The Grocer

Written for and shared at Magpie Tales #229. Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story! Stop by and see what others are sharing!

"...All that we see or seem

is but a dream within a dream”

Excerpt: A Dream Within a Dream” Edgar Allan Poe

He came with a dream

not just to make a living

but to make a life

© Ginny Karpinski Brannan 2014

Paternal grandfather & uncle, early 1940's

Thank you, Dziaziu,  for dreaming the dream…

Today the image took me to my paternal grandfather who immigrated from Poland in the early 1900's, and was owner & proprietor of a small grocery store in Vermont.

Still Crazy After All These Years...

The Beatles introduced on Ed Sullivan February 9, 1964

We are the 'baby boomers' 
conceived in the 50’s when Elvis was King.

We are God fearing, hell-raising all-American kids, educated in a small town, 
taught to fear Jesus in a small town...

We survived the turbulent 60’s:

We saw the Cold War and the end of Camelot;

watched as Kennedy fended off the Soviets in Cuba,

working to find peaceful solutions abroad

and racial equality at home.

He fought a war on two fronts

                  ….and was gunned down.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of dreams;

of peace and tolerance, a better world for
our children, and our children’s children

                  … and was gunned down.

Bobby, our new hope, our golden boy

                  … he too, was gunned down.

Too young for the marches, the war surrounded us,

brought into our homes each night by the voice of Walter Cronkite

…and like John, Martin and Bobby, we dreamed of peace.

We are the Beatles generation…embraced their music from moment we heard them.

We grew up with Opie and Lassie, Robin Hood and Superman.

No Kindles no tablets; give us a super hero comic book any day.

We watched as Neil Armstrong took “…one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

We listened to Dylan and Fogerty, Crosby, Stills Nash and Young, Jethro Tull

We Bungled in the Jungle and sang songs of protest and antiwar;

“War, huh yeah, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing,’oh hoh, oh…”

We are the teenagers of the ‘70’s...

Hendrix and Zeppelin, Aerosmith and Kansas—
like ‘Dust in the Wind,’ we kept  ‘Dreamin’ On.’ 

We held our collective breath waiting for draft cards to arrive.
   Then, just like that, the war was over.

Our lives moved on, college , work, marriage, children, career…

we were the be-bop babies on a hard day’s night… and we danced

and we listened to the pop rock of the 80’s

that morphed into techno, and rap, a music evolution—

a revolution set in place by those four lads from Liverpool.

We cried over senseless murders of children; our classrooms no longer safe-havens.

We chose sides on gun control; yet all of our hearts mourn the innocents.

Yes, we’ve lived through the good, the bad and the ugly—

                  …and we are still going

Think about it— we’ve been around through JFK, RFK, MLK; Elvis, the Beatles, Dylan; war and peace, another war and so much more. We saw the fall of the Twin Towers, and the fall of the Iron Curtain. We were here for Roe v. Wade and Watergate, Star Trek  and Star Wars,  and the original ‘space race.’ We’ve seen innovations in medicine, and computers that fit in the palm of your hand. We have instant communication with anyone, anywhere in the world. We’ve ushered in the first black president, and may yet see the first female president. We are the computer techs and the mechanics, the greens-keepers and bakers, the poets and the dreamers.  In the almost 6 decades that we’ve been on this earth, we have seen history…lived history…made history…

We are the gray-haired 50-something tattooed rock 'n rollers— 
perhaps a little bit older and a lot less bolder than we used to be

…but hell yeah, we’re still here...
                        Here's to us!

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Who says you can't go back…looking back on the last 4 decades and beyond, on the occasion of my 40th class reunion. For my fellow classmates and my friends from BFUHS class of 1974, and all the other 'boomers who remember...  

Follow the lavender links to the music and the speeches, the real trip down memory lane.

A Writing Process Blog Hop

Many thanks to my dear friend Mary Bach for inviting me to participate in this Blog Hop. Mary and I met through our writing. She became a fast favorite of mine through her charm, her wit, her sense of humor; and our mutual affinity towards nature, seasons, home, family and even a certain Doctor! Interesting, smart and so talented, please follow this link to her Blog Hop to read in her own words what inspires her to write.

Mary Bach

Mary Bach, also known as Other Mary, writes mainly poetry which can be found on her website called Writing in the Bachs.  She lives in the middle of nowhere, more specifically rural western-Wisconsin. She has a love for words that includes not just writing and reading, but quotes, pun and general word-play. She has had poems in several on- and offline publications including The Book Times, Pigeon Bike Poetry, Living with Nature and Beginnings.

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My Writing Process

What am I working on?

Wow. I wish I had a more profound answer for this! It seems the ultimate goal of being a writer is to have collection of poems or a story somewhere in the process of being published—to always have something in the works to share, promote or brag about on social media sites. And rightfully so, for in the poems that I’ve submitted for printing, I’ve learned that there is definitely more work that goes into ‘publishing’ than meets the eye! With that being said, I am pleased to announce that one of my pieces will soon be published in “Journey of the Heart: An Anthology of Women’s Spiritual Poetry,” a new book that is due for release this summer.

How does my work differ from others of its genre?

I would say not as good as some, perhaps a bit better than others. I’ve been writing for just over 4 years now. In that time, I’ve gotten a sense of my own voice, but am not nearly confident enough to call myself  'poet' yet. I think that is a title earned through recognition and respect of one’s peers.  And there are so many others whose writing absolutely blows me away! I think most of what I write about has probably been said before—actually I’m sure of it. What makes it different is my own unique perspective.  We may travel parallel paths with others, sometimes it seems the same road, but what we see and how we view it—what it means to us—comes from a deeper place inside. I try to write from that place; not how others see and understand it—but what it means to me alone. But then, isn’t that what all writers do?

Why do I write what I do?

Why do crickets chirp? I started writing as a catharsis: a need to express anger and disappointment; to pull myself out of a dark hole after losing a job of many years that I truly loved doing. Putting my thoughts, my feelings, down on paper helped me to find myself again. And I continue to write because I’ve always enjoyed being creative; and channeling this creativity into words, into poetry, helps me to feed this addiction. Sometimes I write from image or word prompts, if only because they challenge me to keep writing. Yet even my own life experiences offer quite a deep well to draw from.  And then there are those moments when I am so moved and inspired by something that I can’t write fast enough. The words are there, the universe aligns, and I’ll finish in one shot and think, “Did this just come from me?” My recent 'Five a.m. on an April Morning' was one of those pieces. It’s in these rare “aha” moments when I think I am most worthy to stand among my writing peers.

How does my writing process work?

Hmmmm…process? I don’t really have a formula. Either the words are there, tumbling to get out, or they’re not! Most of my writing stems from what I am feeling at the moment—perhaps a memory bubbling up from the past, my emotions at the time, or from being touched by something or someone during my daily routine. Often I find myself composing something on the half hour drive between home and work. The words will start to toss about in my head…sometimes they may fall together in some sort of rhyme or format on their own…and sometimes its just a line or two that keep echoing, repeating, crying out to be more. It’s really difficult to predict at any given time what may move or inspire me. And I truly envy those lucky writers who are able to spend time and focus on their writing each and every day. It’s not always easy for me to eke out time to write, between working full time and taking care of home and family, without feeling guilty over letting something else go. I live for those quiet moments alone when I can get lost in the words!

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I'm honored to pass this torch along to these two lovely and extremely talented poets, writers and friends who will posting their Blog Hop and sharing their answers to these questions next week, on or about Monday, May 26, 2014. Please visit their blogs, and read, like and follow if you are not already doing so!

Victoria C. Slotto, Author

Victoria spent many years working as an RN in the fields of death and dying. In retirement she’s chosen to pursue the creative life as a novelist and poet. Her first novel, Winter is Past, was published by Lucky Bat Books in 2011. A second novel will be forthcoming in the near future. She is happy to pen poetry and articles for dVerse Poetry, Into the Bardo, and her own blog that deal with the art and craft of poetry and fiction writing, as well as spirituality. Victoria derives inspiration from her life experience working with persons at the end-of-life, from nature, spirituality, from poetry prompts and whatever else pops into her awareness. She enjoys life with her photographer husband and two dogs in Reno, Nevada and Palm Desert, California.

You may find Victoria’s blog at: Victoria C. Slotto, Author
  and her website here at: Victoria C. Slotto, Author Fiction, Poetry and Essays

Margaret Schaff Bednar: Poet, Photographer

Margaret Bednar was born and raised in Northern Illinois.  She remembers being a bit of a tomboy growing up—living on a small farm with horses, goats, chickens, dogs, cats, and being outside all summer!  Married now for 24 years and a mother with six children of her own, she currently lives in the southeast (United States) and loves it.  She started composing her poetry a few years back – which most often reflects upon her two passions above - the out-of-doors and her family.  

A regular contributor to G-Man’s Flash 55 and Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, you can find Margaret’s wonderful words and amazing photography at: 
Art Happens 365 — MyPoetic Journey

December's Gift

Once upon a winter's night

the snowflakes gathered on the ground;

while through a tattered cloud-filled sky

the moon and stars stood shining down.

‘Twas in the early morning hours

long before the light of dawn

we headed west on empty road

through ice and snow, we traveled on.

You were not anxious to arrive,

I paced the floor and spoke in tongues—

we waited hours for you to come

then finally...the struggle done.

As daylight once again rolled dark

our December babe was born

our hope, our gift, and our delight

to love and cherish, evermore...

©  Ginny Brannan 2013 

Sharing at The Mag #199. Image provided by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story!

For us, Christmas will always bring to mind two December babies—one born in a stable long ago; and one born shortly after 7 pm on 12/23/85. Two different children to be sure, one would be the hope for All Nations, one the simple pride of his mom and dad. And did I speak "in tongues"? You betcha--just ask the husband, who will be happy to share the tales!

O Tannenbaum

Through the years we all will be together,

if the fates allow…

The beads are hung, the garland strung

the candles glowing bright—

"Babcia"

our family comes together

to trim the tree tonight.

Unpacking very carefully

the treasures we’ve collected;

some fragile from the wear of years—

wrapped gently and protected.

Each piece has a tale to tell

the brass one from your dad;

the embroidered one your mother made,

a soft cloth bear in plaid…

a Beleek plate from Ireland,

those tiny leprechauns;

my little Polish babcia—

blue gingham kerchief on…

a painted seashell from the Cape,

a jingle bell or two—

in case an angel “earns its wings”

...this year, there’s been a few.

Each piece becomes memory

recalling loved ones gone,

and so we gaze upon the tree

and know their love lives on.

© Ginny Brannan 2013        

Brannan tree 2013

Forgive my lapse into simple rhyme--I tend to wax nostalgic this time of year. True though, the memories. The Polish "babcia" (grandmother) ornament, a favorite of mine,  was gift from my dear Aunt Helen. Remembering some of the 'angels' that earned their wings this year: Aunt Helen Sak; cousin Patti Unaitis; neighbor Donald LaPointe; childhood neighbor & friend’s dad, Clayton 'Gris' Griswold; my dearest sister-in-law Susan Brannan

On the Rail

Pulled this older piece up to share at The Mag #185.

I love the sound

of trains…

the “whoosh-shhhh”

as the brakes disengage

the “chuh . . .chuh . . .chuh . . .”

as those pistons start

moving, slowly picking

up speed, hear the

clickety-clack, clickety-clack

as steel rolls against steel.

Watching farmland,

small towns,  cities

roll by; a shared

communion with

travelers fifty,

seventy-five,

a hundred

years ago.

Coal cinders have

given way to

electricity;

polished wood,

velvet and brass           

to steel, vinyl

and chrome.

My uncle was

a trainman;

riding the rail

is in my blood.

In the distance,

I hear that

lone whistle

calling,

my heart quickens…

“Aaaall aboaardd!!

© Ginny Brannan September 2011

Train Station, my hometown Bellows Falls, VT

Rockwell Image shared by Tess Kincaid, she provides the image, we the story. 

Originally shared at dVerse Poetics, 2011: Sorry I missed the Train_n_n_n_n  with Claudia on Poetics this past weekend. 

Under Giant’s Eye

A view of our sleeping giant, Fall Mountain, North Walpole, NH

 I was raised in the shadow of the mountain;

an ever-present, ever-watchful giant

who vigilantly guards our village.

A fierce protector; we’d rarely hear

his voice except when thunder threatened…

then when he would echo a noise

so loud…so terrifying… it

could chase any storm away.

Returning to my village, 

once again I feel the

giant’s watchful eye,

and know that I am home.

©Ginny Brannan October 2012

A view from the Giant's "eye": Bellows Falls, VT