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