Truth or Dare

 

“Ask me no questions I’ll tell you no lies”

—or so the age-old saying goes.

Truth be told, I do not ‘lie’

you would see it in my eyes

so ask away, if you should dare.

I keep things to myself, it’s true;

taught early on to compromise

to share no more than “need to know;”

to never let “true feelings” show.

Perhaps I’ve offered you a clue,

perhaps I’ll sense by your reply

and finally be vilified–

but wonder, do you even care?

Perhaps you sense duplicity

 (perhaps just instability)

it would seem we’re quite the pair!

Around and ‘round and ‘round we go...

Who’ll blink first? I want to know.

So ask away, if you should dare

perhaps you’ll trap me, unaware–

and see the “truth” that’s hidden there.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

'Practical' Magic

 

It calls to us in the predawn hours,

sweet on the lips, warm to the touch–

like addicts we follow, like moths to the flame;

 its heady aroma drawing us closer–

arousing our thirst, staking it’s claim.

What can this be, this curious thing

igniting our senses to make us give chase?

An unknown enigma? A wonder vaccine?

Or a magical potion that’s brewed from a bean.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

From Writer's .com for Day 23: Write about a mundane task that (secretly) doubles as a magical ritual.

 

It's All in the Delivery

 

I’ve been told I’m “mean”

but in a nice sort of way.

That I have a certain way with words

(for a writer, that has to be a “plus,” right?)

But sometimes, or maybe frequently,

I will utter a comment with a bit of an edge

(Really? Who me??? How can that be?)

I would never purposely insult you

or even broach the subject

of anything you did or didn’t do.

But if I may be candid (or if you cross my path)

I may be somewhat prompted to say a word or two.

I find with age comes wisdom and I can clearly see

that at this exact moment, you’re not as wise as me

 —wink, wink—smile—

Yes, patience is a virtue; kindness has its charm,

wit and humor have their place, a smile can disarm.

And I can use my wiles, if it’s wiles that you need

but if you test my self-restraint, you’ll find out where that leads.

I’m the epitome of sweetness as you can plainly see...

Jekyll/Hyde, you decide... I’m WAITING...Yep, WAITING...STILL WAITING........

Patiently! 

(Can you tell?)

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Day 5 NaPoWriMo Prompt from Writers.com Find something dark and hidden inside your brain, your body, your heart. Shine a light on it. What do you see?

Image: Carolyn Hax via Google images. I just love her art! She's captured the mood!

Coloring Outside the Lines

 

I‘d never put my work up with the classics,

I wallow somewhere in obscurity.

How often have I struggled with my formats

 and lines that run into infinity ........

And meter’s so restrictive in its confines

while free verse struggles hard to find the ‘end’

and style’s but a word that’s used to define

the voice the writer chooses to extend.

Shakespeare had a knack for writing sonnets,

Dickinson wrote quatrains in slant rhyme;

Poe tiptoed on the edge of the ‘demonic’

while Frost wrote of a kinder, gentler time—

and my ideas drop scattered and chaotic

  another would-be poet tweaking lines.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Things That Go Bump in the Night

 

Soft footsteps echo through the empty hall

to startle me awake from dreamless sleep

as ghostly shadows dance along the wall

 

Ever cautiously so I don’t fall,

across the barren oaken floor I creep

toward the sound of footsteps in the hall

 

Over gabled roof a Screech owl calls

before escaping into woodlands deep

while limb-like shadows creep along the wall

 

By the bedroom door I pause, then stall­–

the aging floor condemns with a loud 'creak'

to warn approaching footsteps in the hall

 

I wonder if I have the wherewithal

to crack the door a bit and take a peak,

while shadows hold their council on the wall

 

I think back under covers I shall crawl

inside my blanket shroud I’ll burrow deep;

hidden from the footsteps in the hall

and those shadows, ever watchful, on the wall.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

It Wasn't What We'd Planned...

 

You took no notice of me when I met you

I don't recall how you wore your hair

nor that neither of us heard the others; 

voices mute as if they were not there.

  

I took no notice of our conversation

(or that your eyes were the deepest of blue)

nor if I’d shared a very good impression

left to be mulled over by you.

 

Don't know if you felt a connection

or were there to escape the mundane;

if you’d run away after reflection,

or would we see each other again?

Nor how we'd each pay for this interaction.

one of us must be insane.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

True “Confess” ions

 

So it is with trepidation that I’d share a revelation,

and iterate this compilation without further hesitation.

I think it’s best that first I mention the very crux of my intention.

The aforementioned situation fills my heart with trepidation

where even smallest repercussion bears further study and discussion;

plus, my fear of deep rejection causes pause without exception..

Indeed, what would be your perception of one so steeped in imperfection?

And would it lead to misconception, a certain lack of comprehension

some unforeseen delineation, an unexpected confrontation

where even deeper explanation causes further fragmentation?

Somewhere in our evolution,  we’ve all faced some persecution

and only with this bold admission might seek forgiveness through attrition

So after much consideration, I must conclude this attestation

coming to the realization that there can be no revelation—

without further hesitation, I  acquiesce this dissertation.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  And should this leave a bad impression,  that was never my intention!

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Artwork: The Confession 1838 by Giuseppe Molteni

 

To "Slant" or Not to "Slant," That is the Question...

You’ve interjected that use of “slant rhyme”

is just excuse for those who “can’t rhyme”’

yet I will disagree

for I like subtlety

it pleases me more than your “rant” rhyme

 

While you say that tight rhyme is the best

and so clearly you’ve voiced your protest

the way that I see it

both are exquisite

a choice that the writer elects.

 

Poets Dickinson, Shakespeare and Yeats

who have rose to the realm of the greats

in their words we will find

a choice of slant rhyme

and that is but just a small taste

 

I truly mean no disrespect

yet please, if I may interject

that tight rhyme of course

is just fine if not forced

I prefer my own rhyme less direct.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

I follow a prolific writer of limericks in another state, who has the fine ability to share humor, politics, and daily life all in the format of a 5 line limerick. I am no Limerick writer, but I came across one of her recent limericks that had strong opinion on exact rhyme vs. slant, in part saying using slant "just means that you can't rhyme".  I have my own strong opinions on this, so here is my reply. Perhaps you can find the slant rhymes that I've interspersed in it.

For those who wonder what slant is, it is a more subtle form of rhyme that sounds like a word but is not exact, ie one of the more famous, Emily Dickinson's "Hope", the slant here is "soul" and "all." Not exact rhyme, but I can't imagine a more perfect poem!

 

 

NaPoWriMo 2021: An Invitation!

April has landed, the timing is nigh

thirty in thirty, or so we avow;

we sit at our keyboard inspired to write

while hoping our muses will guide us somehow.

Prompted by words or an image or two,

pouring our hearts out in thought and in deed

sharing our secrets, it’s what poets do…

where even the tiniest thought plants a seed.

Free verse or format, now which will it be?

Deliver the goods, perfect spelling be damned!

Get the words down on paper for you all to read

and later, revisions or needed revamps.

April has started, no time to concede!

The poets come out of the woodwork to play:

we rip out our hearts, in black ink we bleed—

insightful, delightful, you really should stay!

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

 

April is NaPoWriMo: National Poetry Writing Month.  The challenge? To write 30 poems in 30 days. While some writers are dedicated and diligent, others (like me) may lag a bit behind. No matter!! Please read, follow, and enjoy the ride!

Leveling the Beast

 

Darkness rolls in early

a chill hangs in the air

there’s howling in the distance,

is it a wolf that tarries there?

Up inside the tower

the doctor’s working hard

a creature waits to come from life

built from parts discarded

And in the swamp, the water churns,

what lies beneath the reeds?

It crawls to the embankment

in darkness now he creeps.

‘Neath the headstones comes a scraping,

in the dirt a hand is seen

as undead hear the calling

and rally to convene.

Overhead there comes a cackle

of witches on the fly;

the bats are in the belfry,

and vampires are nigh.

The spirits have all arisen

the creatures of the night,

wandering among us

hidden in plain sight.

From sky and swamp and graveyard

the horrors come call,

but the orange man with tiny hands

is  the scariest of all!

No one knows from whence he came

with beady eyes and scowl

to strike discourse with no remorse 

and makes their dead skin crawl.

Yes, even gruesome monsters 

who slither from the earth

watch their step around him

while keeping a wide berth.

They say that only humans 

—us ordinary folk—

can rid the earth of such a beast

with a simple ‘vote’.’

It’s up to every one us

so put away your fear

and bridge the rift November 5th

to stave off 4 more years!

© G. Brannan 2020

Remember, Safety First!

Without coffee my brain’s on five-second delay:

I see your lips moving, then hear what you say.

The mind is still dark, the shades are still drawn,

it’s best sipped in quiet so don’t make a sound.

And should you have something that you must convey?

Remember my brain’s on five-second delay—

speak softly and slowly so I understand,

or you’ll pay with retort or a sharp reprimand.

You think that it’s funny, this look on my face?

Before I’ve had caffeine, I’m really half-crazed!

While the brain may be set on five-second delay,

I’ll still plot your demise and how you’ll repay.

The first cup went down with barely a blink;

the second more slowly, I’m starting to think.

The clouds are dispersing, so you’ll be okay… 

without coffee my brain’s on five-second delay!

©Ginny Brannan 2020

Ah Coffee, nectar of the gods!!

#25 NaPoWriMo 2020

Perfectly Matched

They had a talent for the Cha-Cha

and a passion for the Waltz

a little bit of Fox Trot

and their Swing was something else;

tapping to the tempo, jivin’ to the beat,

to see the them Jitterbuggin’

was to witness something sweet.

Their Charleston was electric

their Samba was unmatched

when they broke out into Hip-Hop

all the others stopped to watch.

They were both unstoppable

and so hard to ignore,

like a moth takes to the flame

so they took the floor.

Their style was eclectic,

their footwork, animated;

their Boogaloo was boffo

their Tango was X-Rated!

Dance they could and dance they did

they had such rapport…

never once did stumble,

they always pushed for more.

To find the perfect partner

to lead us in the dance,

someone who’s attuned to us

and helps us to advance,

is like capturing a moving train

as it leaves the station;

but rarer still, the soulmate

who has perfect syncopation.

© Ginny Brannan 2020

NaPoWriMo #20

Thank you to Yvonne Brewer for the photo prompt. I had a little fun with this one!!

Gone, But Not Forgotten...

I loved the scent of your affections

and the sizzle of your heat,

I don’t need no sweet confections

your smoky taste leaves me complete;

Such a morning temptress, though anytime would do,

I don’t think that I could ever find

another that can take the place of you.

You were the cream inside my coffee

the sunlight on my windowpane,

your taste still lingers here upon my lips

but that’s all that remains…

Yes, I forgot to pick you up,

I was such a fool…

now I’m left here to lament the taste of you.

Yes, I must acknowledge that my love for you is strong…

—you were the last piece of bacon in the fridge

              and now your go-o-o-o-one

...and now it’s time for me to move along.

© Ginny Brannan 2020

NaPoWriMo #12 

A few weeks back a friend challenged that someone should write a song about "bacon." Never one to let "sleeping challenges lie, "I came up with this. Yes, I went there, because...it's "BACON!! I'm weird like that!

Elfchens

What is an Elfchen, you ask? Elfchen is the German word for eleven. An Elfchen poem is a poem consisting of eleven words over 5 lines... one word on the first line, two words on the second line, three words on the third line, four words on the fourth line, and one final word on the fifth line. It reminds me a bit of the Cinquan, which does similar but with syllables (2,4,6,8,2) rather than words. 

Here's my takes on the format:

Sacrificed

Hung

on cross:

crucified, nailed, suspended

for all to see—

Savior

Sharing Secrets

Hear

the rustle?

The wind whispers

telling all her secrets…

Listen

Charmed

Liquid

she moves,

yellow eyes beguile;

stealth, agile, cunning, crafty

cat

February Morning

Sunlight

deceivingly bright

through barren branches;

no warmth in her

smile.

Practice Makes Perfect...

Another

poetry run…

trial and error,

still seeking the perfect

Elfchen

******************************

My dear Irish friend and sister-in-writing, Yvonne Brewer put a challenge up on her page to try a new form of poetry I had not heard of. Loving both 'form poetry' and the challenge of learning something new, I could not resist giving it a go!

Ode (Owed) to Poe

Darkness falls, a banshee calls

the headless horseman rides tonight;

a veiled moon shines through Eastern pines

there’s not a single star in sight,

and in the dark the chill wind brings

the scurrying of furry things—

the whisper of  nocturnal  wings.

The spell is cast, our heart pumps faster

the fears inside begin to fester;

the moonlight casts an eerie pall

while spiders spin their silken webs

to catch the nightmares in our heads

above the sleeping masses crawl;

and I wonder…

  Is all this that we see or seem

      but a dream inside a dream?

A monster lives within us all

a fractured beast that never sleeps

disguised inside discordant minds.

Self-doubts arise, no turning back

like speeding train down one-way track—

if you look close, what will you find?

The cauldron boils, the potion reeks

of newts and toads and buzzard beaks;

   enchantments thrown into the fire…

Zombies rise with sunken eyes—

ghostly wraiths with sallow skin

tattered clothing, gruesome grin

   on the hunt with one desire.

The outer fringes of our sight

have raised the curtain to unveil

the hideous creatures of the night—

preoccupied inside our fear

of losing everything that’s dear

we’re  held immobile by the fright!

Our minds play games, “There’s nothing wrong”

yet  from our throat escapes a scream…

... So is it real, this fear we feel?

     Or but a dream inside a dream

© Ginny Brannan October 2019

I borrowed…okay, blatantly stole…the key phrase from Poe’s poem A Dream Within a Dream I honor and a bow to the “master” of  the macabre!