Ghost Stories

 

You share your stories filled with ghosts 

your “what ifs” and your “coulda beens”

that left you with a heart in pain.

I see you and I raise you one:

my path could not have been more clear, 

until the day it disappeared.

My coulda/woulda/shoulda beens

fell victim to the shifting tides

where hope and hesitance collide.

Now we dance around each other’s words

–avoidance is a practiced art–

and hold back sharing any truth.

To stumble, worse, to crash and burn

is meant for others in their youth.

Dissolved, those castles made of sand,

long lost, the prince and maiden fair...

our innocence has been replaced:

we know too well the hidden tolls,
each tick mark carved out on our face.

I think the reason that we tarry

and write of angst and hidden pain

is a fence we build to guard what’s left

of a love we carry that is gone...

~ We can't be 'hurt' if we don’t respond ~

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Because Sometimes

 

To put into words how we feel in a moment

is like trying to launch a balloon in the wind

to chase after something just out of reach

that dances and teases hither and there

with no malice aforethought and nary a care.

And it stirs something dormant that dwells deep inside

where rebellion and wisdom and passion reside.

Yet we're loath to let go of this image we’ve fostered

nor let someone see us, naked and bare

so we hide in the clutter of daily achievements

lest someone discover the truth hidden there.

And the path that we walk is all littered with trifles

subconscious  rejections: a fence if you will—

to keep heart protected from meaningless prattle,

locked in the past with time standing still.

Sometimes I sift through the words that you’ve written

–your subtle seductions with ink and a quill–

for the slightest inflection that intimates more

coded inside a well-thought metaphor...

So write of your darkness, the weight on your shoulders

of  light that you search for, of love you have lost;

each of us bears up the best that we can

life is unkind and we both know the cost

The cravings we carry aren’t quilled in just words

but are quickly dismissed by scars we’ve incurred

and neither sees past all the forks and the turns,

to surrender to risk, just to be burned.

So we ever politely forego and abstain

lest we sully this pretense that we have retained.

© Ginny Brannan 2024

 

"No Soup for You"

 

It was just a little thing,

the way you read my mind–

probably coincidence

or planetary confluence

no reason or no rhyme.

It was just a little thing

how the words took their own meaning

as if you sensed my deepest thoughts

and knew what I was feeling.

It was just a little thing

no truth or consequences

but for a moment it felt real

some universal prescience

and I, the pawn who stumble on

searching for some relevance

holding the last bastion

just to find indifference

provision without sustenance

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

*Title credit to the TV series "Seinfeld," a quote from the episode called "The Soup Nazi" who demands a strict regimen to order his famous soups. "No soup for you" the retort given if you do not follow his rules.

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

Chasing Chimeras

 

We operate in misdirection

and paint ourselves in subterfuge

our feelings hid in metaphor

in codes and ciphers, subtle clues

while we chase ‘chimeras’ in the dark

to avoid the risk of being bruised

tiptoeing around the truth

mindful of each word we choose

–it’s better not to know than lose.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

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

Views from the Past

I never saw you as beautiful

you were always just there;

a vestige, a mile-marker of childhood.

When I was old enough I moved away,

escaped the dark side of my youth.

And now I see that you remained

—inventing, reinventing—

somewhat changed, but still the same.

My view of you is changing too—

Once I thought you held me back

your memory brought mixed reviews

bittersweet and interlaced

with loss and pain and awkwardness

—so many things I once suppressed

but none of which I could erase.

Was only trying to find my way 

and so, it seems, that you were too,

a place to fit, somehow belong...

I took a circumventious route—

an awkward child who found her voice.

You stayed and grew into the land,

each one making our own choice.

Full circle, how things come around…

I see the child I once knew

and see you now for who you are

awakened to the current view.

How sad the years that slipped us by,

but cannot dwell in “should-have-beens”

  you are you and I am I

  – perhaps we might begin again?

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Both personifying the place I came from,
and reflecting back on some who 

influenced who I would become.

Image taken by Photographer Anne Collins who shares her beautiful images on my hometown site called "Growing Up in Bellows Falls." Looking northbound on the Connecticut River.

Used with expressed written permission.

Threadbare

All the things we left unsaid

forgotten dreams and ‘I love yous’

are held in trust inside my head

All the things we left unsaid

old bridges clinging by a thread

abandoned by the life we choose

where all the things we leave unsaid

are scratched and scrapped as i.o.u.s

© Ginny Brannan 2018

Burying the Bones

I no longer fit into the format

that was once reserved for me,

the “Why aren’t you doing something constructive?”

goes unsaid—the look—enough.

...Guilt, the gift that keeps on giving.

You claim patience, say you don’t care,

    but those sighs say otherwise…

    our one bone of contention

    in this otherwise perfect union.

© Ginny Brannan

Unwritten

Letters lie, unwritten…

we communicate

from a space

where time

dissipates.

 Yesterday I stood

unsealed before you…

  You know,

-you’ve always known-

  exactly who I am.

Words pale,

  as we read
  the silence

between the lines.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Written for The Mag #194, Image provided by Tess Kincaid
She provides the image, we the story!!
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #123. 

Mirage

Arising from sun-drenched earth

to prey upon time-worn eyes

bending—folding—

once again fading,

to reappear that same

immeasurable distance away…

and I’m left burning;

yearning to melt into

your elusive pool

that I can

            never

                        quite

                                    reach.

© Ginny Brannan 2013

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night #104. C'mon by and read a spell!

Undercurrents

"Hello, how are you?

Good to see you again.

How’s the family doing?

See you’ve made new friends."

"Yeah, I’m fine, not much new

since you and I last spoke."

We chat politely, hold that line--

even share a joke.

Just below the surface

feel that subtle undertow,

cannot change our current course

set so long ago.

So we chat politely,

and only dip our toe…

ignore the undercurrent,

then we turn and go.

©Copyright  Ginny Brannan June 2010
Internet Photo "Holding Hands" India
Shared One Stop Poetry One Shot Wednesday Week 45
http://onestoppoetry.com/2011/05/one-shot-wednesday-week 45

Posted at d'Verse Poets Pub, Poetics "Undercurrents." It's been shared once before, but with a poem sharing the same title as the prompt, I couldn't resist sharing again!