally for the masses once again
such perfect players living this deception.
The bitterness we carry is a sin;
I try, but never promised you perfection.
One biting phrase from you and it begins—
I set my stance to stave for the deflection.
Why do we keep on doing what we do…
   unwilling to admit that we are through.

© Ginny Brannan

Monday, February 2, 2015

Hanna’s Story: When Two Hearts Beat as One…

Inside this hellish limbo
the moments slip away
yet time drags on forever…
What god would take this boy,
this child from his mother?
Ambivalent, I pray…
and yet we know the answer—
our lives in disarray…

A cruel joke revealed:
this illness like no other—
white matter disappears.
Forever how we searched…
the answer so elusive;
each test inconclusive.
Now finally we know—
too soon we’ll see you go.

We chose your lot today
for when, at last, you sleep.
Until that moment comes,
will hold you in my arms.
Can barely feel a pulse
and yet I feel your warmth.
How can I say good-bye?
You will not see me weep
though deep inside I cry…

I haven’t slept in days
how can I rest these eyes?
…each moment left, a gift…
All I want is peace,
to ease away your pain—
perhaps a brief reprieve
from moment preordained…

                  then, when my time is through
                  I’ll beat a path to you…
                  and hold you once again.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

The image shared is of my two young cousins, Hanna and her son Cole. When Cole was born, his mother never realized the journey her life would take. Told at birth he was "normal," she would never hear those words again. Throughout his life he underwent multiple surgeries for hearing, eyesight, feeding, seizures. They travelled to Boston, Chicago, the National Institute of Health in Maryland  looking for answers. In early December an answer finally came—Cole was diagnosed with "Vanishing White Matter Syndrome." There is no cure, and very little time left for this precious 6 year old. Hanna is strong, she's had to be, yet no mother should have to bear the loss of their child. 
Written in first person, Hanna's voice.
In loving memory of Cole Michael Rapini, 2008 — 2/06/2015 

Saturday, January 31, 2015

On Silver Fields

I long to walk the silver fields
under half-cast haloed light:
the chilled night air calls out to see
such wonders that may be revealed
unto this stagnant, indoor sight.

I step into the waiting night,
my footfall bold on crusted snow;
aberrant sound disturbs the air
as prints emboss the winter white—
such foreign-size in nature’s eyes.

Along the old stonewall I go,
the winterberries almost past;
the slightest touch, the softest brush
impressed into the powdered snow
reveal where tiny birds have fed.

I cut across toward sleeping wood
to intersect another path…
the deep and cloven prints reveal
where deer have trekked in search of food—
stripped sapling bark a tasty meal.

Now turn along the sleeping brook
to hear beneath its frozen glass
the water pulsing, pushing past—
awaiting thaw, again to dash
and splash this bed from whence it births.

And there, across this barren tract
more imprints seal another tale
two long, two short; then stroke of wings
where preying owl perchance prevailed
on snowshoe hare; small life curtailed.

Upon these silver fields I’ve trailed
over shadowed tracts I’ve roamed…
I’ve read the tales the snow’s revealed—
oh, how its stories have regaled!
Now cleave to path that leads me home.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Sharing at dVerse Poet's January 2015 Open Link Night.

Inspired on the drive home last night, in part by many winter treks through our New England snow, and in part by an article recently read in Yankee Magazine "Return to Silver Fields" about author Rowland Evans Robinson, Ferrisburg, VT1833-1900; the title somewhat "borrowed"from his 'Silver Fields and Other Sketches of a Farmer-Sportsman'

Thursday, January 15, 2015

Je ne suis pas "Charlie," mais je suis avec lui…

I am not "Charlie," but I stand with him...

Global community shrinking daily,
one terrorist attack at a time. 

Fanatics will do what they do,
regardless of the provocation.

How sad the religion
whose God condones
violence, not love.

Shall we confront the camel that spits in our eye?

Neither cower….nor ridicule,
but stand firm for the truth.

Beware “ignorance” and “want,”
silent precursors of rage and contempt

“Protect and defend’
isn’t the same
as “attack and destroy.”

How can we let strangers
dictate our ‘freedoms’ from afar?

Be the cure that suffuses the veins
of rabid misunderstanding.
I am not “Charlie, but I stand with him


 © Ginny Brannan 2014

Prompted by d'Verse Poets Meeting the Bar: 10 Word Poetry. Not sure that I would call this poetry, just the musings and ravings of a rather medicated, cold-ridden writer on the world news of the past week. Much food for thought, and as you can see, my thoughts skip all over the place...

Sunday, January 11, 2015

This Winter Wood

C.Parant, Appetite for Photos Used with Permission

This tree was young once long ago…
smooth of bark and lithe of limb;
but trunk has broadened over time,
and outer skin’s defined by lines
that countless seasons have bestowed.

                  I wonder then, upon what whim
                  would someone choose to seek its form;
                  no longer green—youth’s bloom dispersed—
                  what would prompt to steal a glimpse
                  of thing so weathered and well worn?

Perchance the seeker’s misinformed:
 for often tree is just a tree.
As summer into autumn flows
the heavy frost belies the snow
and time moves on without reprieve.

                  Perhaps you’re searching for the source…
                  the roots from where the words are formed.
                  Like sap in spring, sometimes they flow;
                  more often though, the drip is slow
                  till bucket fills and poem is born.

You’ve asked to meet on middle ground,
this fledgling friendship to endorse
our known conceptions reinforce…
Yet there are others more profound
than aged timber unrenowned.

                  So I have left this bid ignored—
                  floating stagnant days on weeks…
                  and ever further from its youth
                  the timber shies, afraid in truth
                  that it is not this tree you seek.

Shall we let meeting run its course
and through rapport some kinship form?
  There’s no reward for those who stall…
Like wilted leaves on damp gray morn,
we bend toward light to be transformed.
© Ginny Brannan 2015