Tuesday, April 14, 2015

Breathing Lessons

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 and 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 one for who they are—
with warmth and love 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




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.'

Monday, March 23, 2015

The Break-Up

I have lingered in this darkness much too long
waiting for the veil to lift—the sun to shine—a bright new dawn.
Aint it funny how you had your say, had your way, and then were gone…
leaving me to feel your icy bite, the endless night —as your response.


Less than taciturn, you made me ache, you made me hurt; I felt the burn;
yet in that moment you adjourned, I concede—a lesson learned.
I look out to see the dawn has come and I confirm, the tide has turned.
as I watch the darkness dissipate I anticipate that life returns...

I have survived to face another day without your sway...you were so wrong.

© Ginny Brannan 2015


Image: C. Parant Appetite for Photos, used with expressed permission















In this piece I have personified winter, which just doesn’t want to go away. Like a bad relationship, I am so over it! This is set to a song I've had in my head for days, an instrumental piece with horns and a sort of Spanish rhythm. Can't place the song, but this is set to that rhythm. Still editing.

Sunday, March 15, 2015

Where my heart lies...

Ireland I am coming home
I can see your rolling fields of green
And fences made of stone
             ~ Garth Brooks 

Petergate, with a view of York Minster, York, UK photo by Tess Kincaid

Unknown…yet familiar,
we walked the cobblestone streets—
jaws dropped agape into
“Pinch me, am I really here?”
position

Were we actually on foreign soil,
or had we finally found our way
‘home’

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Photo: G.Brannan, Kilkenny, Ireland 2006












Photo: G.Brannan, Galway, Ireland 2003













Written for Magpie Tales #261, inspired by Image taken by Tess Kincaid.
           She provides the image, we the story!

Tuesday, March 10, 2015

The Arrival













Winter’s lingered much too long
a most unwelcomed guest—
we’ve tried to hurry him along
without too much success.

But almost imperceptibly
a change looms in the air,
and if we take a moment’s pause
we may just feel it there.

Pale gray secedes to bright blue skies
—a tease of warmth and sun—
the birds return to build their nests,
the longer days have come.

The swollen brooks have breached their banks,
the snowdrifts disappear—
we shed our coats for lighter wear…
yes, Spring is finally here!


© Ginny Brannan 2015


Image by C. Parant at
Used with expressed permission.