Mile Markers

Gray chalk hills fade one behind another

until they dissolve into oyster sky.

Ice crystals dance on gelid air,

glisten highway’s edge, and settle

in the crooks of sleeping maples.

Evergreens bend under weight

 of their thick winter shawls.

In spite of its bleakness, we are taken by

the stark frost-coated beauty of it all.

Northbound…

my core senses those timeworn mountains

long before my eyes discern them.

Yet, it is not these ancient mounds

that draw me back, but the folks therein

I long to see—those I love who wait for me.

With each mile passed, the years begin to dissipate

like those hills now veiled in mist and gloam;

my pulse beats faster as this heart anticpates

that final stretch of road that leads me home.

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

A Walk on a Winter's Night

Remembering a Christmas long ago…

we walked the village streets on winter’s night,

waiting for the rain to turn to snow

The church bells chiming carols, soft and low

reminding of the One who brought His light

on another Christmas, long ago.

The darkened stores awash in indigo

imparting their displays in twinkling white…

waiting for the rain to turn to snow.

The dampened road reflecting streetlights’ glow

shining as if it bathed in candlelight—

in mem'ries of that Christmas long ago.

We rallied from the cold like Eskimos,

butt'ning up our coats against the bite—

waiting for the rain to turn to snow.

Some memories we never quite outgrow

just store away to view when time is right…

remembering that Christmas long ago

and our delight when rain turned into snow.

© Ginny Brannan 

Image taken by Michelle Torres Lowe, borrowed from BFDDA (Bellows Falls Downtown Development Alliance)

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Open Link Night December 2014 

Continuity

On entering, we are assailed by the smells:

sausage and sage, butter, brown sugar,

cinnamon …

commingling, tempting;

then the warmth

oven on long before dawn,

steam rising from various sized pots…

not to mention body heat—

for everyone gathers here in this room.

Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole

echo from the wooden console radio

in the next room,

two sisters croon out their favorites;

a third—younger—swoons, exclaiming once again

how she “loves that skinny Italian boy from Jersey.”

A cacophony of voices and laughter

rise and fall.

The house becomes a budding entity

breathing,  beating with the life

of those gathered here…

We carry these images from our past...

family, friends, gatherings

spinning together as one.

Defining; reminding where we come from,

who we are

...and we pass it forward

to our children,

this gift of unconditional love

in a place we call ‘home.’

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

Family photo, 1956. 

Shared: dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar: Thanksgiving Turkey with a side of Poetry
Also honored to have it shared here by Women's Spiritual Poetry

The image is my family: towards the back Aunt Jane on the left; then my mom, with her back to us, stylin' as always; then Aunt Mary and Aunt Rose, to the far right peaking in with glasses I believe is my Aunt "Butch"(Bernadette); in the foreground leaning over I believe is my Italian grandfather, that baby on the lap, that would be me, not sure in whose lap but it could be Aunt Ginny or one of my dad's sisters. I remember so many Christmases of my childhood, tradition to stop at Aunt Mary's house after church (she lived across the street from the church!). Her stereo would be on playing all the holiday favorites. The reference to "that boy in NJ" is for my Aunt Gin, who adored Frank Sinatra! My mom passed when I was seven, this photo a freeze-framed memory of a very special time.

A Good Man Goes to War

How soft the scarlet petals fall

upon the pale and ashen ground

a shock of red against steel gray

a bit of green naivete’

…we watch the tin men falling down.

Crimson stains on barren earth,

shattered limbs and splintered bone…

only trunks where once life stood;

screams inscribed in human blood,

forgotten names now etched in stone.

On fallow ground the seeds are sown,

on vermins’ back  discourse is spread,

in ignorance disease is grown…

At what price for a name renown

or victory tallied by the dead?

Underneath a pewter sky

still echoing  from engine’s drone,

deep sanguine petals gather ‘round

the young man lying on the ground…

he closes eyes and journeys home.

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

Image courtesy Tess Kincaid/Magpie Tales

Fence Posts

Image C. Parant, Appetite for Photos, shared with expressed written consent.

On pale November morn,

we listen to the cadence of our footfalls

as they rustle dry leaves

along this old familiar pathway.

We speak in cryptograms,

as we tick the weathered

fence posts of our years.

We pause a moment to linger

in this judgment-free zone,

as we walk familiar path

on this pale November morn.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

…Or Was It?

 

Into the twilight I went walking

vestige of daylight taking flight,

threshold of evening fast now falling

revealing a veiled and moonless night.

Dry leaves give chase along the footpath

tree limbs stretch bare for all to see...

boney, their arms move in the darkness

—boney wood fingers reach for me—

“Faster” I will my legs, “keep moving.”

“It’s only the wind that creaks the tree.’

Overly active imagination

says: ” No…something darker waits for thee.”

I sprint up the hill past stone wall sentries

as rational thoughts give way to fear—

even the streetlamps flicker slightly

familiar surroundings become austere.

Ever so softly, I hear strange voices…

inaudible words chant spells unknown;

shadowy creatures dance in the half-light

lying half-hidden in the gloam.

“Reveal yourselves!” scream becomes a whisper

—heart palpitating anxiously—

Over my shoulder a chill breath answers

can sense stranger’s eyes intent on me.

Clearing the mountain,  full moon rises

annulling the fears that spirits roam

‘Twas only aberrant imagination

to wrangle my thoughts as I turn home.

© Ginny Brannan 2014
*Image from author's hometown.

Changing Partners

Come October wind and rain,

the chill that to November calls—

bright harvest moon long come and gone;

crisp brittle leaves converge on lawn.

We pull our wooly sweaters down,

the heavy socks, the warm knit shawl…

find brief respite in waning sun—

while season’s final song is sung.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Written for Magpie Tales #243, Image provided by Tess Kincaid.
Come visit see what others are sharing!
Shared also at dVerse Poets October Open Link Night—Homecoming. Check it out!!

Dark Gray October Day (10/15/1963)

Image taken: Tess Kincaid, Dublin, Ohio cemetery

The autumn leaves were swirling ‘round

the young girl barely uttered sound

that doleful day she said goodbye.

The autumn leaves came tumbling down

as polished oak slipped through the ground

and sun resigned to charcoal sky.

The autumn leaves are turning brown

  as I recall our last goodbye

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

Written for Magpie Tales #242, Image provided by Tess Kincaid.

She provides the image, we the story!

"Sisters"

Wikipedia: The Pleiades, 1885 by Elihu Vedder

Sailing on a moonbeam,

sojourners of the night;

seven silent sisters

surrendering their light—

slipping through the cosmos

suspended in the stream…

sustaining winter’s dream.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

The Pleiades is a cluster of seven stars, also known as the “Seven Sisters,” primarily viewed in the winter months in the Northern Hemisphere. Trying a new poetry form called “Pleiades” invented in 1999 by Craig Tigerman. It consists of seven lines, each line starting with the same letter as the title. The title is always a single word.

For dVerse Meeting the Bar: Pleiades.

Balancing the Quill's Edge...

Life calls us to participate

to be involved,  appreciate

at times diverting from our dreams

     —that other world where we exist 

     among the words; between the lines—

ever poised upon quill's edge

stretched and bent, not letting go

till something snaps or something gives.

The time arrives for us to choose

between two lovers courted long:

impassioned mistress that we love
or family and common bond

    — only we can weigh the cost

      of which we can afford to loose.

Our choice it seems was always clear
     —  ambivalent as we may be

       to have to choose between the two…

we must defer to loved ones near,

relinquishing the stranger's pull,

just for a time we sever ties

to re-embrace our blood and bond.

But…

dreams cannot be pacified

nor circumscribed, nor stilled for long

We type a word, pick up the pen

slip in a moment now and then…

    —for to ignore our muse’s call

      would mean we do not "live" at all

©    Ginny Brannan 2014

For a friend I observed being 'torn between two loves,'  family and writing; and for all of us who've felt this tug of war.

A Letter to Susan...

Dearest Susan,

We shared an understanding

that forewent explanation—

a camaraderie; knowledge

gleaned through time and friendship

and being family.

One look, a word or two

would send us into fits of laughter,

all those wonderful private jokes  

we shared —

the ones only family

could understand.

I miss your smile, your voice

the warmth and comfort

of your presence...

yet I know you are still near,

I can feel you, hear you.

Remember Columbus Day

spent at The Cape

all those years ago?

Our boys were so small then.

Last week at The Cape

you were there

reminiscing along side us

as we drove by the places

of our shared memories.

And each time Ray laughs

that wonderfully unique

loud rolling belly laugh of his—

I can hear you too,

laughing right along with him.

(I know how you much you loved that laugh!)

No Susan, you are not gone,

for you are right here

inside me

next to my heart

where all whom I love reside.

At dVerse Poetics today we are writing letters. This was written last October for my dearest sister-in-law on the first anniversary of her passing.

A Little Night Nonsense

Long day brakes to find the night…

manic roamers make their rounds,

Hands keep moving, best step lively;

melting minutes can’t be found.

Skip the curb to dart asunder,

missed a kiss by just one slip—

petals light on concrete steps;

tempered-crystal dreams encrypt.

Fluffy felines filled…felled…snoring,

find the soft and lose the shoe;

hear the feathers, pale moon calling;

pirouette, and bid adieu.

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

d'Verse Poets Meeting the Bar: Verbal Cubism and Tender Buttons invites us to release that flow of word without restraint to grammar or meaning, similar to what a cubist painter would do, break it apart and present it again. A late attempt, but thought it might be fun to try! (Oh, and rhyming is not a criteria, but I somehow slipped into it anyways. Long day, this is where I bid adieu!)

On the Southbound Skyway...

Over hills and rooftops

on moonless nights we soar;

as ancient siren calls us

to travel south once more.

“Keep moving” her song echoes

“for winter rides your tail.”

“Head down that southbound skyway

before north winds prevail.”

Abandoning the northern ponds,

the grassy lakeside shore—

the feeding grounds we’ve come to know

 for coastal corridor.

We’re called to heed the shifting change

on rising currents, sail

underneath the star-filled nights,

through morning’s pensive veil.

You hear our clamor overhead—

our cries hard to ignore,

we fly the southbound skyway
in seasonal encore.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Our days of future passed…

Into the morning I have come

groggy...foggy…eyes at half-mast.

Another day calls.

I answer tentatively,

unsure what’s in store—

No matter…

for it's not the journey

but who's beside you.

Over uncertain pathways

through variables unseen

we’ve travelled...

steadfast, synchronic;

two complementary souls—

we move ever forward

through these—our days

      of future passed.

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

For my dear husband of 33 years. To the more than 12,000 days that have passed since our first meeting. To our yesterdays, todays and tomorrows and all our days of future now and passing... Happy Anniversary.

*‘Days of future passed’ was borrowed from an album of same title by the Moody Blues. 

Autumn Days

At first the slightest hint of red

understates the deeper green

the hint of changes yet to come…

unfettered now to run its course—

meandering through last warm days,

numbed by chill of early eves.

Delirious we drink this change

as if by absinthe, undermined...

Yielding to elliptic spin,

so comes autumn once again.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Image taken by author taken at Old Sturbridge Village, MA

Shared at dVerse Poets Open Link Night September 2014

Loosing the Floodgates

Both blinded by the rage within—

my words, a knife to penetrate

to slash; to watch exsanguinate.

You tore away the underpin

your words cajole —I lose control;

no holding back…no discipline.

You volley to eviscerate—

both blinded by the rage within.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Written for Magpie Tales #238. Image provided by Tess Kincaid

She provides the image, we the story!

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Meeting the Bar: Octain Refrain 3/25/16

What Demons Haunt…

What darkened demons haunt her soul…

like one possessed she walks the halls—

on secret mission just she knows.

What is it that assumes control,

that she, herself, cannot express?

Her shadows race along the wall—

this tiny woman, now obsessesed

with need to move and not be still.

Time detracts, we can’t forestall           

when age gives to dementia’s will.

Just for brief moment, stops her quest

yet sensing mission incomplete,

once again the demon calls…

No cure for this unwelcomed guest,

and no reprieve once he befalls.

With no remission, no defeat,

the cruel affliction runs its course.

The victim is herself, unfeigned;

yet for observers, bittersweet—

with aching sadness, bear the pain.

… still more apparent with each day—

    what birth endows, age takes away.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

In Frontotemporal dementia, people will often show signs of obsessive-compulsive behavior such as hand washing or walking back and forth from one area to another. They have the need to carry out repeated actions that are inappropriate or not relevant to the situation at hand. Breaking this cycle is difficult and the caregiver must decide if this behavior is simply annoying or unsafe for the person and decide if they need to intervene.

~ from http://www.dementiaguide.com

Never forget...

Where were you on that day of darkness?

Heading to work or homeward bound?

When did you learn that the sky was falling?

Where were you when the planes came down?

Some days should never be forgotten

as we look back every year to view,

to honor the memory of the fallen,

to try to define with eyes anew…

Lest that the horrors should be discounted

and we turn complacent in our routine

To remind us be mindful and ever vigilant;

against all the evils that go unseen.

Where were you on that day of darkness?

Heading to work or homeward bound?

When did you learn that the sky was falling?

Where were you when the planes came down?

© Ginny Brannan 2014 

"There will always be those who mean to do us harm.

To stop them, we risk awakening the same evil within ourselves.”
Eulogy from Star Trek 'Into Darkness'

Deception

Shining beacon in the night

incandescent, phosphorescent

hollow glowing orb of light…

In my quest for something new

I flew to you, drew to you,

in blissful blindness I pursued…

—till ever late, I see the lie:

your brilliant luster misconstrued

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Written for Magpie Tales #236, image provided by Tess Kincaid.
She provides the image, we the story. Come by and see what others are sharing!