"Champin" at the Gate...

My train of thought, at times, exceeds my writing

for words can’t bridge the gap from soul to mind

how often they lose context in their meaning

lost somewhere in their form and their design

 

Every day we circumvent restrictions

looking for the balance in our voice

every piece we write has our inflection

hidden somewhere in the background noise.

 

First an idea rises to the surface

then we decide if others will relate,

the words start coming faster, thoughts are racing

but just as quickly they can dissipate...

 

and there is no retrieving once they’ve vanished

 crippling us before we leave the gate.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023 

Don't Blink

 

We wouldn’t recognize them

to save our soul

they prefer to remain anonymous

hiding behind the banter

of every day;

till out of the blue,

in a simple act of grace,

their better angel appears.

No warning. No fanfare.

Blink, and you've missed it.

One. Random. Act. Of. Kindness.

making someone’s day—

hearing a need, following through,

bringing it to bear...

 

No visible wings, and certainly no halo

yet, for an instant,

pretty sure they were there...

 

Blink, and you'll miss 'em....

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Matthew 25:40

Ad Infinitum

The sum of the whole is less than all of its parts­–

it fades more with each passing hour, no rhyme

or reason. Maybe it’s the month, or the day, 

or just the way that time likes to slip away. 

No rest for the weary, nothing finds realization

as time folds in on us; completion calculated

by those whose expectations exceed our abilities.

Reality and insanity occupy the same timeline:

when it comes down to it, it’s all about time.

Time is not our friend. Only so many minutes in the day,

it’s always running away when there’s so much to do.

Everyone rushing to finish their tasks, no wonder

the days disappear, and nothing good lasts.

Another day, another dollar...more likely fifty cents,

after the taxes and bills are digested...

If this life is a test will we pass or fail?

I sit obsessing on the day that’s ahead

second-guessing the challenges yet to come

anticipating it to be the same as yesterday,

locked inside this loop of endless tedium.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023 

What's In A Name???

Virtually researching the meaning of my name–

(it’s always important to know who you are)

resisting the ever-present urge for self-depreciation

given though, that the actual name means 'maiden-like'

I think this definition now gets lost in translation...

not that I’m not "practically perfect in every way”

I will submit to add the following notation: 

“A long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away...”

© Ginny Brannan 2023

I have never been good at this, this writing

 

I have never been good at this, this writing

of my emotions, especially when writing of love—

it is such a personal thing to express; rooted

in the heart where words always fall short...

 

I might say that it feels like the sun 

on my skin, that I drink in the warmth of 

your smile— like a hummingbird drinks

from the delphinium, wings beating so fast

 

you can hardly perceive them, that’s how

my heart beats for you (surely you must

feel it too?)  And the way that your face lights up

when you’re laughing, which happens

 

more often than not. and how, without words

you can tell what I’m thinking, as you

answer me back with a nod and a wink

(your response has alluded a clue)

 

and so, I’m enamored with you. the larkspur’s in

bloom, taken root where it’s planted, and so then

the garden begins. and as the years pass which one

shall outlast; our love–––or the delphinium?

 

© ginny brannan 2023

 

Image Credit: Black Chinned Hummingbird with Foxglove & Delphinium by Susan Bourdet

Today's prompt calls for us to read a love poem by e.e. cummings, then write a love poem in similar style  that contains at least one flower, one parenthetical statement, and line breaks in unusual places.

Facts to note:  a hummingbird can flap it's wings up to 70 times per second. Delphinium and Larkspur are two names for the same plant. It is perennial that reseeds itself.

We Are Such Stuff As Dreams Are Made Of

 

Nothing’s ever truly as it seems...

while chancing what is real, or just a dream...

   ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

We are all made of dreams, 

and our life stretches from sleep 

before birth to sleep after death.’

And in the sweet repose of sleep

in the obscure caches of the deep,

Morpheus invites the weary guest

to dwell inside his underworld...

And somewhere in this in-between

where things aren’t always what they seem

and all that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream;

it’s easy to be mesmerized—

to fall under this tricksters spell

exchange our heaven for his hell.

In his empire of the deep

reality cedes itself to sleep­­

our corporeal being incomplete,

and what we know and how we feel

now unresolved to what is ‘real.’

Do you await inside this trance?

Is what we had just happenstance?

And if, perchance, we were to meet again

somewhere inside this godforsaken realm,

would we meet as lovers or as friends—

For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come?

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Shamelessly borrowed quotes from two of my favorites, Poe and Shakespeare, seen in Boldface.

Varying Shades of Verdigris

 

1.

It was a call I’d never heard before

sweet like the wren sings

not like the jackdaw, 

with his harsh “caw”

 

2.

The buds were just opening–

trees, so recently unclad, were

newly arrayed in ensembles

of verdant green.

 

3.

She walked through park

her eyes blazing 

from what she’d seen

 

I recognized the look:

envy and jealousy 

are cruel companions, 

their color notwithstanding.

 

4.

Gray and gnarled,

barren and fruitless

the lone sentinel stood

in defiance of her years.

 

5.

The last vestige of sunlight

lit up the mountainside,

hitting the uppermost branches

in a final blast of radiance.

Like courting lovers,

the shadows danced in

the burgeoning twilight

anticipating the darkness.

 

Do we see what we think we do,

   or only what we want to?

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Image taken by C.Parant, Appetite for Photos. Used with expressed permission.

 

In Praise of "Banned Books"

 

I lost my mom when I was seven

not knowing how different 

my life would be; yet I was still me.

I lived with my dad, surrounded

by aunts and friend’s moms

and teachers who guided me

in a town where everyone knew

us;  our families, parents, grandparents too.

I grew up in the era of civil rights and Kennedy

Vietnam, the Cold War, Charles Manson, LSD.

Our teachers encouraged us to read.

They planted the seeds that expanded

our own little corner of the world.

The Library’s Summer Reading Program was our passport

to learn of lives and cultures outside of our own, such as

—four orphaned siblings who create a home for themselves

    in an abandoned boxcar.

—the hardships of a Jewish girl in Nazi Germany

—the alleged guilt of a man of color, 

    a coming of age story about the roots and consequences

    of racism in the south.

—the life of two migrant workers, one slow in intelligence, 

    in California during the Great Depression

—the hard reality of a farmer and his wife from a village in China

    which opened my eyes to the inequality of women

    depicted through a different culture pre-WWII

I read the dark tales of Poe,

solved mysteries with Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes;

escaped into Science Fiction with Jules Verne and Ray Bradbury.

I walked from the Shire to Mordor and back

traveling through these stories to places different

—yet somehow the same—as my own.

To decide what children can or cannot read

based on your own biases, or the opinions of others, is unjustified.

If you believe, based on someone else’s word, that a book

is perverse or deviant, read it yourself first to find out.

As a parent or caregiver, it is your job to educate yourself

and discuss these matters with your children.

My son devoured stories from the time he began reading

often opening my eyes and mind to stories I had not yet read.

I am forever grateful to the teachers, the librarians, the adults

in my life,  for allowing me the freedom

to read: to expand my knowledge, my interests; to see 

life outside of where I lived,  so that I could

make informed decisions on who I wanted to be.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

Forever grateful to authors Gertrude Chandler Warner, Anne Frank, Harper Lee, John Steinbeck,  Pearl S. Buck, Edgar Allan Poe, Carolyn Keene, Jules Verne, Ray Bradbury, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, J.R.R. Tolkien, just to name a few,  and Alice Walker, Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, and all the authors of my adult life, too. Too many to mention, but forever appreciated.

Courage

 

They say fear

is the

 absence

of courage.

I say

not absence:

"motivation."

 

We are

afraid to live

afraid to love

afraid to leave

afraid to return

afraid to do

afraid to be.

 

Courage whispers– 

tells us 

"We can do this"

not only can

but must....

tells us 

"The only way 

forward, 

is through..."

 

And so, 

heart beating,

knees shaking,

we move...

First one step.

Then another.

Then another;

foredriven.

 

With naught to lose

everything to gain

we saddle up,

gear up,

step up;

most important:

never

give up.

 

Tell me again,

what are we

afraid of?

© Ginny Brannan

Tracking the Bleepin' Box

 

As they arrive on this bleak little place

that circles the planet of some long ago race

They pickup the image of something unknown

so they seek the anomaly that they've been shown

 

Geared in their suits, with shields ‘cross their eyes

with little for shade but a crater nearby,

their orders quite clear, to retrieve and retreat.

Then head home again with their mission complete.

 

Their radar emitted an ominous sound

a beeping and bleeping meant to confound

it finally led to another deep crater

at the South Pole, nowhere near the equator

 

The markings were strange on the package they found

it was filled with odd discs, neither square nor quite round

their translator thought it an archive of sorts

full of writing, and artwork, and other recordings

 

On the trip back to their own galaxy

they took it apart to see what they’d see,

and what they discovered left them dumfounded,

I guess you could say they were even astounded!

 

The capsule they found, and all that was stored

were by artists and writers they’d heard of before,

This box once thought lost, was finally found

they were somewhat familiar with it’s sights and the sounds

 

Those with keen vision and infinite wisdom

insured that their stories lived past their existence.

and long ago saw that these works were archived

and sent to this place with the hope they’d survive.

 

And so the descendants have vowed to preserve

the treasures brought back to this place called “New Earth”

© Ginny Brannan 2023

The prompt for Day 20 Explore a particular object or place from the point of view of some far-off, future scientist.

I chose a project close to my heart: a Lunar Codex time capsule!

Proud to have 5 anthologies with my poetry heading to the moon on the third capsule.

For Griffin Mission 1 (GM1) - which will carry the Codex'sthird time capsule Polaris - a stacked analog-digital storage system is used.
 This consists of alternating layers of nickel shielding, NanoFiche memory discs, and digital memory cards, optimizing capacity and archival longevity.

​Digital, analog, and hybrid time capsules will again be contained in a single sealed MoonBox canister bolted to the lunar lander's structure. The Griffin lander becomes a permanent marker of the location for the Polaris collection of the Lunar Codex.

To learn more, follow the link here: Lunar Codex

Into the Woods

 

Over the fence posts and down past the pines

where the woods open up and the pathway unwinds

by the pond that is nestled so deep in the trees

comes the sound of the Peepers, they’re singing for me!

The folks in the city haven’t a clue–

barking and shouting are theirs for review.

No song from the tree frogs after a shower

or scent from the buds that have burst into flower;

or the smell of damp earth as it waits for the seed,

or the chirp of new babies eager to feed.

Yet for me, it’s the Peepers—when I hear them sing

 that confirms, unequivocally, that it’s finally Spring!

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Alphabet "Coup"

 

All are welcome here, where

beauty is an 'absolute;'

children are born to recognize it.

Discrimination is always taught, but never sought.

 

Everyone is welcome here.

'Fear' is just another game

garnered and used by those whose

hate predisposes their biases.

 

I am welcome here.

Justice isn’t always just:

killers kill by passing bills, they

leave behind our hope and trust.

 

My enemies are welcome here;

nowhere is safe unless we make it so.

Opposites attract, yet sometimes they repel.

“Pride” is more than joy in our achievements.

 

Queers are welcome here– gays, trans, bi and all who are marginalized,

Republicans, Democrats; how long till we realize that we’re all the same?

Shame on those who criticize, seeking out to blame–

talking, speaking words of hate meant only to defame. 

 

Understanding others is what we’re called to do; to

victimize the marginalized only speaks of you.

Women have the right to choose; children just to live–

Xenophobes and all the “phobes” must change their narrative.

 

You are welcome here (at least for now!)

Zealots with a zeal for “hate” are no longer allowed.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

Today, NaPoWriMo 18, we are called to write an Alphabet Poem. The first letter all the way down the lines are the 26 letters of our alphabet, in order.