Good-bye 2021, Don't Let the Door Hit Ya...

We’ve laughed and we’ve cried

faced challenges, struggled with choices.

We’ve wallowed just a bit

and swallowed our dreams.

We’ve even changed careers midstream.

The worst days threatened to drag us under

but we've still managed to put one foot in front of the other

and keep on moving, no matter what;

because it’s not how many times you stumble

it’s how many times you get up again.

It’s holding onto the belief of  better days ahead

no matter how dark it seems now.

So 2021, we count the hours until you’re gone.

Out with the old, in with the new,

and as we bid the year 'adieu'

we hold tight to the adage 

that "all good things come to those who wait,"

as long as we have patience, perseverance

and a little bit of  faith.

© GB 2021

Carrying On

 

At the mall the other day

I stopped to drop a donation

into the red bucket;

a tradition, something 

we always did for our fathers,

two WWII veterans who spoke 

of the kindnesses rendered

by this “army of salvation.”
I gave more than usual

then tried to explain that this year

I was donating for you, too,

but I couldn’t find my voice.

In routine there is peace,

joy found in small moments:

a visit with family,

time spent with friends,

in memories shared

 and in traditions…

each thread woven with love.

If a tear should appear,  it is not from sadness,

but from the place where the heart remembers.

It is Christmas, after all.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

What's in a Wish?

 

What if wishes weren’t 

“horses for beggars to ride”

but instead became kisses

borne from our sighs~

the rush of soft wind 

a warm brush on the cheek,

an admission of truth

to the things we don’t speak,

confessing with candor

all that we feel

not rendered in whispers

but spoken with zeal.

Maybe then we’d acknowledge

with honest inflection,

not cowered in fear

of another’s rejection.

Oh! If wishes were kisses

from sighs that are sighed,

we could lasso the moon

and conquer the tides,

with purpose unquestioned

 our hearts as our guide.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Fine Tuning

 

Our songs are played in different keys

sometimes discordant in their sound

filled with dark intrusive notes

falling short on harmony,

without tempo or synchrony.

Perhaps the music comes too late

out of step and short in time­­–

and symphony is not our fate.

Yet, if I were a strategist

I might not bet against the odds:

to say our chances don’t exist

could be a great concerto, missed.

The lines may often obfuscate

to generate an unclear passage,

yet every note we iterate,

every measure we have tendered,

becomes part of a larger whole.

I understand your dissonance

inside the lines and written texts;

the darker notes, the allegory,

that shatter norms but tell a story.

Each composer wants the same

in every spoken admonition,

not longevity or fame–

but a chance to write their own attrition.

It’s in the dark we find the light,

the yin and yang of our volition

and in the seeking, we are found.

Yet in sharing our confession

we break out of our own mold–

and in the honesty we render

we find the window to our soul.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

The Old Meeting House

 

Whispering of her tales of long ago

her stately image framed inside my mind

captured in soft hues of ice and snow

 

Within this hushed and still scenario

upon a hilltop, stalwart and refined

whispering her tales from long ago

 

Across the barren fields, chill wind blows

through empty trees, their silhouettes outlined

against the palest hues of ice and snow

 

I picture sills alight in candleglow

within her walls, our history defined

shared to us in tales of long ago

 

She stands against sky of indigo

stark testament to another time

frozen there in hues of ice and snow

 

And I am drawn as if by undertow

in awe and wonder to this ancient shrine

whispering her tales of long ago

frozen inside hues ice and snow

 

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Inspired by the image below of the Old Rockingham Meeting House, taken by Jeremy Noyes and shared on the website "Growing up in Bellows Falls." This and many other beautiful images from VT and New England are available for purchase at Jeremy Noyes Photography

Anything is Possible, Anything Can Be...

 

Pace yourself against this world

of death and pain, of rare disease;

savor all that comes your way,

save sadness for another day.

It’s in the choices that we make

between the darkness and the light,

inside the words we choose to share

layered with hope and not despair.

I’ll select the seeds I sow

tendered by tenacity;

it’s in the setbacks that we grow…

each step we take each day we seize

shines rife with possibilities

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

With gratitude and love to Mr. Shel Silverstein, whose words are not just for children.

While Waiting for Daybreak

 

Would my life were just a photo

smiling back from someone’s screen–

some painted memories in an album

that tell some happy little story,

yet we’re not always who we seem.

 

At times, the past feels like a dream

as days and months keep wending by–

the winter cold sneaks down upon us

as life keeps going all around us.

Like the leaves, we slip and fall

  ...we’re only human, after all.

 

Clouds roll in, dark days abound

to gnaw us like some parasite;

I find my thoughts begin to wander

and in the early hours I ponder

the chill that permeates these bones,

yet will not share with any candor

how hard it is to be alone.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Secrets in Cypher

Words can inspire and sometimes be daunting

and leave us to wonder what someone has meant,

as we try to interpret, to find hidden meaning

yet never assuming that simply in reading

we’ll understand fully another’s intent.

Yet, were they inspired by some hapless reader?

Or a venting of long passed emotional  ties?

Or were they designed by divine intervention 

some dubious cause or perhaps condescension,

that leaves one to wonder if we should reply?

The grass is not greener this side of the spectrum

the scars that we carry weigh heavy some days;

so we wander the lines that are laid out before us

to shine light in our tunnel, inspire our grace–

while we tiptoe politely through each cryptic meaning

lest an ‘ass’ we become in assuming that we

would ever be topic of the lines that we read.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Testing, Testing 1, 2, 3

 

What’s to lose and what’s to gain

we work our lives away in vain,

the poor can never get ahead

illusions render poor refrain;

the rich get richer by default

off the backs of all the rest.

Perhaps this life just a test:

with no money to invest

no treasure hidden in some vault

day-to-day, we peck away

just trying to keep the bills at bay,

counting hours as they pass

with very little time to play.

Yet when the reaper comes at last

what is it that we’ll have to show

for all the trials that we faced?

Perhaps it’s time to reassess,

to take a stand for what is best.

Empty, full or in between

we each interpret what is seen…

we count our joys, however rare,

the happiness that we have gleaned.

We weigh the tears that we have shed,

each exhausted minute spent,

every drop that we have bled

each smile, each laugh, each wrinkle earned

each loss, each gain, each heart we’ve spurned

while trying to grasp with clarity

if we are where we’re meant to be.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Schrödinger‘s Box

We build a box where we exist

four walls, a floor, a roof, a door

and add a lock for our protection.

But in the end, what have we got?

To be closed off is not to live,

to just exist until we’re gone…

Shall we just accept our lot?

There must be more before we’re done.

Have we become Schrödinger‘s cat

existing both outside and in?

Exist we do, but to be fair

we may be trapped inside our lair.

Must choose our confines carefully,

for only we can understand

that balance between "caged" and free.

We’ve built a box where we exist

four walls, a floor, a roof, a door

its blueprint kept inside our head

waiting on some catalyst

to set us free before we’re dead.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

* In quantum mechanics, Schrödinger's cat is a thought experiment that illustrates a paradox of quantum superposition. In the thought experiment, a hypothetical cat may be considered simultaneously both alive and dead as a result of its fate being linked to a random subatomic event that may or may not occur. Wikipedia

A Leap of Faith

It’s hard leave the comfort of one’s skin

at any age, to take on a new role—

to step outside ourselves to start again

to reassess our lives, to set new goals.

It’s difficult to break from all we know,

to jump off from that ledge into the deep

but yet I hear a calling in my soul

and trust that I will land upon my feet.

 

© Ginny Brannan 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

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 road

stopping at our favorite inn

a glass of wine out in the courtyard

or dinner by the fire within…

long drives on forgotten byways

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 east to Rockport, 

to see the famed Motif once more

browsing through the tiny shops

we’d savor the 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…”

we’d jump into the waiting car

and 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

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

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

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

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