In Dreams

 

Implausible, or so it seems

but real or not, can you conceive

the truth that hides inside our dreams?

Where deep within such altered state

the past and present interweave.

and hidden secrets come to light
in rhythmic breathing of the night;

and all the things we dare not say

slip the confines of the day

to acquiesce. reshape, refine

and coalesce inside our mind.

Somewhere in this tug of war,

the soul cries out for want of more:

the long forgotten touch of skin

the ardor hidden in a look

a thirst, found quenched in our rapport,

the heat exploding from within,

new worlds to map, and to explore–

for now we tread this in-between

 and bide our time inside a dream.

© Ginny Brannan 2026

On Hopes and Wishes, Beggars Ride...

Sometimes I’ll read the words you write

each turn of phrase, each metaphor;

the choice of words within a line

wondering if I might learn

if they were put there by design.

I’ll fall into their ebb and flow,

each intimacy you reveal…

How is it that you know my thoughts?

How is it that you read my mind?

And in that moment, we are one,
such is the power words can wield.

And lost inside this reverie,

each flaw exposed for you to see.

you hint to things we’ve never shared:

how each of us has lived with pain,

felt the clouds burst, walked through rain.

If truth be known, 'tis but a dream

in a time when dreams have gone.

When life is shattered, torn to shreds

sometimes we grasp onto the threads,

the remnants of some tapestry;

and I am drawn to meet you there,

inside this broken frame we share.

                  ~ ~ ~

And in this place where poets bond

    I still listen for your song.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

  

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.

 

For the "Dreamers"

 

I live in the realm of hopes and dreams

where life is more than what it seems

where kindness fills the emptiness;

where givers give with open hearts

and expectations don’t exist.

Where the broken and the scarred

are not dismissed as too much risk.

Where strength and fortitude are honed

and sculpted out of dirt and clay...

 and man does not exist alone.

A broken vessel on display

holds so more than what is seen,

and who are we to wipe away

existence of another’s dream?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

The Price We Pay

 

‘Pinch me,’ I cried, ‘awake me from this dream

 I’m stuck somewhere between

  the place of love and loss.”

My losses have been many,

  too well I know the cost. 

 

Alas, I do not sleep,

too many hearts I keep...

  love is never cheap

 

 

Joining De Jackson at D’Verse Poets Pub today for Quadrille #193. 
A Quadrille is a small succinct poem of exactly 44 words. It may rhyme...or not. Today's Quadrille is to be written to include the word "pinch" in one of it's many forms.

Footnotes

It is a heavy tome I carry

filled with people I have known

in this space where they exist,

their stories bound into my own.

Perhaps that’s why in dreams I tarry

inside this place where we connect;

so many now no longer here 

are carried in this book I bear.

The days weigh heavy on these shoulders

I sometimes feel that I can’t breathe;

the years spin by as I grow older,

and life keeps sifting though this sieve.

What hands once held slips though these fingers

I reach for things I cannot grasp,

and so it is I‘ve come to know

that nothing ever stays or lasts.

There won't be any double-takes

the years we live can’t be reprised,

perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to linger 

in this space behind closed eyes.

When we’re gone, what will remain?

Where is it that our stories go?

Will we appear in someone’s dreams

...existing in the afterglow

   of this life we used to know

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

It Probably Wouldn't Work Anyways

 

The seed of a thought has planted itself

in a niche somewhere deep in my brain

it whispers of some kind of normalcy

and murmurs of new possibilities

the idea of which both frightens me,

and lifts from the pain that remains.

Still, I question of the practicality 

of pondering such triviality.

it probably wouldn’t work anyways

and inside of this current reality

any hope that I hold feels in vain.

Yet the idea persists, won’t cease or desist,

it even appears in my dreams–

it’s hard to ignore as it plays tug o’ war

insists on existing despite my resisting

rattling me to my core.

It’s not like we don’t have rapport,

yet this doesn’t adhere to the norm...

it takes on theme that isn’t mainstream;

but at this stage, must we conform?

And it might cause a few heads to turn–

I weigh that, while trying to make sense.

It waffles between established routine

taking us both to a different extreme

both exciting and pretty intense.

Have I ever mentioned that I over-think things

no matter how large or how small?

I hash and rehash them and sometimes I save them

take out, think about, and sometimes replace them

while weighing the risks and pitfalls.

And I’ve thought all this out, six ways to Sunday

and won't argue for or against...

so if it gets awkward, well what can I say?

If one of us chooses to just walk away?

 At least we both came to the dance.

© GB 2023

The Heart Wants What the Heart Wants...

 

Where do your dreams go when they wander free?

Do they settle on one time or place,

or stumble the path of unfamiliarity

where past and present coexist, 

but future is a point far in the distance?

And I wonder when you dream, if you see a face?

Is it someone from long, long ago?

Or someone you might like to know?

Most paths we choose don’t follow set rules

no straight lines to get there from here

filled with twists, turns and bends, forks and dead ends

so we test out the waters, dipping our toes, 

deciding if we should dive in.

Sometimes I dream of someone I’ve known

but often I don’t dream at all,

searching for clarity inside of disparity

it’s no wonder we pause or forestall—

so I’ll ask, noncommittally, without any bias:

    Where do your fantasies fall?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Anatomy of a Dream

I dreamed that we met, not 

by chance but with intent.

We shared the instant familiarity

of two old friends with common threads,

and an incredible sense of intimacy

for we have already bared ourselves 

through our words: I know your sadness, 

and you have seen me naked in my grief.

So we met, not as some pimply-faced teens, 

giddy with the prospect of holding hands

or “will he or won’t he kiss me?”

but as two adults, self-aware, who’ve lived 

their share of heartache and pain.

It's not our first dance, but perhaps another

chance to hear the music once again.

 

It’s funny how our dreams are formed:

some we remember and some we don’t

some dream in color, and some say they

never dream at all; perhaps they just don’t recall.

They say dreams reveal our unspoken wishes

no filters imposed by the cognizant mind

our synapses fire at incredible rates, and

we cannot control what visions they’ll rend.

In dreams we can find our heart’s one desire,

or trip crossing lines that we do not intend;

as we search for a meaning that isn't forthcoming

before resolution, the dream always ends.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Only Speculating

 

As you look east at the break of dawn,

the daylight cresting out on the ridge,

night no longer holding sway– and you 

pour yourself a cup to shake the dreamless

night away, chuckling as a squirrel chases 

a flock of birds to flight.  Or perhaps a bit later on

in the day, as the sky fills with clouds, and a pall 

sets in, and you escape to a your place of fantasy 

where the words take flight like birds to the trees... 

Do your thoughts ever wander? Do you think of me?

 

I look to the east to the rising sun­‑coffee in hand,

work to be done. The birdsong begins by 5 a.m.

so much happier than I am at that hour.  And the days

blend the same, filled with small exchanges, and 

I count the minutes until they’re through; and now and 

again, I think of you.  And I look to the west as the 

sun sinks low, brushed in pink and purple watercolors,

and I wonder to myself, “Do you see it, too?”

Each one of us a marker in our own time and space, with the

baggage of our years in between, as we pen our words 

and dream our dreams.  Life, it seems, is in the waiting; in

speculating what could be. There is no risk in our seclusion,

only bleak reality.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

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.