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
   an 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 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?”

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

© 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.

Monday, March 9, 2015

Hoar Frost

In nature's beauty, peace is found…

A star filled night upon the plain
   invites small jewels to form again….

These delicate and frozen gems
align in perfect symmetry—
they cling to even smallest stem
in ways that man could not create.
I truly am in awe of such
   for this is no designer’s touch…
their form defies imagination.

The daylight breaks, and with the dawn
we find we cannot hold nor halt
the melting of these tiny shards…
and so we capture, we encrypt
their image to our memory’s vault.

Then, left inspired by what we’ve seen
in moment of tranquility
we've ascertained ability
to face our day with newfound calm.

© Ginny Brannan 2015

Thursday, March 5, 2015


Caught in the beam, the strangest scene occurs
as sudden squall calls spirits to arise…
across the empty roadway now they stir
in whispered hush to dance before my eyes.

The softness of their form allays all fear—
these silent apparitions of the night;
as quickly as they've come, now disappear
and I alone left witness to their sight.

© Ginny Brannan 2015