In the Silence of our Days

 

When the sun has reached its peak

and the rains have come and gone

and nothing hovers in our grasp

reminding us where we belong

and we search for any sign

but  emptiness is all we find.

Our hope sits stagnant in the air

veiled in smoke from distant fires,

I’m left to ask if your still here...

the silence that you’ve cast, unclear.

How dependent I’ve become

waiting on the smallest crumb;

a tiny fix to get me through–

no heavy drugs or needle marks

yet surely, just a word or two?

I live, vicariously it seems,

through the lines that others pen

the balance shifts to leave me scourged

when I no longer see the words.

 

© Ginny Brannan

Channeling Scarlett

 

Faith is believing in something that we cannot see.

We turn to God in our darkest hours–

to what end?

We ask for healing,

when healing doesn’t come,

we ask for strength. 

I listen for an answer I cannot hear

knowing that ‘No’ is an answer, too.

One foot in front of the other, my friend,

God helps those who help themselves.

The sun will come out tomorrow

after all “Tomorrow is another day.”

Ah, Scarlett, you always landed on your feet.

  Maybe I will, too.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

 

Half - Empty

Once more I awaken in the middle of a storm—

global pain and loss

weigh heavy on my heart;

lack of intimacy tears my soul.

Thoughts churn and I wonder

“Will things ever be the same?”

Even optimists have their limitations.

Rain-laden clouds release their burden;

solace found in letting go.

© Ginny Brannan 2020

NaPoWriMo 

Losing My Religion

Creativity falls by the wayside

its insignificance highlighted by our own mortality,

just a mote of dust inside this vacuum of disparity…

We view the culling of our dreams by those who dare to speak

—yet no one can predict a frame nor forecast its peak

so we follow stringent guidelines while we wait for this to quell

and watch those on the frontlines trying to navigate through hell.

The pollsters play their politics while living in denial,

and cast their stones against the bones of those who’ve lost this trial;

it’s hard to win a war against a foe that no one sees,

as we wallow in the mire of this new reality.

Another day turns into night, and I remain unscathed

stuck inside this petri dish where all await their fate.

As each one holds to their beliefs while keeping social distance

I pray our better angels find our pathway to resistance.

© Ginny Brannan2020

Title borrowed from R.E.M.

Photo credit: David Parham, taken at Lakelawn Cemetary in his beautiful hometown city of New Orleans. Used with expressed written permission.

Thank you, my friend!!

NaPoWriMo 2020

Limbo

I’ve forgotten what it’s like

to feel the sun upon my face

to smell the earth after a storm

to hear the crickets singing 

underneath a crescent moon…

I’ve forgotten what it is to eat

a meal in my own home,

to not be always on the run

to not feel so alone.

Be careful what you wish for

or it may come to be…

I never, ever wished for this,

it’s nothing I'd conceive.

Time grows ever shorter

in our road from here to there,

it’s hard to reconstruct our lives

when this world’s in disrepair.

We wallow in some limbo

and have more than paid our dues

this never-ending road we’re on

is tiring, in truth.

Don’t know where we’re going to land

—or if we’ll land alone,

so I hold you in this moment

and pray you'll soon be home.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Finding Grace

We dwell in a place between there and here

between then and now

between now and when…

a limbo of circumstance

designed by fate to strip away faith.

The minutes tick by,

stripping away slices of us

bit by bit, piece by piece.

No one is exempt from the hands of time;

it is an ever-constant reminder

that all things hinge on us:

on who we are, on our willingness

to change, to grow past our pain

to grow past sad endings

to believe in new beginnings

to believe that there has to be more.

And somewhere in this equation we realize

that we, each of us, are a part

of someone else’s puzzle

Grace emanates from the depths of our own exhaustion,

in the willingness to reach out

and lift the weight of another

even as we struggle with our own.

We draw our strength from each other,

and somehow, through this, we go on.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Theorizing the Atlas Curse

I’ve had enough of this endless curse,

the highs, the lows, the stop and goes—

it slows for a moment and speeds up again;

can’t seem to cut a break, can’t seem to win.

Like Atlas,  are we condemned  to carry 

the weight of the world on our shoulders

through all of  eternity?

In theory, there is no rest for the weary

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Spinning

Do not confuse my anger with how I feel about you.

My anger is borne of frustration,

perhaps because I set the bar so high for myself

that I expect…no demand…the same from others

Patience thins quickly:

the nurse that should know her job

but must come back

because of tests forgotten;

the ones who plow through

despite the sign in front of them that says “Stop.”

Is there no one that understands?

Each small infraction grows and compounds

fueling this loss of control

—and I cannot–fix–this...

Perhaps I have lost sight of the bigger picture,

floundering in the minutia

searching for the light;

for someone that can tell me

You’ll get through this...

  and we’ll be all right. 

  

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image: Nature's Landscape Supercell pictures, storm, Wyoming.

No More Than You Can Handle....

Don’t pander me with platitudes to try and ease this pain

nor pass along your empty incantations…

there’s nothing in the words that heal, and nothing to be gained:

when spoken rote, they won’t invoke your pathway to salvation.

I understand you’re just concerned and trying to express it,

but words alone ring empty in the hollows of this soul.

Sharing thoughts and prayers for things that could not be prevented;

sometimes there's just nothing that will make a person whole.

How many hurts does it take until we fall immune—

to numb this pain inside us that we carry on our own?

Is it on this rock-strewn path through which our souls are hewned,

inside such heinous places that we’re meant to tread alone?

I’m grateful for the ones who hear my pain without remark,

who listen without trying to think ahead to what they’ll say—

who, for a moment carry all the weight that’s on this heart,

knowing there are many things that words will not allay

When in the sea of empathy I feel that I might drown

I search to find the quietude, to find the strength I need.

It’s in the love I feel when all the walls come tumbling down

from those who understand and know that listening’s the key.

When life overwhelms, becoming more than I can bear,
don’t send to me your platitudes just let me know you’re there.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Image from Google Images: Masseu Learns to Sketch

Testament

Why should we believe her?

We never met her, we don’t know her

but somewhere in our lives we knew someone—

a friend, a classmate, a cousin

who experienced something:

rape, molestation, abuse—

at the hands of someone they knew

  or perhaps just met;

Someone they trusted,

or didn’t know well enough yet to trust.

A classmate, a friend, a familiar adult—

someone who took “no” as “yes”

took advantage of the situation

of their youth, their naïveté,

the fact that they were alone

   if only for a moment.

Perhaps they were drinking … perhaps not.

Whatever happened, whenever it happened

does not diminish the fact that it did happen;

   that it wasn’t asked for,

   that it wasn’t wanted.

Boys will be boys? 

How many men do you know

who would force a woman against their will?

Would you? Seriously, would you??

I believe her.

I have no doubt she remembers

          ...because I do
             I remember. 

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Running the Gauntlet

There is palpable pain in your words 

an aching that rises from the soul

reflected in the brevity

  of a single thought shared.

I don’t need to know the cause

to recognize the weight that you carry

—for I, too, know pain.

Sometimes there are no words

to right the unfairness of it all…

sometimes we can only offer ourselves…

hoping it helps to know

that someone else is listening

and you are not alone.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

The Dark Side

Can we judge the life of another

when we don’t know the demons within

the highs and lows and daily struggles

or a need for their darkness end?

To be surrounded, yet feel alone

when nothing is going as planned

when it’s so hard to voice the pain that you have

feeling useless and not worth a damn.

The temptress sings her siren song

awakens the demons within…

I’ve glimpsed into the dark abyss

while tiptoeing on the rim.

Today another left this world

the dark side made its claim

and all the folks he’s never met

are mentioning his name.

A sad and senseless tragedy

there’s no free pass with fame

so difficult to understand,

when no one thing’s to blame.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

When there are so many shades of black and gray

sometimes we can’t tell the clouds from the night.

And there are times when you know that people love you, 

but they just don’t seem to understand.

Sometime it’s only a word or a call;  a note,

a comment that makes all the difference.
“I 'd notice”was my lifeline—two little words,

a simple reminder when I needed it most

that someone was out there and listening to me.

I only danced with the darkness; for so many it is a daily struggle

bigger than anything that most of us will ever understand…

If you feel weighted down, that you are sinking

and have nowhere to turn, talk to someone
if you can’t talk to a friend call 1-800-273-8255.

Hoping that all who struggle with depression and their ‘dark side’ will find peace.

Disinterred

I believe you…

Buried for decades, comes a time

to heal yourself from the cancer

that day-by-day eats away

pieces of the person you once were.

Don’t listen to those who question your motives

that scream “fake news”

as if to say that it's okay

to lust after a 14 year old

or force the hand of a 16 year old

to justify their own perversions.

I believe you…

I know that there are certain truths

invisible to naked eyes

that take the innocence of youth.

Even those who know you best

might never know or realize

that you felt you were to blame—

inside bleeding from the shame.

I believe you…

For every Weinstein, Trump or Moore

are other unknown predators

ones with little the cash or fame

that prey upon the vulnerable.

Their victims each recall their name,

and every look and every leer—

how vivid still their face remains.

I believe you…

Those who choose to speak up now

who’ve forged ahead despite the cost;

it can’t make up for time that’s passed

or what was taken, what was lost;

the naysayers may ridicule,

but those who’ve been there know the truth.

I believe you…

Though by the past we’re not defined

at times its shadow lingers on.

We should not let it blight our soul.

The truth should never be confined—

admission waits, long overdue:

I add my voice and say

          “Me too”

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Where Were You in '62?

I grew up in the Viet Nam era,

the Cold War hovering over my shoulders…

fears and innuendo; living on the edge.

At work would sometimes wonder

Could I get home? Would there be time?

At least be with the ones I love

should “The Bomb” be launched?

…then I’d chastise myself for thinking a fool’s thoughts.

It’s a bad habit I have, pondering worse case scenarios —

  those particular fears had all but disappeared;

  turning into background noise over the years.

It’s funny how things creep back from the past…

with nothing good in the news these days,

and world leaders upping the ante on crazy...

 is it any wonder that the ghosts of fears long gone

       are coming ‘round to haunt again?

© Ginny Brannan 2017

In ’62 I was in second grade in small town VT. I do not remember ever crawling under my desk for bomb drills, but my husband, who lived on Long Island, does. I do remember the Cold War though, the ever-present shadow of communism throughout my youth and teens, and into adulthood.  

Metaphorically Speaking

Life is a series of relationships—

personal, casual, professional...

some filled with anticipation,

others reeking of ambivalence.

I swore I’d never again become enrapt

captivated by another…

the pain of loss is too great,

it weighs heavy and lives in half-lifes

slowly fading; never quite dissipating.

I don’t know when the change came—

when you went from being just a means to an end

to a necessary part of the whole—

but here I am again.

While another holds the strings

I go on, ignoring the voice

that nags inside my gut

while waiting to learn 

if

the

cord

has

been

cut.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Actively Passing

I wonder does subconscious hear a calling,

like songbirds’ urge to sing before the dawn;

sensing that there will be no denying

and no forestalling when one's time has come.

In recent days we’ve watched you shift, withdrawing—

your focus turning inward to your soul;

a bird with broken wings no longer soaring,

slipping while the decades take their toll.

There is no turning back, becoming “whole” again,

no splint to cure what age and illness wrought.

Words whispered soft, appeasing and consoling…

as you slide ever deeper into thought…

time stands still, the caged bird finds release,

  our consolation—hoping you’ve found peace.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

For L, whose light and love we will carry in our hearts.

Not Quite Faded

You carry the visible remnants

of pain endured,

fissures closed,

wounds still healing.

My blemishes mask hidden

tarnished through tears,

sullied in sleepless nights.

Scarred, broken—

two fractured halves

struggling to become whole again.

Don’t look too close,

    you may still see the cracks.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Linking to d’Verse Poets Pub, where we are sharing our “Scars,” both seen and unseen.  This is a Quadrille, a new form for me, a poem of exactly 44 words.

Come on by and check out what others have shared!

Bait and Switch

The bait was dangled from the pole

a promise wrapped in veiled disguise

a deadline set, so too - the goal.

The bait was danged from the pole

you sold your body, heart and soul

for story riddled, full lies…

the bait left dangling from a pole,

the promise— just a veiled disguise.

©  Ginny Brannan 2016

A Matter of Trust…

Children should be seen and not heard.

Trust those who love you.

Age = knowledge and experience.

Always respect your elders.

          

                * * * * * * * * * *

So many lessons in our youth

are learned and re-learned early on

the main one is “You’re just a child,

who speaks in stories and half-truths

no time to listen, move along…”

           

            But there are evils that are wrong

            a side that others may not see;

            when shared aloud, they won’t believe

            cannot handle,  won’t respond…

            until you think you’ve misconstrued.

While lost in youthful fantasy

a grandpa breaks a sacred bond:

to fondle adolescent girls

who happen to be family—

easy prey; then he absconds…

            And they are left to carry on

            in silence carrying the shame,

            not understanding what he did

            nor quite the way they should respond

            —they shelve away and then move on.

Senility might be blame

at  ninety did you even know?

While decades pass and they retain

the scars you left so long ago,

mistrust of loved ones still ingrained.

     I always thought that I’d outgrow

     the guilt I carry deep inside.

     No, you were not a paragon

     and over time I’ve come come to know

     through all the years that you’ve been gone

     how thoughts of you bring mixed reviews

     ….yet you and I still knew the truth…

   

 ©Ginny Brannan 2016

Written in first person, inspired by a story I recently read, and another story heard long ago.

Some things are never forgotten…