How Did You Know?

 

naive and clueless,
I stumbled upon you

and you? witty, sharp
always the rebel

you cracked the shell

calmed the chaos
the 'yin' to my yang

bonded, yet alone,
we move forward

 …still (and always) becoming

© GB 2026

My attempt at minimalistic poetry. It may be too minimal, too vague, but again, that's the point. There is a story in this that comes full circle, timeline condensed. If you know, you know. With gratitude.

What's in a Wish?

 

What if wishes weren’t 

“horses for beggars to ride”

but instead became kisses

borne from our sighs~

the rush of soft wind 

a warm brush on the cheek,

an admission of truth

to the things we don’t speak,

confessing with candor

all that we feel

not rendered in whispers

but spoken with zeal.

Maybe then we’d acknowledge

with honest inflection,

not cowered in fear

of another’s rejection.

Oh! If wishes were kisses

from sighs that are sighed,

we could lasso the moon

and conquer the tides,

with purpose unquestioned

 our hearts as our guide.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Fine Tuning

 

Our songs are played in different keys

sometimes discordant in their sound

filled with dark intrusive notes

falling short on harmony,

without tempo or synchrony.

Perhaps the music comes too late

out of step and short in time­­–

and symphony is not our fate.

Yet, if I were a strategist

I might not bet against the odds:

to say our chances don’t exist

could be a great concerto, missed.

The lines may often obfuscate

to generate an unclear passage,

yet every note we iterate,

every measure we have tendered,

becomes part of a larger whole.

I understand your dissonance

inside the lines and written texts;

the darker notes, the allegory,

that shatter norms but tell a story.

Each composer wants the same

in every spoken admonition,

not longevity or fame–

but a chance to write their own attrition.

It’s in the dark we find the light,

the yin and yang of our volition

and in the seeking, we are found.

Yet in sharing our confession

we break out of our own mold–

and in the honesty we render

we find the window to our soul.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Lassoing the Wind

 

I wish I could tell you 

but it’s late and the words 

would trip over my tongue

and come out twisted and wrong

and then where would we be?

I wish I could explain

as jumbled thoughts turn metaphor

and emerge as something else entirely…

and the last thing I would choose to do

is have you think me a fool.

I wish I could somehow express 

how kindred minds like ours 

know no home or time, 

we are the specters in the night, 

fireflies drawn to each other’s light

compelled, but unconfined.

I wish that I could verbalize

and yet how awkward that would be

when we both dwell upon this line

between our truth and fantasy.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

 

Our Heart's Desire

What happened to those days of yore

shopping in the village stores

midnight mass with church bells chiming

then off to bed, our folks reminding

“Say your prayers, sleep tight.

  Santa comes tonight!!”

It doesn’t seem so long ago

through children’s eyes, we watched the glow

of festive trees with colored lights

and candles burning in the night.

And filled with bright anticipation,

we couldn’t wait for school vacation!

Decembers were all cold and white

and yet, our whole world seemed right

            …in those Christmas days of long ago

Many years have passed since then

and so little from the past remains;

the trials of life have changed our views

such anger in the evening news.

As each one bears a certain weight

and loss, the illness culminate,

  we get caught up in the pain

    seems so little left to gain

            …what happened to the joy of long ago?

Ahead our future lies uncertain

it hides behind an opaque curtain—

and it's us who must decide

if we should stay, or run and hide…

Oh! That we might feel the wonder

find the Peace, and shun the thunder

and that we might stake our claim

for the love that still remains…

 Perhaps then we might find the door

   that leads back to those days of yore            

   to  capture joy and to light our way 

                                         once more.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

The title comes from Dorothy Gale, who said  "...If I ever go looking for my heart's desire again, I won't look any further than my own back yard." We can't change the world, but we can change how we view the world, we have that power inside of us. May you feel the light and know the wonder of Christmas.

Photo Credit to: BalancingHome.com

What We Didn’t Know…

I think back to those early days—

we never talked about our lives

so many things we couldn’t say
–wrapped inside our own cocoons

   adulthood still so far away.

Perhaps we were too close to see

that others shared our misery.

Time balances our differences:

we thought that we were all alone

just ‘getting by and getting through;’

yet even those with perfect lives

were only trying to do the same.

You were just like me, who knew?

We carry hurts long past their prime,

   each struggling with self-esteem—

   no one really was to blame.

In all the years that came between

from early youth until today;

we’re more alike than different,

the past no longer holding sway.

And all that anger, all the shame,

the grief we tried to circumvent—

amazing that we made it through.

We’re stronger for those trials faced,

   full-circle now, we understand

   that nothing come before was planned.

And now we get to start again—

    so glad to finally call you “friend”

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image: Google Images "Students in the '70's" 

Not my classmates, but could've been. We looked no different!

Between the Darkness and the Light

Hope" is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all"

                 Emily Dickinson

    * * * * * * * * * * * * 

It matters little who we have
we face the darkness on our own;

though well-intentioned offer help

deep inside we stand alone.

We reach for lifelines out of grasp

while seconds float away, unmeasured;

till finally we face our foe.

Courage comes when all is lost—

on tattered wings fly hidden treasure:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

So we adapt as life evolves

and often we must start again,

set a course in new direction—

make conscious choice to sink or swim.

Through each trial a lesson learned

yet there’s so little we control--

still we search to find completeness,

even as the songbird seeks

the melody that makes it whole;

one that perches in the soul.

Ever striving for perfection

as indecisive egos fail;

hitting road blocks without signs,

emotions cloaked behind gray veil.

Where’s the person we once knew?

Suddenly the lines are blurred—
we barely recognize ourselves,

and friends—they see a ‘mournful’ dove

the humblest of all the birds—

that sings the song without words

This tune should be familiar now

we hear it echo through the night,

as we balance on that brink

between the darkness and the light.

Determined now, we seek the dawn

while guided by that lone bird’s call

the path grows clearer with each step

and ever forward, we trek on

and "hope” survives despite each fall

and never stops at all

© Ginny Brannan 

Started in 2013, One of two Glosa's using lines from "Hope" by Emily Dickinson.
There are several slant rhymes sprinkled throughout this, I think Miss Em would approve!

First share here for April NaPoWriMo 2019

The first Glosa to use these lines, shared in 2013: "Finding The Melody"

The Problem With Loving a Writer

Loving someone who writes

demands a certain kind of stability:

you never know which way the wind will blow

on any given day. There is no insight

no understanding the writer’s mind

It requires giving up your privacy;

her words may be direct or metaphor—

about you, or someone she once knew some years before.

You must become a willing casualty

to these thoughts she weaves, her poetry

—if they don’t incite an all out war!

A writer often feels things differently

they sense the moods of others, good or bad;

and when writing’s on there is rapport

but if it’s off, the reader will get bored.

Once again the writer takes her seat

with ideas flowing free, she’s in the ‘zone’
focused on the words and how they fall;

her mind adjusting inward till complete

no point of interrupting till she’s done.

You get to know her mood just by her tone

 then once again she leaves you all alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Somewhere Between the Rapture and the Rain…

We are, each of us, scarred—

sullied and carved

by jagged remnants

of nameless afflictions.

I will never judge

your scratches and flaws,

nor diminish what you’ve borne

with platitudes and empty words.

For what one sees is minimal,

barely a mar on the surface—
like an iceberg, the trauma

we've incurred sits deeper:

invisible to the naked eye

yet felt on the days

when the sun lies veiled

and old memories rise

to fester once more...
And yet, we survive —

despite our flaws,

or maybe, because of them.

I have felt your distance

as your thoughts turned inward

before focusing once again.

There’s beauty in your nakedness

where only truth remains

no need to cover up the welts,

nor pull away in shame.
Each one of us has a past,

so who can ferry blame?

You may not think I know you well,

but I understand the pain…

no one feels the sun’s sweet warmth

unless they’ve known the rain.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Image Credit: Melanie Mercoglana Photography, Google Images

Illumination

Curiosity, the spark that sets us apart

       on our quest for knowledge... 

Common sense is learned in degrees

starting at the knees of our elders.

In their words and stories, we learn about ourselves,

When we finally learn to read, we travel—

floating on a raft down the Mississippi;

chasing an elusive white whale on an endless sea;

joining a group of unlikely companions

on a quest for something ‘larger’ than ourselves.

The world expands, becoming greater than we ever imagined.

The more we absorb, the hungrier we become;

history teaches us, but it’s the stuff outside of the margins

        that holds the real story...

Who wrote this? What guided his thoughts as he lay

in the trenches of the French Revolution

the Civil War, World War I?

So we follow these word paths, penned from the souls

of a thousand, nay, a thousand times ten thousand.

We hold their stories and garner their memories

adhering them to our own.  We are with them

as they climb the path to Mt. Doom,

slip down the rabbit hole,

feel the pendulum brush their skin,

and click their shoes to go home again;

never wanting to leave this secret garden,

this Neverland of dreams and imagination.

Through the words we learn to sort fact from fiction,

weigh guilt from innocence, solve crimes;

discover ordinary heroes rising against extraordinary villains.

Words hold the power to change the world:

willfull ignorance and lies cannot hold up against

those who have learned to recognize truth

The early scribes and monks of old had a daunting task:

they laboured for hours on vellum pages with ink and quill,

 no computers then, nor ballpoint pen...

the process ever slow and tedious.

Is it any wonder when their pens would wander?

That even early on, if given a choice,
they would surrender to their inner voice

        setting free their imagination

to provide not just a story, but illumination.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Illumination has several definitions, two of which pertain to this:
1) Spiritual or intellectual enlightenment
2) Painting or drawing included in a book, i.e.:medieval manuscripts

For NaPoWriMo #24: using the marginal drawings and artwork known as "illumination" as inspiration.

Yes, even humor could be found in medieval manuscripts!

Playing for the Win

Image: Wikipedia, Snakes and Ladders

I’ve never been good at playing games—

I can’t bluff to save my life

all that I feel is written across my face,

so cards are out.

And chess would not be my forte;

I barely have the ability to see one move ahead

much less twelve to the win.

Monopoly, like poker, and chess,

requires certain skills,

none of which I possess.

No, my life is more like Snakes and Ladders

a mix of skill and chance, good and bad

of climbing and slipping back again

How many times have I ended up where I’ve begun

—falling back to square one?

I can only hope when the game is complete

that the virtues will outweigh the sins

and I will find the salvation that awaits

those who persist.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

To learn more about this fascinating game, a pretty good reflection on life itself, check it out at Wikipedia.

Optical Illusions, Dreams, and Delusions

We watch as moon ascends the eastern sky

a massive disc now peering over fence—

an optical illusion on the rise

appearing ever larger to our eyes

than any image captured through a lens.

And what we see and what the mind imprints

border between concrete and surreal;

we tuck away to pull out and reprise,

but should we find delusion has dispensed

we search to understand what was revealed.

Same could be said for all the pain we feel,

whether caused by physical distress

or mental anguish covert and disguised—

setting off alarms and raising shields,

then leaving us despondent and depressed.

Hope rises like the moon in pale nightdress

her whisper carried soft among the stars—

and even earthen mother can surmise

that if trials and tribulations are the test;

then blessings and endowments are our prize.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 17 NaPoWriMo, to write a Nocturne, a night poem. Not the same as a Nocturna which is specific to nine lines,  a nocturne in music is a composition meant to be played at night, in poetry it seems to translate to a night poem with a soft cadence in reading. No specific length or meter. 

Second Star to the Right, and Straight on till Morning....

Between the darkness and the dawn

between the morning and the night

between the moment I was born

until there’s no more will to fight

between my youth and middle age

— or just a little past that stage—

amid the chaos and the calm

I reflect who I’ve become.

Amid life’s trials and its struggles

any pain of yesterday

all the joy and the smiles

and the many roles I’ve played,

I know each road that I have journeyed

every hill and every turn,

all the detours that I’ve followed,

each new pathway that's been learned;

all the potholes and the pitfalls

yeah, there’s surely been a few—

but any road that I have travelled

would be poorer without you.

©Ginny Brannan 2017

Day 15, the halfway point... suggestion: to write a poem that reflects on the nature of being in the middle of something. The poem could be about being on a journey and stopping for a break, or the gap between something half-done and all-done. Let your mind wander into the middle distance, betwixt the beginning of things and the end. 

The Undertaking

She views the world through autumn eyes

that on this day are cast in gray

as winter tries to tip the scale…

Weeks and months and years have passed

to leave eroded and refined

each moment lived; each bend and turn

etched in crease and smile line.

   And always playing in her mind

   the words that paint the world she sees—

   the people met, emotions felt;

   thoughts that bend and twist within

   and beg escape from their confines

When did such purpose come about—

a want, a need to somehow share

and bare the colors of her soul…

when even casual observation

implores discovery on a page.

   And the words…. always ruminating,

   to form and re-form, while creating

   background music heard by one.

   You’ll see her jot a line or two

   on any scrap or sticky note,

   or back of envelope will do.

   And on rare times when words align

   to culminate with her inflection

   she’ll deem a poem or piece complete

   or at very least well- honed

   to “acceptable” perfection.

She sees her world through autumn eyes

as winter creeps up on her trail.

Time has deepened tone and voice

—so often lost within the forest

of other voices in the chorus—

becoming still as life assails

till call to write once more prevails;

another story whispers, waiting,

   the challenge in the undertaking.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

This was written in 2016, and published in the collection: Poetry as a Spiritual Practice: Illuminating the Awakened Woman—a collection of poems by the Journey of the Heart Poets available at Amazon.com