One for the Writers

It starts with a thought, a word, an idea

scratched upon the page…

pulled from the pit, the well, the abyss, the cache

within my head—

prompted by image, an event, an emotion

from something felt or read.

Layer upon layer we build the tale

into something we can share

Then post the words, forevermore—

that all might find them there.

*********************************

Here’s to the ones who feel compelled

to express what’s in their souls;

whose compulsion borders on obsession,

whose writing makes them whole.

You compose the notes to a symphony

and we, the eager reader, hear the song.

We are swept away by your music,
and in the words find common bond.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

The Road Taken

Image by author.

Sometimes we choose the road we will take,

planning our journey, mapping the route,

choosing the highways and byways

often with a specific destination in mind.

But even the best-laid plans may run amok.

Often the road diverges; we are faced with

potholes and pit falls, unplanned detours

past torn up pavement and unforeseen construction.

We still hope to arrive at our destination

yet knowing it will be much later than we had hoped.

Sometimes we are even forced

onto a whole different pathway,

and must regroup to outline

and plan a new course.

No matter…for it was never the destination

nor the route we chose at all…

Rather it is the folks that join us

for some or all of our journey;

whose pathways parallel our own—

who offer us camaraderie and friendship;

we find comfort in their companionship,

in knowing we do not face our journey alone.

…and for me, that has made all the difference.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 29 NaPoWriMo  (optional) prompt. Take one of your favorite poems and find a very specific, concrete noun in it. After you’ve chosen your word, put the original poem away and spend five minutes free-writing associations – other nouns, adjectives, etc. Then use your original word and the results of your free-writing as the building blocks for a new poem.

If you hadn’t guessed, my word is  “road.” Apologies to Frost, my favorite poet, for plagiarizing some of his words and switching this up from “The Road Not Taken.”

Illumination

Curiosity, the spark that sets us apart

       on our quest for knowledge... 

Common sense is learned in degrees

starting at the knees of our elders.

In their words and stories, we learn about ourselves,

When we finally learn to read, we travel—

floating on a raft down the Mississippi;

chasing an elusive white whale on an endless sea;

joining a group of unlikely companions

on a quest for something ‘larger’ than ourselves.

The world expands, becoming greater than we ever imagined.

The more we absorb, the hungrier we become;

history teaches us, but it’s the stuff outside of the margins

        that holds the real story...

Who wrote this? What guided his thoughts as he lay

in the trenches of the French Revolution

the Civil War, World War I?

So we follow these word paths, penned from the souls

of a thousand, nay, a thousand times ten thousand.

We hold their stories and garner their memories

adhering them to our own.  We are with them

as they climb the path to Mt. Doom,

slip down the rabbit hole,

feel the pendulum brush their skin,

and click their shoes to go home again;

never wanting to leave this secret garden,

this Neverland of dreams and imagination.

Through the words we learn to sort fact from fiction,

weigh guilt from innocence, solve crimes;

discover ordinary heroes rising against extraordinary villains.

Words hold the power to change the world:

willfull ignorance and lies cannot hold up against

those who have learned to recognize truth

The early scribes and monks of old had a daunting task:

they laboured for hours on vellum pages with ink and quill,

 no computers then, nor ballpoint pen...

the process ever slow and tedious.

Is it any wonder when their pens would wander?

That even early on, if given a choice,
they would surrender to their inner voice

        setting free their imagination

to provide not just a story, but illumination.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Illumination has several definitions, two of which pertain to this:
1) Spiritual or intellectual enlightenment
2) Painting or drawing included in a book, i.e.:medieval manuscripts

For NaPoWriMo #24: using the marginal drawings and artwork known as "illumination" as inspiration.

Yes, even humor could be found in medieval manuscripts!

Last(ing) Impressions

The last time I saw you we were just kids...

your mom was remarried; you had a new dad—

it was summer vacation and we had plans

             things to do;

I was to spend a week with you.

The radio was playing when I awoke

voices in the kitchen, clearly upset...

I heard the news come over the air:

“While visiting her grandparents

   young girl involved in accident…”

At first it didn’t register, but then I knew

  that the ‘young girl’ was you.

You were the daughter my uncle never had

your mom clearly someone that he adored;

I don’t know the reason why they split

maybe because he couldn’t commit.

...but that was for grown-ups, we were just kids.

The last time I saw you the world stood still;

how could the gods take someone so young?

A lasting impression of loss and of pain

 ...my heart still remembers you, now and again.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Following a friend's lead: Day 23 of NaPoWriMo, writing a story or poem with the word "last" in the title. Just an excerpt from this life on the loss of a friend from my childhood— a memory from 1968,  back in the days when helmets were not required when riding a bike. We'll never know if it would've saved her, but a really good reason and argument for the safety of all. In my memory, she remains just 11 years old...

Overheard

“We’ll make America great again”

so you spoke and set the tone,

while only stirring hate again.

With every bill that you amend

we face a new unknown

to “make America great” again.

We watch you stand there quite content

to deport and rezone,

while generating hate again.

How many folks can you offend

or use as stepping stones

still chanting “we’ll be great again?”

Just what is it you intend

with these seeds you’ve sown

that promote such hate again…

Surrounded by your kith and kin

you constantly bemoan

that you'll “make America Great” again

while only stirring hate again.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 21 NaPoWriMo to write about something we overheard. Yeah, sorry,  a bit of a political rant, just where the words went for the prompt.

Playing for the Win

Image: Wikipedia, Snakes and Ladders

I’ve never been good at playing games—

I can’t bluff to save my life

all that I feel is written across my face,

so cards are out.

And chess would not be my forte;

I barely have the ability to see one move ahead

much less twelve to the win.

Monopoly, like poker, and chess,

requires certain skills,

none of which I possess.

No, my life is more like Snakes and Ladders

a mix of skill and chance, good and bad

of climbing and slipping back again

How many times have I ended up where I’ve begun

—falling back to square one?

I can only hope when the game is complete

that the virtues will outweigh the sins

and I will find the salvation that awaits

those who persist.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

To learn more about this fascinating game, a pretty good reflection on life itself, check it out at Wikipedia.

Keeping the Monster at Bay

Slowly it seems inside each passing day

with barely a nod as we function and breath,

comes a new symptom that’s barely perceived

as the outer shell ages and starts to betray.

First to be noticed: the silver and gray

scattered amidst the red, brown or black;

blondes, a bit lighter, may fend this attack

yet with nary a blink, we survey.

Then subtle “crows feet,” or smile lines they say,

appear ‘round the eyes nose and mouth

and all that was once trim and perky goes south

as bowing to time, they obey.

Shortly thereafter pain starts to convey

the bones turning brittle and thin,

then brown spots appear on pale parchment skin

as the mind starts to wander and stray

Exacting his toll is this Reaper’s forte

and we are but pawns in his game

Will you slip blindly or fight to remain,

invoking your right to belay

while keeping the monster at bay.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Optical Illusions, Dreams, and Delusions

We watch as moon ascends the eastern sky

a massive disc now peering over fence—

an optical illusion on the rise

appearing ever larger to our eyes

than any image captured through a lens.

And what we see and what the mind imprints

border between concrete and surreal;

we tuck away to pull out and reprise,

but should we find delusion has dispensed

we search to understand what was revealed.

Same could be said for all the pain we feel,

whether caused by physical distress

or mental anguish covert and disguised—

setting off alarms and raising shields,

then leaving us despondent and depressed.

Hope rises like the moon in pale nightdress

her whisper carried soft among the stars—

and even earthen mother can surmise

that if trials and tribulations are the test;

then blessings and endowments are our prize.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 17 NaPoWriMo, to write a Nocturne, a night poem. Not the same as a Nocturna which is specific to nine lines,  a nocturne in music is a composition meant to be played at night, in poetry it seems to translate to a night poem with a soft cadence in reading. No specific length or meter. 

Address Unknown, Please Forward

My dearest friend, 

I do not know wherein you sleep

there is no marker for the spot

 nor stone that bears an epitaph...

Still I have flowers to be shared

and time to spend in warm repast–

pink roses for appreciation

a thank you for your gentle heart,

for the grace you held in passing;

then red for courage and for passion,

the beauty shining from within—

I know you’d laugh at me for saying

 —so humble even to the end.

There’s yellow ones for friendship shared

and promises of new beginnings…

I bring eleven stems to you,

the meaning hidden in the number

for you were loved more than you knew.

I do not know wherein you rest

so we converse through time and thought

please know your legacy lives on

as more than ashes in some box.

Always, 

     Me

© Ginny Brannan 2017

**Eleven roses assure the recipient they are truly and deeply loved ...

Day 16, NaPoWriMo: Compose a letter to someone. Your poem can be in the form of a letter to a person, place, or thing, or in the form of a back-and-forth correspondence.  (Sorry, I cheated a bit and pulled this from my Works In Progress/ Unpublished file. I wrote a long time ago, but never knew just how to share it. As a letter actually works.)

Second Star to the Right, and Straight on till Morning....

Between the darkness and the dawn

between the morning and the night

between the moment I was born

until there’s no more will to fight

between my youth and middle age

— or just a little past that stage—

amid the chaos and the calm

I reflect who I’ve become.

Amid life’s trials and its struggles

any pain of yesterday

all the joy and the smiles

and the many roles I’ve played,

I know each road that I have journeyed

every hill and every turn,

all the detours that I’ve followed,

each new pathway that's been learned;

all the potholes and the pitfalls

yeah, there’s surely been a few—

but any road that I have travelled

would be poorer without you.

©Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 15, the halfway point... suggestion: to write a poem that reflects on the nature of being in the middle of something. The poem could be about being on a journey and stopping for a break, or the gap between something half-done and all-done. Let your mind wander into the middle distance, betwixt the beginning of things and the end. 

A Wee Bit of "Frost"ing

The poet Frost

was never really lost

as he commenced

to mending all his broken fences.

© Ginny Brannan

This is a slightly whimsical tribute to my favorite poet, Robert Frost, and plays reference to his poem "Mending Wall"

This form is called a Clerihew.

A clerihew has the following properties:

• It is biographical and usually whimsical, showing the subject from an unusual point of view; it mostly pokes fun at famous people
• It has four lines of irregular length and metre (for comic effect)
• The rhyme structure is AABB; the subject matter and wording are often humorously contrived in order to achieve a rhyme, including the use of phrases in Latin, French and other non-English languages
• The first line contains, and may consist solely of, the subject's name. According to a letter in the Spectator in the 1960s, Bentley said that a true clerihew has to have the name "at the end of the first line", as the whole point was the skill in rhyming awkward names.

Clerihews are not satirical or abusive, but they target famous individuals and reposition them in an absurd, anachronistic or commonplace setting, often giving them an over-simplified and slightly garbled description 

This Just "Don't Fly" with Me...

They pulled him off the plane pre-flight,

would not let him remain on flight—

They’d asked for a show of hands

for volunteers to de-plane the flight.

Seems everyone had plans,

they all chose to sustain the flight.

So attendants chose four off-hand

because seats aren’t pre-ordained on flight.

Three went with the plan;

the fourth tried to explain his flight.

They wouldn’t understand

why doc could not abstain from flight.

And though he took a stand,

would not let him remain on flight.

We watched the shit hit the fan,

when they dragged him with disdain from flight.

Their apologies were scant

for all news that pertained to flight.

We heard them spin their slant,

as their CEO ascertained the flight.

Now when travelers see their brand

they’ll think twice on restraint from flight.

If I ever fly again—

United won’t attain my flight.

 © Ginny Brannan 2017

Image: Jayse David/Twitter

This format is called a Ghazal, which is formed of couplets, each of which is a complete statement. Both lines of the first couplet end with the same phrase or end word, and that end word is also repeated at the end of each couplet. If you’re really feeling inspired, you can also attempt to incorporate internal rhymes and a reference to yourself or your own name in the final couplet.

In the News: United Airlines overbooks flight, pulls four from seats, drags man off who paid for ticket. 

Watching the River Run

We hear the steady drip, drip, drips

as melting snow turns to rivulets

racing down the mountainside

chasing along road’s edge in steady stream

to join the roaring river below.

What was once a quiet estuary

turns into churning white water

crashing over rocks and boulders

combining with larger waterways

on their quest to mesh with the sea.

We view the rising river

filling inlets and backwashes,

observe scores of riverbank trees

submerged to their knees

awaiting runoff to slow

and surge to recede.

There’s comfort found days like this

in the knowledge that somehow

no matter how much things change

some still remain the same.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 12 NaPoWriMo Challenge was to use Rhetorical Devices of Assonance and Alliteration:

Assonance is a resemblance of sound, particularly vowel sounds, occurring in words of close proximity: i.e. trees, knees, recede

Alliteration: the repetition of a sound, especially a consonant, for rhetorical or poetic effect: i.e. rivulets racing, roaring river, steady stream.

Not too heavy on either, but a small sampling of both.

To the You I Barely Knew...

I never really knew you, except in the long ago;

...lipstick on…nails just so,

soft leather handbag, Tabu cologne—

you smoked Chesterfield Kings

    I remember these things.

And you would bake…

  oatmeal cookies, cream puffs

coconut pies with perfect crust

—a taste I would die for

would that I could taste once more.

It’s hard to live up to the memory

of  the you I barely knew—

shorter than five foot nothin’

yet a force to be reckoned with.

With these less-than-perfect hands

and broken nails, I favor

the crafter, the woodworker,

the other half that molded my existence.

But I have your eyes, and when I look in the mirror

   it’s you I see looking back at me.

So I carry all your stories in my heart,

told by the ones who knew you best

living on the memories we never had

           

…we could have been such good friends.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Circa 1962 Franconia Notch, N.H.

In loving memory of Clementine "Tina" Mary Donzello, 1921 - 1963

Just Another Day

We waken in the darkness before dawn,

to psych ourselves before we face the fray

as day arrives, another night absconds.

While trapped inside of routines that are rote,

how quickly now the time just slips away

while we’re left struggling, trying to keep afloat.

Still, as the sun slips mountains to the west,

and to the moon and stars now cedes the day,

I breathe the stillness, gratitude professed.

© Ginny Brannan 2017 

The Nocturna is basically a nine line poetry form based on the nocturne (night) theme containing three, three-line lessons recited during the night. The subject must be nocturnal and it consists of three couplets linked by the rhyme of the centre line;  a. b. a. c. b. c. d. b. d. Not sure that I got it right, but there's a first time for everything!

Was It Love?

Was it love, actually, that stole your heart—

…or just a promise of a new beginning?

Was it love that whispered: “This one is different;”

the connection made on a cerebral level,

or found in the effortless banter,

the instant smile, the easy laughter…

Was it love that captured the day,

hastened your heart beat, swept you away,

made your palms sweat, kept you from sleeping?

Did you pass it off as some sort of illness

   perhaps the flu?

Or was it love, actually,

that brought you to this place…

this sacred space,

   I share with you.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

The suggestion for Day 8 of NaPoWriMo suggested composing a poem that relies on repetition. 

Unknowns

Who will I be when I grow old…

will I sit and babble nonsense rhyme

old poems and remnants left behind—

when those final years take hold.

Will past and present merge as one,

as mind relinquishes control;

or stay alert, my thoughts left whole

while body starts to come undone.

No gypsy fortune-tellers, we...

what lies before us, undefined;

should favor nod as we decline

perhaps we'll keep our sanity.

Yes, all things acquiesce to time…

we only hope the years are kind.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

There, Beyond the Stars...

I’ll never know the sound a rocket ship makes,

nor the courage it takes to  go

“Where no man has gone before…”

but I do know the magic of a moonlit night

and can still imagine the footprints that remain

in the dust of a billion stars on a small satellite

orbiting the third planet from the sun

In a world before fake news we had real heroes:

ordinary men who did extraordinary things

Science was expanding and the stars were in our grasp.

And we dreamed, and we believed…

Dreams are smaller now—

hopes dashed by the small-minded and clueless

in positions they don’t deserve

making decisions no one can fathom.

But this day we remember the first human

who  ‘slipped the surly bonds of earth,’

and a time when the whole universe

lay before us…

         …just waiting

Godspeed, John Glenn

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Military Portrait of John Glenn, Wikipedia

July 18th, 1921 to December 8th, 2016

Interred at Arlington National Cemetary on April 6, 2017
Among his many accomplishments he was the first man to orbit the Earth, February 20th, 1962, for the Friendship 7 mission.

*"slipped the surly bonds of Earth" Excerpt from the poem "High Flight by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.