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"

Finding The Melody

Speak to us of early spring,

of onyx skies and starry nights,

of fireflies that spark the fields

and castles built of sand, pure white;

of paladins and maidens fair,

of pirate chests with hidden treasures.

Take us back to bright green days—

those dew-cast morns where eagles soar

wings spread wide to glide the zephyrs…

Hope is the thing with feathers.

Speak to us of summer days

of new horizons to be found;

not quite knowing what we’re seeking

lost among the youthful throng.

Eagerly, we soak up knowledge

to the beat of rock ’n roll;

teetering the edge of innocence,

while searching for the one true song

that fulfills and makes us whole —

that perches in the soul.

Speak to us of autumn breeze,

and old, familiar pathways worn;

in quickened wind, the dry leaves fall

to take their place upon the lawn.

The late day sun drops swiftly now

as somewhere deep a memory stirs,

aroused by old familiar tune…

and though the verses aren't recalled

each hums the melody once heard

and sings the tune without the words.

Speak to us of winter’s bite

the chill that seeks out brittle bone,

as childhood fades to distant past

its memory lost to cold, gray dawn.

Yet hope survives inside the heart,

though time erodes, we still recall—

retained from tender years now spent,

that tune of youth is not forgot…

it resonates from when we’re small

and never stops at all.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Trying my hand at a second Glosa. Here is a link to the first. 

The glosa is a form of poetry from the late 14th century and was popular in the Spanish court. The introduction, the cabeza, is a quatrain quoting a well-known poem or poet.

The second part is the glosa proper, expanding on the theme of the cabeza, consisting of four ten-line stanzas, with the lines of the cabeza used to conclude each stanza.

Lines six and nine must rhyme with the borrowed tenth.

There are no rules governing meter and line length, except that traditionally, they emulate the style of the lines in the cabeza. Because of its structure, theglosa is ideally used as a poem of tribute. In writing that tribute, you weave your lines with the lines of the opening cabeza, collaborating, as it were, with the spirit of the poet you honour.

Honoring one of my favorites, Emily Dickinson, a New England poet who resided only a brief half- hour's drive from my own home.

Sharing at d'Verse Meeting the Bar: Are you listing?

Yet Love Remains

"When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep"

                       William Butler Yeats "WhenYou Are Old"

I think about the sweet days our youth,

the world was spread before us for the taking--

invincible, we weathered many storms

safety found inside each other's arms.

Discovered life together, you and I…

rappelling over cliffs and chasms deep;

wary of the monsters in the darkness--

learning that my strength resides in you.

Will love remain inside where memories steep,

when you are old and gray and full of sleep?

So many years between have come and gone

the passion found in youth not often held;

yet on occasion universe aligns--

amazing how a kindred spirit bonds

once it finds the niche where it belongs.

We couldn’t know this when we undertook

to forge a life together, you and I.

Yet over time, my love for you remains.

I hear you breathing softly while I look,

and nodding by the fire, take down this book.

The one that holds the stories that we’ve shared

well-chronicled and inked to stave our memory;

each page presents an instant froze in time,

designed to be reviewed in quiet moments…

a lifetime kept in images we’ve saved.

I scan the scraps and photos that we took,

and settle once again on favorite image--

given to me after we first met.

On cushions soft, I settle in this nook,

and slowly read and dream of the soft look...

in contemplative moment it was captured--

in graying skies your eyes shown cobalt blue;

from that moment, I was captured too.

And so we came to know each other well;

to compliment the other; to complete.

I turn the page, and now it seems that sleep

beckons me to close and come to bed.

I stretch out in the hollow of your arm

to slip away and dream of white-hot heat

your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep.

 © Ginny Brannan 2013

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open link Night Week #98.

Trying my hand at a glosa, introduced to us at d’Verse Poets Pub Form For All: Paying Tribute, Page and the Glosa by Samuel Peralta/Semaphore.

The glosa is a form of poetry from the late 14th century and was popular in the Spanish court. The introduction, the cabeza, is a quatrain quoting a well-known poem or poet.

The second part is the glosa proper, expanding on the theme of the cabeza, consisting of four ten-line stanzas, with the lines of the cabeza used to conclude each stanza.

Lines six and nine must rhyme with the borrowed tenth.

There are no rules governing meter and line length, except that traditionally, they emulate the style of the lines in the cabeza. Because of its structure, the glosa is ideally used as a poem of tribute. In writing that tribute, you weave your lines with the lines of the opening cabeza, collaborating, as it were, with the spirit of the poet you honour.

I honor William Butler Yeats, "When You Are Old"