Thursday, October 14, 2021

As Fate Would Have It

 















We hold on tight to what we know

well past its expiration date

sometimes it’s best to just let go

 

Ever going with the flow

with nothing open for debate

we hold on tight to what we know

 

Yet promises ring hollow

and offers come in slow and late

sometimes it’s best to just let go

 

We choke inside this sideshow

while hoping things will just abate

still holding tight to what we know

 

It builds to an inferno

and cornered, we must choose our fate

it’s sometimes best to just let go

 

We rise out of the shadow

to do what life necessitates

holding tight to what we know

until it’s time to let it go

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Tuesday, October 5, 2021

October Roads

 




















October rolls in once again

as Mother Nature sets the stage

with her Autumnal foliage.

Oh, how we would anticipate 

what the season had in store

its yearly call hard to ignore...

We'd head westward on the two lane

stopping at our favorite inn

a glass of wine out in the courtyard

or dinner by the fire within…

long drives on forgotten back roads

those hills are calling once again.

Or northbound up along Route 7

past apple barns to Bennington

where poet Frost found inspiration

reveling in the golden days 

and grieving that which cannot stay.

Instead we might head to The Cape

where summer crowds have dissipated

with stops at all our favorite places

and long walks on the empty beaches

sharing tales of years gone by

under a gray gunmetal sky

Or maybe we’d point due east to Rockport, 

to see the famed Motif once more

browsing through the tiny shops

we’d savor those hours by the shore,

as we watched the boats in the harbor quay

framed in blue on this bright fall day 

I’ll miss those long drives that we took

when October bid us “Come…”

and we’d jump into the car

to travel out to who knows where

ever contented just to be

in each other's company.


© Ginny Brannan 2021















Images by author, 

top: Old Deerfield

bottom: Rockport Harbor

Tuesday, September 21, 2021

The Hunger

 



You paint your poems with pretty words

while adjectives enhance your story,

placed between the nouns and verbs

skillful bait to lure your quarry…

I much prefer the allegory

the hidden meaning tucked within

the lines that take us on a journey

with secrets there but for the taking

the ciphers hidden in the words

the abstract code without a key

the dance between the ink and reader

shrouded deep in mystery.

Mayhap there is an undercurrent—

something to which we relate;

that calls to all that lies within us

sequestered in some hidden cache

where connection flows like current

Perhaps its kismet? Maybe fate?

So keep on writing, I’ll keep reading

bring your fire, bring the chill

feed my hunger, light the darkness

This plate is empty, the knife lies waiting

you decide what to reveal

while I await to eat my fill.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021



Saturday, September 18, 2021

Yarn Spinner


 









The widow sits and spins her words

and weaves them into poetry,

while deemed “eccentric” and “absurd”

and “unfit for society”

 

still, she continues, undeterred,

when she writes her mind runs free...

So much to say, so much inside

for all that’s seen and overheard

  is captured in her reverie

 

Inside this theater of absurd

where nothing’s ever as it seems

the weaver takes it all in stride—

choosing each thread carefully

knitting stories tirelessly

and sharing when she’s satisfied

 

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Thursday, September 16, 2021

Wash, Rinse, Repeat












when this old world falls all to hell

and no one really gives a shit

the tired masses now rebel

but we’re expected not to quit

the bosses do as they see fit

while chaos down around us reigns

seems there’s no breaking free of it

another day begins again


© Ginny Brannan 2021

Tuesday, September 7, 2021

Five Months








The clock resets

there is no back, only forward

while heart yearns for what once was,

and mind wonders what will be…

And we? We float in the limbo in-between.

Friend wife, mother, caregiver, lover…

I have been all of these, who am I now?

It is hard to see ourselves as others may, 

be defined inside of someone’s expectations.

Sentimentalist?  Realist?

There is no right or wrong.

There are times when I‘ve felt lost

in the moment, let thoughts wander,

and wonder why this had to be?

But for all that others go through 

all the pain and anguish

the grief and the uncertainty,

then really, why not me?

And so the clock resets

and I move forward, no regrets

as heart remembers what once was,

  and mind wonders what will be.

 

 

© Ginny Brannan 9/7/2021

 

 

Monday, August 30, 2021

We Don't Talk About It


 















We choose our words so carefully

afraid to give too much away;

deciding just what to reveal

but never saying what we feel.

We dance across each other’s thoughts

while masking our inadequacies

one step forward two steps back,

must rein emotion skillfully.

We always choose the safest route,

to shield ourselves from being broken

and when we’re unsure who to blame

 just blame it on the words unspoken.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021