Where the Demons Hide

 

You may think that I’ve forgotten

the petty insults and the hate,

the way you’d whisper and berate

with words that cut and left a scar.

And though I don’t dwell in the past

I still remember who you are.

Time passes and things aren’t the same.

I wonder if you even knew

how much those taunts inflicted pain

and who I see when I see you.

We grow older, life moves on...

Do you remember us as friends?

I try to view who you are now

and not the person you were then,

but not all pain can be erased

still waiting for these scars to fade

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Can't See the Tree for the Forest...

 

I used to wonder what would happen

in the realm of never be’s

as I contemplated what we were

I to you, and you to me...

a simple little game I’d play

just to while the hours away.

Now I listen to the tales you share

and what they might inveigh,

and realize it’s foolish

to play this game I play.

In the forest of each life

there are many trees

it’s difficult to sort them out

once they’ve shed their leaves,

or to know how deep their roots are

by the broken limbs you see.

And I realize it’s grueling
to get back in the game

where everything’s ambiguous

and things are not the same.

And you’re so giddy with the prospect

of finding something new

that you can’t see past the forest

for the tree in front of you.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Warriors

 

Here’s to all who stand their ground

protecting our democracy—

ever firm, we won’t back down.

 

When evil scores, as battles mount

from leaders with myopathy,

here’s to all who stand their ground.

 

On days when daylight can’t be found

we’ll not cede to despondency...

ever firm, we won’t back down.

 

While faced by storms we can’t surmount

the open hate, misogyny;

here’s to all who stand their ground.

 

The autocrats will wane, uncrowned,

exposed through their hypocrisy;

ever firm, we won’t back down.

 

So as the battle cries resound

in this skirmish for autonomy;

here’s to all who stand their ground

– ever firm, we won’t back down.

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Image:

June 22,1916 E Company going to Eagle Pass, TX, WWI

Historic Photos - Bellows Falls, VT and surrounding area. Used with expressed permission from Charles Parant, owner of site.

How Still the Strings

 

Sits the guitar upon its stand

awaiting player's gentle hand

to strum the chords and coax the songs

knowing well how it responds.

In silence now, how still the strings,

and yet, your words are echoing...

no one who’s loved is ever gone

in each of us, their song lives on.

 

We weren’t that close, you and I.

Not really, not in the scheme of things.

Though we knew each other all our lives,

you were always someone who

skated on the outskirts of my existence:

small town, same schools, mutual friends.

Eventually we both moved away

moving onward and outward to live life.

We would bump into each other

on those occasions when we were called back

to relive our high school memories;

or in those moments of mutual celebration or loss.

I never told you how much your kind words meant

during my own loss; how they felt like a warm arm 

around my shoulder; a gentle reminder 

that even in distance we are not alone.

No, we really weren’t that close, 

but in a sense you’ve always been there

somewhere on the edge, on the periphery.

Two kids who shared a certain kinship...

 

and I am better for the knowing of you.

© Ginny (Karpinski) Brannan 2024

Godspeed, my friend...

In the "Here and Now"

You have no idea of the dark places I’ve been

how it took all I have to crawl out of them

I pray you never have to deal, never feel

such loss. But then we all have felt it, haven’t we?

In one way, or another, we all know the cost.

I hear your ‘sorrys,’ your apologies, 
your “I don’t know what I’d ever dos.”

All I know is we put one foot in front of the other.

And we endure.  And we get through.

Don’t mistake my quietness for sadness,

nor my laughter for indifference.

Life moves on and so do we.

We learn to smile more, to hug more. to share our hearts more.

Because when given the choice to curl up in a corner

and close out the world, or to live, 

I will take ‘life’ every time.

I don’t know what lies around the next bend, 

but I know what I have, 

and I know who I am.

And for now, that's enough! 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Meting My Needs

 

I carry so much inside of this heart

sometimes I feel it will burst.

I am not patient; ruminating anxiously,

watching, wondering what holds the key?

And I do my best to keep moving forward

pondering if second-chances

are based in reality, or if they’re a myth

that we tell ourselves to keep on keepin’ on.

Joy is gleaned in all of  the small moments.

Hope carried on the fringes of those moments,.

But the light that we that seek,

the love that we reach for,

isn’t always as forthcoming.

We may feel its warmth from time to time,

a will-o-the wisp that rests for a heartbeat

then moves on, leaving us wanting for more.

It’s hard to find stability in an unstable world,

to feel confidence when nothing is sure.

Our want for companionship seems impossible to obtain,

but the need to find love, to give love, to be loved still remains.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

*Meting = measuring

 

Festering

 

You’re caught up in all of the stories you’re told

you watch every day as the falsehoods unfold

there’s no turning back and you will not concede

must stick to the plan now, there is no retreat

 

The barrage of deceit is your one recompense

streamed on a loop that doesn’t make sense

while you share fabrications you barely believe,

to admit you are wrong would accede to defeat

 

Contradictions and "fictions" mount by the score;

each new day bringing dozens more–

your mind’s lost in some kind of atrophy

while you wallow in ignorance, blissfully

 

And you can’t give it up and you won’t give in

to deny your support is a brazen sin

submerging yourself in hypocrisy

while trading out kindness for bigotry.

 

So we march to a place we did not foresee

full of unrestrained hate and brutality

fraught in our fears and uncertainty

inside this contentious reality.

 

How does one admit that the trail they chose

is tainted, as slowly their souls decompose

in a casket of misplaced morality

decaying inside of their own piety

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Inside the Cadence of Friendship

 

The date, once set, is sacrosanct;

we need this time together,

this gentle reminder of who we are.

where we’ve come from —

that despite all we’ve been through

we are still here.

The ties that bind are many and varied,

but the love? That is our constant.

We are healed in each other’s presence,

made whole again by our stories and laughter

by our words, by music, by camaraderie.

Within this haven of kinship

in the company of those

who have seen our worse, know our best, 

and like us in spite of ourselves,

we are safe to speak of our dreams,

of our hopes and desires,

of our worries and fears—

free to be ourselves.

And it is in the cadence of our friendship that we shine,

carrying each other’s light within us

until we meet again.

 

© GB 2024

 

Top photo: Google Images

Bottom photo by author.

Sing It Loud!

 

I’ve always been the quiet one, the observer,

happy to bury my voice in the crowd;

not wanting to draw too much attention

not daring to express myself out loud.

Not brave to speak of my actual feelings

content to let all others shine,

I took to heart your “Don’t make waves”

till everything I said was filtered

ever with that thought in mind.

But comes a time when voices matter

no matter how off-tune we sing

it’s not the quality of sound

but the honesty of which we bring

So shout out from the highest rooftops

make your voice heard in that crowd

even if we don’t sing well

we can do our best to sing it “loud.”

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Image from Google Images. Multiple sources listed, unable to pin down to give credit to just one.

 

A New "Hope"

With each word uttered,

I watch him diminish and fade.

His voice becoming white noise

–like so many others, whose self-proclaimed

 self-importance dissipates.

Fleeting. 

A brief glimmer.  A will-o-wisp. 

A passing ghost ship in the night.

How long is hate sustainable? 

How long can all the lies be denied?

The country awakens from a deep sleep. 

Hope takes hold.

Like a train, it picks up speed. 

Like an avalanche, a force of nature

sweeping up the undecided in its path.

Incomparable. 

Unstoppable. 

Its beauty reflected in the faces of all races,

stunning to silence the hardcore racists.

Denial and dissonance no longer holding sway.

Hope.

Can you feel it?

And, more importantly,

can you believe it?

Anger holds no place here..

Bigotry holds no place here.

The orange veil has been lifted. We see the little man

behind the curtain for who he is,

All "smoke and mirrors"

There is no magic. There is no power.

We, we the people, hold the power, don’tcha know? 

It’s been inside us all along!

 © Ginny Brannan

Unfinished Pages

 

We’ve always had rapport, you and I–

a tongue-in-cheek way of coming at something,

an understanding based on similar youths 

in dissimilar settings. We seem to share so

many parallel congruities (but perhaps I project 

inside of my own wishful thinking).

Romance is alive and well in that damaged heart of yours

filled with the angst of lost love from long ago

and the dream of some connection that you hope to find.

I, too, seek connection as I read between the lines.

Yet I am pragmatic; it’s doubtful that someone like you

would ever pen a word or two with someone like me in mind.

We create our stories using subtle vagaries, 

meting out those tiny bits that we wish to share.

But somewhere in the margins

                                         or deep within the fold,

perhaps another story’s waiting to be told?

 

I have often wondered of this image that you paint

–the broken man still searching for redemption–

someone always seeking/never finding what they need,

inked in words of vagueness and ambiguity.

Is this persona that you share just some fantasy?

Has it been a lie from its inception?

Leaving me to ponder of my own uncertainty

or if there's something more in our connection?

Another blank page lying here between us–

       What shall we write?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Just another tale filled with vague references, plot holes, unrequited feelings, and no happy ending.

 

Because Sometimes

 

To put into words how we feel in a moment

is like trying to launch a balloon in the wind

to chase after something just out of reach

that dances and teases hither and there

with no malice aforethought and nary a care.

And it stirs something dormant that dwells deep inside

where rebellion and wisdom and passion reside.

Yet we're loath to let go of this image we’ve fostered

nor let someone see us, naked and bare

so we hide in the clutter of daily achievements

lest someone discover the truth hidden there.

And the path that we walk is all littered with trifles

subconscious  rejections: a fence if you will—

to keep heart protected from meaningless prattle,

locked in the past with time standing still.

Sometimes I sift through the words that you’ve written

–your subtle seductions with ink and a quill–

for the slightest inflection that intimates more

coded inside a well-thought metaphor...

So write of your darkness, the weight on your shoulders

of  light that you search for, of love you have lost;

each of us bears up the best that we can

life is unkind and we both know the cost

The cravings we carry aren’t quilled in just words

but are quickly dismissed by scars we’ve incurred

and neither sees past all the forks and the turns,

to surrender to risk, just to be burned.

So we ever politely forego and abstain

lest we sully this pretense that we have retained.

© Ginny Brannan 2024

 

A Lot Like Fear

 

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

  — C.S. Lewis

 

Grief is like being a dark tunnel, the light so far away

that you don’t know if you will ever reach it again...

Each ‘sorry’ echoes and amplifies in your head.

constant reminders of that loss,

—as if you need a reminder—

There are physical manifestations: 

a weight in the shoulders, a knot in the neck, tightness in the chest. 

You scuff and shuffle along,  going through the motions

trying to keep up the illusion of being okay.

There’s panic: the voice in your head screaming “What’s next?”

And the ongoing scrutiny of others constantly assessing you;

the ever present “How are you doing? “No, how are you really doing?”

—How the Hell do you think I’m doing?

You see, grief feels a lot like anger, too.

– Anger at God for unanswered prayer

– Anger at the world for continuing to turn despite your loss

– Anger at the one who’s gone for leaving

– Anger at yourself for being unable to stop it

Sadness, pain, loneliness, anger; the four horsemen of death and loss...

 

  and yes, grief does indeed feel a lot like fear

© Ginny Brannan 2024

About that River...

 

Today we were enlightened by a new discovery

what we heard conflicting with what many had believed–

in corroborating statements by those sworn to tell the truth

a tale began unfolding of a man we thought we knew.

The picture that it painted was indicative of crime

of payments and of cover-ups written over time

and with so plot twists, it boggled all our minds.

Defaming judge and jury, contra to his views

asserting his rebuttals, calling it “fake news”

and there amid such damning proof, so many in denial,

leaving me to question if they understood the trial?

And we are left to wonder, “How long can this go on?”

with such compelling evidence and proof that he’s done wrong...

exposing to the public what’s clearly plain to see,

that he has finally turned into his own worst enemy.

 

© GB 2024

Endurance Testing

 

nothing around me

nothing about me

nothing within me 

nothing to grasp

what to hold onto

when all else escapes me

nothing’s forthcoming

and nothing will last

I wait for an answer

and look to the heavens

but there is no inkling

to what is the key;

some say it’s God-sent

or comes from within us

my vessel is empty

there’s nothing to see.

there’s no light that shines

at the end of this tunnel

your words have no meaning

they’re just cursory.

alone on this path 

without rhyme or reason

that many have travelled

long before me

There must be some limit

some end to this testing

a way to deter it

some way to insure

that for all that we carry

and all that we’re put through

that we’ll be rewarded

for what we endure

 

© ginny brannan 2024

Slow Dancing

 

The rhythm’s in my head, 

my feet tap tap tap to the beat

my lips mouth the words

it’s the end of the day and we sway

to this dance (take a chance)

my head insists (take a risk)

I just don’t know (take it slow)

but the scars on the heart, they insist.

Will it grow? Will it bloom in profusion?

Is it real? Or is it just an illusion—

a chimera, a lark? Or some other delusion?

An undertow? (If I let my guard down will I drown?)

Do I stay? Disembark? (Is it wise to restart?)

Is there a trace (A glimmer? A spark?)

in your words, in the lines you earmark?

As my heart beat, beat, beat, beat, beats like a drum

it resonates, while I succumb to the thrum...

I guard the line (Do you want me to go?)

Or take a chance (How will I know?)

Shall we dance?

  (take it fast) 

   (take it slow)

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

 

Between Eternities

 

I’m on a road that I’ve not travelled in such a long, long time

the signs are unfamiliar, my map is obsolete

feeling apprehension with each new turn and bend

not sure if I’ll ever get back home again.

Not getting any younger, but sometimes I pretend

wallowing in darkness just isn’t who I am

yet I can feel the shadows on the periphery

wondering, as always, if they come for me.

So I paint my pretty pictures of all the things I do

omitting how the quiet times, the emptiness, accrues–

for others like it better when we hide our broken parts

cover up the ugly scars, the trauma to our hearts.

So should you search the subterfuge looking for a sign

picking through the boneyard of the words I leave behind

perhaps another traveler just searching for their home,

take comfort in the knowledge that you are not alone

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Drug of Choice

 

I’m filled with conjecture 

yet at a loss for words–

the ink’s run out the well’s run dry

this is where it ends.

But it’s like a bite that itches

waiting to be scratched,

a muscle twitch I can’t control

and sometimes, it’s a high.

Mostly it’s my drug of choice

the pen is my syringe

a blank page waits in front of me

and I begin again.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

NaPoWriMo Day 30: Read that it's about beginnings and endings, or endings and beginnings. This is where my words went with it.

An Elegy for Lost Values

 

I reserve a certain sadness for what I leave behind

I've always had a hard time letting go...

an albatross around my neck, a rope that chafes and binds

secret and clandestine,  all things are intertwined.

I'm searching for a bright light, an incandescent glow

with self-effacing honesty expressing what I know...

yet cold and Machiavellian, the soothsayer some seek

his doctrine antithetical to everyone's beliefs.

Often viewed mercurial, his moods change like the wind;

no altruistic tendencies,  no kindness to rescind.

I mourn the ruination of all who’ve lost their soul;

then buttoning my cardigan, I brace against the cold.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

NaPoWriMo Day 29 Prompt: To use one of the following words in a poem:clandestine, Machiavellian, incandescent, altruism, self effacing, albatross, antithetical, mercurial, elegy, cardigan I chose some form of all of them 

TY to TS for challenging our vocabularies with her brilliant use of words.