A New "Hope"

With each word uttered,

I watch him diminish and fade.

His voice becoming white noise

–like so many others, whose self-proclaimed

 self-importance dissipates.

Fleeting. 

A brief glimmer.  A will-o-wisp. 

A passing ghost ship in the night.

How long is hate sustainable? 

How long can all the lies be denied?

The country awakens from a deep sleep. 

Hope takes hold.

Like a train, it picks up speed. 

Like an avalanche, a force of nature

sweeping up the undecided in its path.

Incomparable. 

Unstoppable. 

Its beauty reflected in the faces of all races,

stunning to silence the hardcore racists.

Denial and dissonance no longer holding sway.

Hope.

Can you feel it?

And, more importantly,

can you believe it?

Anger holds no place here..

Bigotry holds no place here.

The orange veil has been lifted. We see the little man

behind the curtain for who he is,

All "smoke and mirrors"

There is no magic. There is no power.

We, we the people, hold the power, don’tcha know? 

It’s been inside us all along!

 © Ginny Brannan

Unfinished Pages

 

We’ve always had rapport, you and I–

a tongue-in-cheek way of coming at something,

an understanding based on similar youths 

in dissimilar settings. We seem to share so

many parallel congruities (but perhaps I project 

inside of my own wishful thinking).

Romance is alive and well in that damaged heart of yours

filled with the angst of lost love from long ago

and the dream of some connection that you hope to find.

I, too, seek connection as I read between the lines.

Yet I am pragmatic; it’s doubtful that someone like you

would ever pen a word or two with someone like me in mind.

We create our stories using subtle vagaries, 

meting out those tiny bits that we wish to share.

But somewhere in the margins

                                         or deep within the fold,

perhaps another story’s waiting to be told?

 

I have often wondered of this image that you paint

–the broken man still searching for redemption–

someone always seeking/never finding what they need,

inked in words of vagueness and ambiguity.

Is this persona that you share just some fantasy?

Has it been a lie from its inception?

Leaving me to ponder of my own uncertainty

or if there's something more in our connection?

Another blank page lying here between us–

       What shall we write?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Just another tale filled with vague references, plot holes, unrequited feelings, and no happy ending.

 

Because Sometimes

 

To put into words how we feel in a moment

is like trying to launch a balloon in the wind

to chase after something just out of reach

that dances and teases hither and there

with no malice aforethought and nary a care.

And it stirs something dormant that dwells deep inside

where rebellion and wisdom and passion reside.

Yet we're loath to let go of this image we’ve fostered

nor let someone see us, naked and bare

so we hide in the clutter of daily achievements

lest someone discover the truth hidden there.

And the path that we walk is all littered with trifles

subconscious  rejections: a fence if you will—

to keep heart protected from meaningless prattle,

locked in the past with time standing still.

Sometimes I sift through the words that you’ve written

–your subtle seductions with ink and a quill–

for the slightest inflection that intimates more

coded inside a well-thought metaphor...

So write of your darkness, the weight on your shoulders

of  light that you search for, of love you have lost;

each of us bears up the best that we can

life is unkind and we both know the cost

The cravings we carry aren’t quilled in just words

but are quickly dismissed by scars we’ve incurred

and neither sees past all the forks and the turns,

to surrender to risk, just to be burned.

So we ever politely forego and abstain

lest we sully this pretense that we have retained.

© Ginny Brannan 2024

 

A Lot Like Fear

 

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

  — C.S. Lewis

 

Grief is like being a dark tunnel, the light so far away

that you don’t know if you will ever reach it again...

Each ‘sorry’ echoes and amplifies in your head.

constant reminders of that loss,

—as if you need a reminder—

There are physical manifestations: 

a weight in the shoulders, a knot in the neck, tightness in the chest. 

You scuff and shuffle along,  going through the motions

trying to keep up the illusion of being okay.

There’s panic: the voice in your head screaming “What’s next?”

And the ongoing scrutiny of others constantly assessing you;

the ever present “How are you doing? “No, how are you really doing?”

—How the Hell do you think I’m doing?

You see, grief feels a lot like anger, too.

– Anger at God for unanswered prayer

– Anger at the world for continuing to turn despite your loss

– Anger at the one who’s gone for leaving

– Anger at yourself for being unable to stop it

Sadness, pain, loneliness, anger; the four horsemen of death and loss...

 

  and yes, grief does indeed feel a lot like fear

© Ginny Brannan 2024

About that River...

 

Today we were enlightened by a new discovery

what we heard conflicting with what many had believed–

in corroborating statements by those sworn to tell the truth

a tale began unfolding of a man we thought we knew.

The picture that it painted was indicative of crime

of payments and of cover-ups written over time

and with so plot twists, it boggled all our minds.

Defaming judge and jury, contra to his views

asserting his rebuttals, calling it “fake news”

and there amid such damning proof, so many in denial,

leaving me to question if they understood the trial?

And we are left to wonder, “How long can this go on?”

with such compelling evidence and proof that he’s done wrong...

exposing to the public what’s clearly plain to see,

that he has finally turned into his own worst enemy.

 

© GB 2024

Endurance Testing

 

nothing around me

nothing about me

nothing within me 

nothing to grasp

what to hold onto

when all else escapes me

nothing’s forthcoming

and nothing will last

I wait for an answer

and look to the heavens

but there is no inkling

to what is the key;

some say it’s God-sent

or comes from within us

my vessel is empty

there’s nothing to see.

there’s no light that shines

at the end of this tunnel

your words have no meaning

they’re just cursory.

alone on this path 

without rhyme or reason

that many have travelled

long before me

There must be some limit

some end to this testing

a way to deter it

some way to insure

that for all that we carry

and all that we’re put through

that we’ll be rewarded

for what we endure

 

© ginny brannan 2024

Slow Dancing

 

The rhythm’s in my head, 

my feet tap tap tap to the beat

my lips mouth the words

it’s the end of the day and we sway

to this dance (take a chance)

my head insists (take a risk)

I just don’t know (take it slow)

but the scars on the heart, they insist.

Will it grow? Will it bloom in profusion?

Is it real? Or is it just an illusion—

a chimera, a lark? Or some other delusion?

An undertow? (If I let my guard down will I drown?)

Do I stay? Disembark? (Is it wise to restart?)

Is there a trace (A glimmer? A spark?)

in your words, in the lines you earmark?

As my heart beat, beat, beat, beat, beats like a drum

it resonates, while I succumb to the thrum...

I guard the line (Do you want me to go?)

Or take a chance (How will I know?)

Shall we dance?

  (take it fast) 

   (take it slow)

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024