In the Still Hours

 

“But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy! 

Still you are blessed, compared with me! The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary! 

And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear! “

                 Excerpt ‘To a Mouse’ by Robert Burns
 
The empty house is quiet now

it echoes sounds from Christmas past

of footsteps running down the hall,

the moments that we thought would last.

The frost lays heavy on the sill

to set upon us winter’s chill,

no children’s giggles filled with mirth

or Christmas greetings of goodwill.

The stillness breaks, another dawn

our children grow to leave the nest

to make new memories of their own–

as roles reverse and are recast.

A star still shines from highest bough

traditions passed from mom to son,

and in the baubles on the tree

images of yesterdays

filled with love and family...

and so it is we pass baton

and watch them leave, and carry on.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

*The piece by Robert Burns is written in heavy Scottish dialect, and while a pleasure to read and see in original form, it is a difficult read to translate and grasp, so I chose the English translation.

All the Paths We Do Not Choose

Happiness is not a given, it is a choice.

We all carry the weight of our years,

the ache of our losses and so many tears.

We can wallow there, condemning

others for our lot. Curse the ones who

got us here, the children who’ve forgotten us,

the bosses who have fired us, and all the

things we’re not.  We can flounder in oblivion

drink till we pass out; pop pills, shoot up

and waste away, really, who can blame us? 

Harder still to face the day when every day

it’s raining. When you take to heart what

others say and wish you could contain them.

I’ve always thought the best revenge is to 

live the life we’re meant to, for even at

our very worse, feeling empty, feeling cursed

when we think we won’t get through, 

we still can find potential.

Just reflect on where we’ve been and the fact 

that we’re still standing, despite

the threats to take us down 

and the demons we’re combating.

There is a strength inside of us, we 

only have to find it. But it’s up to us to come 

to terms, and put our past behind us.

 

One minute, one hour, one day at a time.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

 

Footnotes

It is a heavy tome I carry

filled with people I have known

in this space where they exist,

their stories bound into my own.

Perhaps that’s why in dreams I tarry

inside this place where we connect;

so many now no longer here 

are carried in this book I bear.

The days weigh heavy on these shoulders

I sometimes feel that I can’t breathe;

the years spin by as I grow older,

and life keeps sifting though this sieve.

What hands once held slips though these fingers

I reach for things I cannot grasp,

and so it is I‘ve come to know

that nothing ever stays or lasts.

There won't be any double-takes

the years we live can’t be reprised,

perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to linger 

in this space behind closed eyes.

When we’re gone, what will remain?

Where is it that our stories go?

Will we appear in someone’s dreams

...existing in the afterglow

   of this life we used to know

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Things That Go Bump in the Night

 

Soft footsteps echo through the empty hall

to startle me awake from dreamless sleep

as ghostly shadows dance along the wall

 

Ever cautiously so I don’t fall,

across the barren oaken floor I creep

toward the sound of footsteps in the hall

 

Over gabled roof a Screech owl calls

before escaping into woodlands deep

while limb-like shadows creep along the wall

 

By the bedroom door I pause, then stall­–

the aging floor condemns with a loud 'creak'

to warn approaching footsteps in the hall

 

I wonder if I have the wherewithal

to crack the door a bit and take a peak,

while shadows hold their council on the wall

 

I think back under covers I shall crawl

inside my blanket shroud I’ll burrow deep;

hidden from the footsteps in the hall

and those shadows, ever watchful, on the wall.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Between Hostility and Humanity

 

I see their images shared

the sweet little blonde girl taken from family,

the little boy in a Spiderman costume

no family left to mourn him

  no one left to call Kaddish.

    no one to sit Shiva.

Some are collateral damage

others taken with intent

meant to inflict maximum damage;

scorched earth policies in a land

already burned by desert sun 

and too many years of conflict.

There is no place safe from those

intent on doing such harm; no words 

to quell the loathing and madness

that births such heinous acts: 

militant groups filled with rancor and vitriol

defined by being selectively blind 

to the pain and the suffering they leave behind.

Hate begets hate in this land

of an ‘eye for an eye’ reputation, of

biblical vengeance and ramifications,

where double-edged swords

cut to the bone and no one

is safe, no one is left unscathed.

Too many years of resentment have honed

this building enmity, and frayed the fabric of the land.

And we, we talk the talk of civilized nations

while bearing our own conflicted emotions

wondering where we are on this scale between

hostility and humanity, probably closer than 
we realize to the ones we deem "savages."

And we pray, in our ‘holier than thou” way, 

that we never grow numb, that we never succumb

to the baser extremes of raping women

or murdering innocents in the streets.

So look upon these obscene attacks

with eyes wide open, with your heart still intact,

and remember that there, but for the grace of God 

(or whoever you believe in and pray to) 

goes each and every one of us.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

       

My heart aches for the children of Israel, the innocents wounded, taken, killed in the attack perpetrated by the group known as Hamas. I see posts every day shared by a dear friend here in the U.S., and my heart breaks for her loss of family and friends. Hate groups that exact revenge on innocents do so to inflict their terror and scare others into submission. It is neither acceptable nor condonable, and all of good heart must condemn such actions or we are no better than they.

For AZ and those lost that she carries in her heart.

 

It Probably Wouldn't Work Anyways

 

The seed of a thought has planted itself

in a niche somewhere deep in my brain

it whispers of some kind of normalcy

and murmurs of new possibilities

the idea of which both frightens me,

and lifts from the pain that remains.

Still, I question of the practicality 

of pondering such triviality.

it probably wouldn’t work anyways

and inside of this current reality

any hope that I hold feels in vain.

Yet the idea persists, won’t cease or desist,

it even appears in my dreams–

it’s hard to ignore as it plays tug o’ war

insists on existing despite my resisting

rattling me to my core.

It’s not like we don’t have rapport,

yet this doesn’t adhere to the norm...

it takes on theme that isn’t mainstream;

but at this stage, must we conform?

And it might cause a few heads to turn–

I weigh that, while trying to make sense.

It waffles between established routine

taking us both to a different extreme

both exciting and pretty intense.

Have I ever mentioned that I over-think things

no matter how large or how small?

I hash and rehash them and sometimes I save them

take out, think about, and sometimes replace them

while weighing the risks and pitfalls.

And I’ve thought all this out, six ways to Sunday

and won't argue for or against...

so if it gets awkward, well what can I say?

If one of us chooses to just walk away?

 At least we both came to the dance.

© GB 2023

"No Soup for You"

 

It was just a little thing,

the way you read my mind–

probably coincidence

or planetary confluence

no reason or no rhyme.

It was just a little thing

how the words took their own meaning

as if you sensed my deepest thoughts

and knew what I was feeling.

It was just a little thing

no truth or consequences

but for a moment it felt real

some universal prescience

and I, the pawn who stumble on

searching for some relevance

holding the last bastion

just to find indifference

provision without sustenance

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

*Title credit to the TV series "Seinfeld," a quote from the episode called "The Soup Nazi" who demands a strict regimen to order his famous soups. "No soup for you" the retort given if you do not follow his rules.

The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants...

 

Where do your dreams go when they wander free?

Do they settle on one time or place,

or stumble the path of unfamiliarity

where past and present coexist, 

but future is a point far in the distance?

And I wonder when you dream, if you see a face?

Is it someone from long, long ago?

Or someone you might like to know?

Most paths we choose don’t follow set rules

no straight lines to get there from here

filled with twists, turns and bends, forks and dead ends

so we test out the waters, dipping our toes, 

deciding if we should dive in.

Sometimes I dream of someone I’ve known

but often I don’t dream at all,

searching for clarity inside of disparity

it’s no wonder we pause or forestall—

so I’ll ask, noncommittally, without any bias:

    Where do your fantasies fall?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

When I Was Loved

 

When I was loved I never had any fear

strength and security surrounded me

gray days seemed brighter, this heart lighter

with the knowledge that I was not alone

 

Time gives, but then it takes away

all the things we thought would last,

slowly swallowing the past

and we adapt as best we can...

as we wait in the wings for the last curtain call

and that starless night that consumes us all

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

For Me, Alone

There is a song that I can hear

the words have faded, not as clear

as in my youth, yet there’s a truth,

    and I am listening.

 

I remember when we called it ours

our stories written in each line

as I awaken with the dawn

they disappear, until they're gone

 

An empty heart looks for release

inside the memories it cleaves

as it searches for reprive,  

without goodbye, without reply

 

A writer cannot write a song

nor can they fill an empty page

unless they’ve walked the broken path 

where nothing’s left, and nothing lasts

 

I float inside this empty space

in no specific time or place

and I'm still searching for the song

the tune that's meant for me, alone

     and I am listening

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

River Walk

 We walk along the river path in silence

as sun slips ever lower in the west–

inside the quiet stillness old friends share

the kind that needs no plumage to impress,

each one of us relaxed in our own skin

not needing to break silence to express.

 

Maxfield Parrish clouds reflect the light,

their soft pastels are mirrored in the stream

incognizant of anything that’s passed

yesterday, today, the years between...

Who knew that such camaraderie would last?

It’s surely nothing any had foreseen.

 

Bright orange ball slips down behind the hills

that wrap this town inside their warm embrace.

On the street, the traffic holds its breath

as our footfalls metronome at faster pace....

the darkening sky a tense diaphragm,

while we say goodbye and go our separate ways.

 

It’s funny how some lives are interlaced,

transcending the confines of time and space.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

This one was prompted by one of the Poetry sites I still read. Of course I forged ahead, then went back to the prompt to find I missed one important thing, to include the two lines  (well, one line actually) somewhere in the body of the poem. 

 

‘Traffic holding its breath,

Sky a tense diaphragm’

I did, sort of, though I split it. And I kind of paraphrased the first line. These lines were an afterthought, and it shows. But I gave it a shot. Oh, and exactly 144 words as required. Good practice!

Here is a link to the prompt at DVerse Poets Pub

*Image: Maxfiled Parrish print, Vermont Sunset at Ascutney (clouds reflecting on Connecticut River)

Out of Tune

 

Did you ever see someone tune a guitar by ear?

How they hear each note with clarity

and know just where to turn the key?

Writers do that with their words

with nuance or a turn of phrase,

with hidden meanings, obfuscation

that plays to reader’s speculation.

I read the songs that you compose

knowing that the notes aren’t mine,

hoping that someday I’ll find

an aria inspired by me.

Until that happens, I’m resigned

to drift your ambiguity;

exploring cadence in your lines

I listen for the melody, 

hoping for the smallest sign

that indicates the song is mine.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Dance the Light

 

It’s been a long time since I’ve walked

along the road where happiness lives...

the path is filled with weeds, and grass so high

it’s gone to seed.  If I look real close

can still see the stones that line it.

There used to be a clear line to the door–

funny how I can't see it anymore

The wooden gate hangs by one hinge, and

everything’s in disrepair. It’s not that I no longer

care,  just perhaps not as much as I once did

The house is filled with creaks and moans

and echoes of  the joys it held.

The single hatchling’s up and flown;

and so I find I’m on my own, just

watching dust motes dance the light

and trusting all will be alright

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Be the Fire

 

When your gleam has lost its shine

as you wander through the dark

and you cannot seem to find

a bit of kindling for your spark,

I’ll meet you in your twilight space

I’ll join you in that darkened realm

and find the embers that you hide

not gone, but just obscured inside

and stir the light that brings you home.

 

And when you find that I’m burnt out

can’t see the sunlight for the rain

stumbling through a cloud of doubt

where all my efforts are in vain,

you drive away the seeds of fear

remind me that I’m not alone

and in the dankness of such days

you are the match that sets the blaze

to light my way on paths unknown.

 

Each of us has gotten lost

inside the vacuum of our souls

where everything exacts a cost

and leaves us aimless in our roles.

No matter what this life ingrains

nothing ever stays the same,

we're at the mercy of the tender

who searches ash for dying ember

to rouse the cinders that remain

so once more we can be the flame.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Anatomy of a Dream

I dreamed that we met, not 

by chance but with intent.

We shared the instant familiarity

of two old friends with common threads,

and an incredible sense of intimacy

for we have already bared ourselves 

through our words: I know your sadness, 

and you have seen me naked in my grief.

So we met, not as some pimply-faced teens, 

giddy with the prospect of holding hands

or “will he or won’t he kiss me?”

but as two adults, self-aware, who’ve lived 

their share of heartache and pain.

It's not our first dance, but perhaps another

chance to hear the music once again.

 

It’s funny how our dreams are formed:

some we remember and some we don’t

some dream in color, and some say they

never dream at all; perhaps they just don’t recall.

They say dreams reveal our unspoken wishes

no filters imposed by the cognizant mind

our synapses fire at incredible rates, and

we cannot control what visions they’ll rend.

In dreams we can find our heart’s one desire,

or trip crossing lines that we do not intend;

as we search for a meaning that isn't forthcoming

before resolution, the dream always ends.

© Ginny Brannan 2023