Time and Tide

Unpretentiously, she enters a room

eyes no longer lift to acknowledge her 

there is no effecting command,

no second glance warranted.

Time takes who we were,

until those we know

no longer recognize us .

Yet inside, we do not change.

Hope is but a chimera perceived by those 

who’ve bought into the illusion.

There was always a ready smile behind the mask,

and eyes that danced in the place where the crickets still sing,

yet now she’s seen akin to the years she carries...

the clock ever ticking,  minutes, hours

days, years—ever forward.

She tiptoes in the sand and wonders 

if there really is some master plan.

She waits for time to pass, 

for change at last, for a stir in the wind…

 

where do we end and someone else begins?

where do we go when we close our eyes?

who do we become when who we’ve been disappears?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Past Participles

 

The past is in the past

we never have looked back

our lives already cast—

but in the quietude

when I can’t fall asleep

I recall a time 

from that place where memories steep.

Under this façade, 

where all is status quo

sometimes I have pondered;

—but things are what they are

and what was meant to be

has already unfolded.

O, how we skirt our truth

when speaking of our youth,

it’s better not to say…

 when words diminish memories

    and just get in the way

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

In her "Glory" days . . .

She’d wear her hair tied with a bow

a bit of lipstick applied, just so

some jewelry to accessorize

and she’d stop and chat when passing by.

Had no children of her own

but kept a dog when she was home;

she’d left it in a dear friend’s care

and both would come to visit there.

That was in her glory days

before time stole her memories.

I choose to remember the her of “then”

to see her smiling face again:

upon her lap, her dear pup lies–

there’s no more sadness in her eyes.

We each have our own cross to bear

a twisted path from here to there,

we do our best because we must

before we fall apart and rust.

I believe when this life’s done-

that a new one is begun—

a place we shall meet again...

until then, rest in peace, my friend.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

*Image: Google images. Representative for depiction only, not actual subject of poem.

Hello, Cutie!

I hear the squeak of the chair 

   as he enters my office—

“Hello,Cutie! Can I have a coffee?”

His smile is infectious!

Some days, he reminisces.

Most days, he is focused on his coffee,

...and sometimes, the person behind it.

Kindness truly is the “universal” language…

and those smiles—both given and received—

          the best reward!

© Ginny Brannan 2019

One of my tasks at work is to serve coffee to those who ask. We used to have it out for folks to help themselves, but for safety reasons it has to be served now. "Barista" is my new middle name! (Or "Cutie." I'll answer to that too!)

Carefully tiptoeing HIPAA guidelines here: No name, no age, or identifying markers.

As you are now, so once was I…

Google Images: '70's Teens

I remember the days were longer then—

the skies bluer; the load lighter;

we held the future in our fingertips.

That was long ago,

    when time ran slow…

Now we’re status quo,

    go with the flow—

tripping along a perpetual loop

trying to eke out a living —

wondering where our innocence went.

I still can recall

    how we were going to change the world.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Casualties

We were young then,

kids really…unrefined;

awkward, selfish, ignorant, blind—

stumbling along toward destinations unknown

leaving behind a smattering of fractured hearts

on the shard-strewn road to adulthood.

I could blame it on our innocence,

youthful fear or ignorance

but nothing would be gained.

You and I were never meant to be,

just casualties on the pathway to maturity.

Yet, I'm sorry if I caused you pain.

And I, in turn, have not been left unscathed—

and so forgive the ones who’ve done the same.

For you, who from my past I still recall,

amid the many memories eroding

on the convoluted paths from there to here,

that we even crossed at all is worth our noting.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Keep On Keepin’ On…

There’s a certain age when young turns old

when mind locks closed

when forward thought no longer progresses…

when the train stops at the station

and lingers until the wheels rust

and the engine seizes.

I refuse to take a seat on this ride to nowhere.

Life has more to offer than being stuck

in a room with only one view.

There are stories to hear, points to ponder,

discussions to share…

there are paths to wander

  and so many people to get to know

—perhaps too many for just one lifetime.

We all have choices to make, we can

keep moving forward until our very last breath.

  Or we can rust on the tracks. 

What's your pleasure?

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Image: Google Images, Old Abandoned Railroad Equipment on YouTube

The Time Thief

There’s this man I’ve come to know

he stops each day to say hello

he stays for just a little while

with gentle voice and ready smile.

The Time Thief’s taken quite a lot

so many things now he’s forgot;

and though he still recalls the past

he isn’t sure what he did last.

His lovely wife arrived here first

and he, for better or for worse

came to join her, followed suit—

unhappy, yes,  but resolute.

 He struggles now to understand

this place he’d never thought he’d land.

His voice grows quiet, fades away…

forgetting what he wants to say.

a shadow furrows his thin brow,

then he returns to here and now.

He smiles, then he says “goodbye”

and turns to leave without reply.

The Time Thief watches from the wings,

knowing that he pulls the strings.

He lies in wait to take away

all that we would do or say.

He scrambles thoughts and spits them out

and he is, without a doubt,

the worst threat to the elderly

…unable to just let them be.

Yet for moment on this day,

we held the evil thief at bay.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

In a Heartbeat...

Ba bump ba bump ba bump ba bump…

my heart races at eighty-five beats per minute;

faster as I push myself to finish what I’m doing

so I can move on to something else.

I set the bar high, my own expectations higher—

the fear of restructure, replacement remains

a ghostly shadow hiding in a corner of my mind;

for I know all too well that I am dispensable,

that it’s never about the work, but the bottom line.

I‘ve wondered, how does one pace oneself?

Is there even such a thing?

Acutely aware that at this age, this stage

life should be about slowing down,

enjoying each moment…

unsure if this is wearing me down

or keeping my mind alert; keeping me young.

I am reminded on a daily basis

of how life can change in a heartbeat;.

So, like the ‘Little Engine That Could’

  I keep chugging away while I still can

...ba bump ba bump ba bump ba bump ba bump.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Keeping the Monster at Bay

Slowly it seems inside each passing day

with barely a nod as we function and breath,

comes a new symptom that’s barely perceived

as the outer shell ages and starts to betray.

First to be noticed: the silver and gray

scattered amidst the red, brown or black;

blondes, a bit lighter, may fend this attack

yet with nary a blink, we survey.

Then subtle “crows feet,” or smile lines they say,

appear ‘round the eyes nose and mouth

and all that was once trim and perky goes south

as bowing to time, they obey.

Shortly thereafter pain starts to convey

the bones turning brittle and thin,

then brown spots appear on pale parchment skin

as the mind starts to wander and stray

Exacting his toll is this Reaper’s forte

and we are but pawns in his game

Will you slip blindly or fight to remain,

invoking your right to belay

while keeping the monster at bay.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Unknowns

Who will I be when I grow old…

will I sit and babble nonsense rhyme

old poems and remnants left behind—

when those final years take hold.

Will past and present merge as one,

as mind relinquishes control;

or stay alert, my thoughts left whole

while body starts to come undone.

No gypsy fortune-tellers, we...

what lies before us, undefined;

should favor nod as we decline

perhaps we'll keep our sanity.

Yes, all things acquiesce to time…

we only hope the years are kind.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

The Elephant Graveyard

Over well worn pathways,

these weathered pachyderms have come,

unseen forces beckoning.

All seem to find their way here…

ivory long faded yellow,

gray turns white,

dermis folded, sagging.

They walk the walk of the ancients;

all who came before,

those who will come after.

Another rite of passage

among so many they have borne

It’s said they never “forget,”

but memory is subjective:

lost somewhere beyond

hidden plaques and tangles

their lives unravel—

and so they travel this road,

hoping for peace at journey’s end.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

*Plaques and tangles are part of the Alzheimer's puzzle.

Forgotten

I exist in a limbo where memories slip 

from the tip of my tongue,

where sentences fade, incomplete  

  What was I just saying… I forgot…

Such profound loneliness in this place

where strangers surround me

Where is my family?

Where is my home?

Where are the people I once knew?

I cling to any kindness shown…

though I can’t find the words

      I still “feel”

In this ever-shrinking existence

images of my youth pass swiftly

and anticipation of death…
 no more loneliness nor pain

            ...now reign

© Ginny Brannan 2016

A Turn of Light

I’m really not as old as you perceive,

it’s turn of light that alters your impression.

How strange that we should count our age in years,

from the very moment that we’re birthed;

or maybe clock starts ticking at conception.

Perhaps it is a matter of perception:

how we view our lives from inside out.

While Time, that ticking Master of Deception

plays puppeteer without discrimination,

and in the view of mirror’s sad reflection

an older face stares out in disbelief.

In my mind I’m thirty-five years old—

some twenty-five more added for good measure;

more savvy than that early, carefree youth

and cognizant from years of introspection

that each one ages different, underneath.

There’s no deflecting natural progression—

each wrinkle gained and every single crease;

we overlook each line and imperfection

discerning life with youthful affirmation

until the moment that this heart should cease.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Google Images: Used on multiple sites and articles.

Time’s measured in a thin line on a cat’s back...

‘From the moment we are born we begin to die…’

 I no longer wonder what these words mean.

Aging is subtle and barely perceptible at first—

the skin etches one molecule at a time
& the cracks in our mask move with us
keeping illusions complete.

and time stretches seemingly forever before us—
    “Carpe Diem—seize the day.”

The days turn into years, the first gray hair appears
and the smile lines etch ever deeper,
    (not wrinkles, not I)
and I wonder “Where did time go?”

Yet

  I need no reminder


  the cost
no reminder how fleeting life is.

So, like the cat stretched & purring beside me
I immerse in the moment
For much too soon…
 … tick //TocK//tick
&time stands still

© Ginny Brannan 2015 (with Brian Miller & Claudia Schoenfeld

Written for D'Verse: Pick a Line

Sorry Claudia & Brian, you both had such great lines I couldn't choose, so I used two from each. (Lines borrowed in italics, Brian/light gray, Claudia title and lavender) Having just passed another mile-marker on this road of life, and still being in that melancholy mood of contemplation that follows this event, this was not difficult to write. Thanks for the inspiration!

Fence Posts

Image C. Parant, Appetite for Photos, shared with expressed written consent.

On pale November morn,

we listen to the cadence of our footfalls

as they rustle dry leaves

along this old familiar pathway.

We speak in cryptograms,

as we tick the weathered

fence posts of our years.

We pause a moment to linger

in this judgment-free zone,

as we walk familiar path

on this pale November morn.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

What Goes Around…

Image: H. Kopp-Delaney

There is no going “gently” into the night

regardless what you think, maybe in spite;

first comes the loss of all you had and who you are—

favorite treasures, then the home, and then your car.

This role-reversal somehow doesn’t seem quite right—

grown children argue with frustration through the night.

Undecided what to do now that you’re ‘old,’

yet all agree you won’t be left out in the cold.

They understand the care you need is specialized:

your memory’s fading; so’s your hearing and your eyes.

On top of that you can’t get out of bed at night;

the list of meds you take is too long to recite.

In-fighting really is the saddest thing to see

to observe when adult-children disagree

through selfish needs they’re losing track of parent’s plight;

they forget their turn will come to "face the night."

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Inspired by two adult-children of a nonagenarian I know. Neither wants to step up and be in charge of parent's mail, so they left a basket in parent's room for whomever decides to go through first.

A little exercise to put aging into perspective:

Write down 10 things that really mean something to you: 

i.e. spouse, children, grandkids, pets, traveling, reading, writing, movies, etc. Whatever you feel is important to you.

Now take away two. Okay, not bad right, two you can live without, right?

Now take away three. Getting harder isn't it? What's left--spouse, children, grandkids family friends?

Now take away three more. Getting even tougher isn't it?

Left with two, pick one more to lose, leaving one. This is really tough when choosing between two that you really love. I had to "choose" between husband and son. How do you do that?!!

This really hit home with me on what happens as we age and lose everything we love, everything that we were. Thought I'd share and leave you with some food for thought too.

Percolating

At work I watch the old

grow older—fragile minds,

needles stuck on

skip and repetition;

yesterday’s names resurfacing

on today’s faces.

Two ‘sisters,’ borne of

location and circumstance,

chug down the hall.

“Toot, toot”  announces one,

echoing once, then once again.

Their two-chair ‘train’

arrives in the front parlor.

First stop: the front window,

to scan for the car she

hasn’t driven in 15 years.

“I forgot where I parked” she says.

After a moment or two, car is forgotten.

“Dottie” she says, “Lets go sit

on the patio for awhile.”

The other–not now nor ever ‘Dottie’–

follows her, ignoring the misnomer.

I ask how she’s doing as she passes.

“I’m percolating” she says, as train
leaves my station and wends by
on its merry way once again.

© Ginny Brannan  2014

Google Images: Imagining how these gals would've looked half-century ago!

Some may see these inside tales as sad, as in "Oh, how sad to be in a home, how sad to have impaired memory." Working there, I can tell you they themselves are anything but sad. One is in her mid-'90s, the other in her 80s. They are well-cared for, and despite the younger one struggling with memory impairment, they have developed a close friendship and camaraderie with each other and many of the staff. We smile hearing that "Toot, toot!" knowing that they are 'on the move' again!

Ticking Clock

Image: crilleb50

Tempus edax rerum: time, devourer of all things...

Life’s irony is that it’s gone too fast,

we enter each into this world alone --

wish we could find a way to make it last.

Begun at birth, our days on earth are cast

and paths that lie ahead are yet unknown;

life’s irony is that it’s gone too fast.

For friends and lovers dear that we’ve amassed,

each individual a stepping-stone;

wish we could find a way to make it last.

A single chance, to never be recast --

mistakes are made, and sins we can’t atone.

Life’s irony is that it’s gone too fast.

Reflecting on the memories now passed,

unspoken words, and seeds we’ve left unsown;

wish we could find a way to make it last.

Yet in the end, we all will be out-cast,

as each of us return to dust and bone.

Life’s irony is that it’s gone to fast . . .

wish we could find a way to make it last.

© Copyright Ginny Brannan July 2011
*With heartfelt thanks to my friends at FEPC for their invaluable advice & support.
**Shared at D'Verse Poet's Pub Open Link Night #3, 8/02/11   

Sharing at The Mag #186, image from Tess Kincaid. She provides the image, we the story! Written a couple of years ago, but it is a personal favorite and seemed perfect for the image prompt this week. Hope you don't mind my sharing it again here.