Monday, May 2, 2022

The Speed of Light


How can I mourn the death 

of a star that shone so brightly,

a beacon that lit my days

and called me home at night?

We are all stardust, pieces 

of heaven drifting in space, 

taking our place in eternity;

a gift of light for those 

able to see the glimmer, the hope, 

the spark that burns in each of us.

No, I do not mourn but celebrate

the radiance that lit my night,

still blazing through infinity

traveling at the speed of light


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Monday, April 25, 2022

"Loneliness" Without a Name


The empty hours steal the day

as we attempt to seek distraction

a temporary get away

in quietude and conversation­—

and though we have but naught to say.

and though our stories rarely change

peace is found repetition.

Across the lines, we borrow time

diversion from this hill we climb;

another day, the same refrain

unsure just what we hope to gain,

perhaps we’re looking for the same…

searching for an intervention

 for loneliness without a name



© Ginny Brannan 2022

Monday, April 4, 2022

No Longer Legible

Why do we try to reconnect,

to seek out names that we once knew?

To find where they landed?  To learn their fate?

Is it just to set our memories straight?

Why insist on recapturing this past that exists

only in our mind's eye; a dimming collage 

of youthful desires and broken dreams

seen in fading colors and sepia-toned themes.

Were we really so different from one another?

Each of us pursuing our own place as we chased

obscure shadows toward a future unknown;

each searching for salvation on this road to perdition

where time has become the great equalizer

between our cradle and the grave


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Wednesday, March 30, 2022

The Path We Choose


I know this passage only too well

each turn, each bend

each stone unturned

how far it wends

the paths pursued

the roads not taken.

I will not be sullied by my choices 

wise or foolish,  brave or weak

each decision is my own to bear

Of regrets, I never speak;

no point in keeping score…

You always said that you loved me

I know I loved you more


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Tuesday, March 29, 2022

Pushing Through

I wanted to write of the sunlight

how bright the days are turning

the sound of March winds through the trees

the spring birds singing with delight

how new life is returning


How through it all I hear your voice

your presence still surrounds me

I talk to you as if you’re here

I really do not have a choice

for it is you that grounds me


But I am not some brittle shell

I garner strength through being

through each day lived and each day loved

in each hello or fond farewell

in every moment breathing


and so the sun will shine once more

and so the rains will come

and hope grows like the fragile stem

that breaks the ground to rise again

by will,  it overcomes


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Photo: Charles Parant Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed written permission.

Sunday, March 13, 2022

Riding the Thunderbolt


Hills and valleys, turns and twists,

we are strapped into this ride

each mountain climbed attests to glory

every cog, part of our story.

Such a ride, hard to resist!

The clickety-clack of well-used track

echoes through the wooden rails

And though it seems we’ve just begun

our days of youth now come undone.

But still we chug to scale the hills,

another dip, another turn

so often fears are amplified…

climb aboard, or just exist?

Valiantly, I choose the ride!


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Monday, March 7, 2022

Ad Infinitum

We don’t talk about the dark places

the empty spaces that eat our souls,

nor wallow in the mire of lost desire.

There’s no reversing the hands of time,

ever forward, no rewind.

If we stop, we’re left behind.


In this cycle, no surprises

the sun sinks down, the new moon rises.

We both knew all good things must end.

Wishful thinking notwithstanding,

we can’t dismiss the understanding

that there’s no going back again.


While shadows envelop these days,

I seek my hope inside the rays

that filter through the rain and mist;

and turning back against the night

impeach the darkness to desist—

yet as I walk this finite plain,

 I trust that we will meet again

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Sunday, February 27, 2022

Between Despot and President


When everything goes status quo

and you’re no longer “relevant,”

and people go about their lives

and think you insignificant,

so you decide to start a war

bring guns and planes, and armament

a force of will on full display

between despot and president.

We watch from half a world away

anticipating what comes next.

What will come of this dispute?

What catastrophic end of day?

Our politicians posturing,

to minimize and underplay.

Shall we stand or do we flee?

What advantage will be gained?

I’ll side with democracy

and I for one stand with Ukraine


©  GB 2022

Saturday, February 26, 2022

All I Have Are Words

I sense the emptiness you feel 

the pain that you don’t talk about

impending loss you won’t reveal.

I feel these on another plane

where such thoughts are spoken freely.

Would that I could lift your heart

raze the darkness that you carry,

yet I don’t know where to start.

Would that you might trust a friend

who wonders at this path you travel

and listens as your dreams unravel

yet doesn’t know where to begin.

On this map we’re left to follow

not every road comes to an end

sometimes we can’t see ‘round the curve

to where the path starts up again.

Many have gone on ahead

and for a while some stay behind—

and through the seeds your words have sown

just know that you are not alone.


© GB 2022

For a friend whom I see struggling.  Wishing you light and love on this road you travel.


Monday, February 21, 2022

In the Quiet Hours

In the still and quiet hours

when the wind no longer blows,

when the pain eats at your heart

and joy lies frozen in the snow—

how delicate the tiny stem

the one still reaching for the light,

the heart that only wants to mend

that searches for the sun again;

the butterfly with broken wing

who seeks out respite from her pain

as love that’s carried her heart

slips her face like falling rain.

When we’re lost in our despair

and know that we’re beyond repair–

like the stem that seeks the light

and breaks the earth again to bloom,

we ride the storm, the endless night

and wait for time to bind our wounds.


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Image C. Parant Appetite for Photos Used with Permission.

Wednesday, February 9, 2022



Intimacy takes many forms

the shared laugh, the private joke

a knowing look, a touch or stroke–

a kind word shared, the words that aren’t…

We writers work in ‘vagaries’

take shelter in our metaphors;

we live in one reality

in a house with many doors.

Very few have walked our halls

their footsteps echo from the past,

while still I shelter in these walls

and wonder if my life is cast.

No time machine to take us back

just forward through infinity;

while trying to keep our souls intact

concede our own duplicity.

I've no clue to how I got this far,

  perhaps a door was left ajar


© Ginny Brannan

Monday, February 7, 2022



Another  month has come to pass

noted on this calendar

of empty dreams. No bright repast

to lighten day or brighten mood

Herein to infinity,

emptiness lies steeped in gray.

redemption waits another  day.


Some will see and understand...

Each one mends in their own way.

Vacuous, these empty rooms

echo with our yesterdays.

Neither time nor life allays

to lift the darkness from this tomb;

holding on while life resumes.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Tuesday, February 1, 2022

Pea Soup


Sometimes the silence is palpable

the emptiness so thick 

you could cut it with a knife

It hides in plain sight—

like tinnitus, that low 

but constant ringing in the ear,

ambient noise until

it gets so loud you are 

forced to confront it.

Then it subsides, 

fades to the background

until the next time, and the next,

and the time after that.

We don’t talk about such things,

in doing so we might appear weak.

Among our friends, only few actually 

understand that to listen is a gift

when there is nothing to be said.

That the offering of prayers or platitudes

does little to chase the pain away.

So I compartmentalize for another day

and move on. Surrendering is not an option

Circumstances would be so easy to use

as a reason, my excuse, but accepting

I’m a victim makes for poor reality;

so I gather up initiative

to recreate my narrative;

as I struggle in my own duplicity


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Wednesday, January 26, 2022

Shadow Dancing

Between the shadows and the light

sunless days and sleepless nights

experience has taught me well;

but in the chill of the unknown

it’s difficult to walk alone,

I’ve clawed my way through certain hell.

Life’s thrown us both a punch or two

and made us leery in our quest;

it’s difficult at any age

to stare upon an empty page,

not quite knowing what comes next.

Illuminate me with your words,

let their light pour down on me

unfettered and undeterred,

I revel in their honesty.

We each come from a storied past

and both of us have tales to tell,

they’ve shaped us into who we are

much more than just some empty shell

Back and forth with words we volley,

the ball is firmly in your court—

perhaps it’s more than some fool’s folly

though neither really can be sure,

with trepidation we tread lightly

inside our rhymes and metaphor.


© Ginny Brannan 2022

Tuesday, January 25, 2022

The “Truth” in Advertising

Obscured within the subtle views

of needful things that tempt desire

no outward signs, no hidden clues

that what is seen is just a ruse.

But camouflaged inside the lie

the hidden clause, the sharpened teeth.

How clever then the cunning man

who plays this game of hide and seek,

of bait and switch because he can;

who mixes just a hint of truth

to prey upon the unsuspecting?

Present knowledge notwithstanding—

for if we’d known, would we still choose?

Deception clouds our understanding,

for one to win, then one must lose.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Tuesday, January 18, 2022

On the Eve of the Wolf Moon

 “By the full moon’s light our desires we know.
By the waning quarter we ebb and flow…”
— Unknown 

The moon, our ever-constant companion, mysterious light in the darkness… goddess, night traveler, ruler of oceans— nearly all civilizations from ancient to modern have been captivated by you, following you, reveliing in your story. Cerridwen, Luna, Artemis, Selene, known by these and so many other names. Even our Native Americans had titles for the you— Wolf Moon, Snow Moon, Corn Moon, Hunter’s Moon—in your cycles through the heavens ruling the months and seasons. We gaze at you from afar, shadowing you, observing your transformation as you recede past full and transition into final quarter. Though you are slowly waning, your light still shines brighter than all of the other lights in the night sky. And as you transform, so your dominance on nature evolves with you. Even the mighty oceans and seas bend to your influence: the tides slipping now to Neap phase— a time of balance, a time of least difference between high and low water. Is it any wonder that we humans—who are composed of 77% water—may be governed by your changes as well; that your lunar body may indeed play a critical role in the tides of our consciousness?

We sense your changes deep in our souls. This is a time of releasing, a time of forgiveness, a time of cleaning up; of putting everything back into place and letting go of the emotional intensity of previous weeks.  During this disseminating phase the time arrives for us to reap the rewards of a job well done with celebration and accolade. As writers, we intuitively sense these cosmic changes deep within our being.  We reflect on them and are drawn to share them in our words—perhaps in the sharing to better understand the shifts and rifts, the effects of these changes inside us;  or perhaps to allow us to open our hearts and minds, discovering the pathways of our own release.  I know the allure, the call of your waning moon, have felt your invitation to release the pain of the past through words that rise from deep within me. And I have found myself adrift, caught in your Neap phase: a limbo with no “high” no “low,” lost somewhere between the ebb and flow.  

Oh pale-faced Huntress of Souls, we feel your command, convergence, confluence— with all of our being. You shine on the pathways our consciousness, and in your waning light we come to understand that all things have a season, and that all that fades will again be reborn.




Re: quote at beginning: it is an excerpt of a longer poem I discovered in my research. Sharing full poem below.  Credited to ‘Unknown’ author.  Here it is in full: 

Bide by the moon, follow her glow,
By the light of the new we renew and grow.
By the waxing quarter our determination shows,
By the full moon’s light our desires we know.
By the waning quarter we ebb and flow,
By the dark moon’s presence we return what we’ve sown.
Bide by the moon,
Follow her glow.


      *Chapter 7 Intro, Last Quarter Moon, 2016 "Poetry as a Spiritual Practice, Illuminating the Awakened Woman"

Monday, January 17, 2022

Bows and Strings


The fiddle player plays her tune

under violescent sky,

enrapt inside each note she plays

the player gently rocks and sways

and as the song grows more intense

she taps her toes, kicks up her heels

awakened by the bow and string

blithe inner-spirit now revealed.

For music calls our very soul

it lifts the weary when we’re low

it fells the dark that lives within

to heal; to make us whole again.

So is it really happenstance,

some ancient rite, forgotten lore;

or could it be the song and dance

that whispers to our very core

and lives inside us, evermore.


© Ginny Brannan 2022

"Challenged" by an Irish friend to write a poem that included the word fiddle, reveal and violescent, a word I'd never used but means as it sounds! 

Image: Máiréad Nesbitt Fiddle player from Celtic Woman

Saturday, January 15, 2022

Winter Castings


Image: C. Parant Appetite for Photos

I feel the chill of winter days 

it seeps through skin, infects the bones;

weighing heavy on the weak;

it leaves the weary to atone.

High on a hill, a leafless tree

stands by itself, a sentry,

the arctic blast seeks out its limbs

as much the same, it seeks my own.

The words don’t come so easily

perhaps I wallow in illusion

this hope of being whole again

nothing but a sad delusion.

Pip, pip, dear friends, stiff upper lip!

Such fear and angst are overblown!

The hollow echo of the wind

blows through the chambers, deep within,

reverberates now empty halls;

Yet no one hears the background noise

for each is busy with their own,

and I, I stand against the wind

and like the tree, I stand alone.


©Ginny Brannan 2022

Image: C.Parant, Used with permission.