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

In the Empty Spaces

In the empty spaces that surround me

in the silent echos of each day

I miss the sound of breathing from another

the gentle touch of skin against my skin,

the warm caress of your arms wrapped around me

—kindling the passion deep within.

I’ve adapted, seeking to find comfort

in knowing there’s no longer any pain

My prayers aren’t heard, there is no bargain-making,

 still, I’d trade my soul to feel you once again.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Meting My Needs

 

I carry so much inside of this heart

sometimes I feel it will burst.

I am not patient; ruminating anxiously,

watching, wondering what holds the key?

And I do my best to keep moving forward

pondering if second-chances

are based in reality, or if they’re a myth

that we tell ourselves to keep on keepin’ on.

Joy is gleaned in all of  the small moments.

Hope carried on the fringes of those moments,.

But the light that we that seek,

the love that we reach for,

isn’t always as forthcoming.

We may feel its warmth from time to time,

a will-o-the wisp that rests for a heartbeat

then moves on, leaving us wanting for more.

It’s hard to find stability in an unstable world,

to feel confidence when nothing is sure.

Our want for companionship seems impossible to obtain,

but the need to find love, to give love, to be loved still remains.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

*Meting = measuring

 

Inside the Cadence of Friendship

 

The date, once set, is sacrosanct;

we need this time together,

this gentle reminder of who we are.

where we’ve come from —

that despite all we’ve been through

we are still here.

The ties that bind are many and varied,

but the love? That is our constant.

We are healed in each other’s presence,

made whole again by our stories and laughter

by our words, by music, by camaraderie.

Within this haven of kinship

in the company of those

who have seen our worse, know our best, 

and like us in spite of ourselves,

we are safe to speak of our dreams,

of our hopes and desires,

of our worries and fears—

free to be ourselves.

And it is in the cadence of our friendship that we shine,

carrying each other’s light within us

until we meet again.

 

© GB 2024

 

Top photo: Google Images

Bottom photo by author.

Held in Stasis

 

I did not forget you, my darling,

I just hit pause for a while,

my self-defined procrastination– 

the inner writer whispered, “sit”

and I surrendered to temptation.

I did not forget you, my sweet,

 but I wrapped myself instead

inside of that creative fog, resetting 

from the week that’s passed, 

regrouping for the week ahead.

I did not forget you, my love,

nor all the years we spent

and what you meant to me.

You’re still in every breath I take

nothing was in vain.

I carry your heart inside of my own

and so it will remain.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

There is nothing ordinary about April 7^th, but for once it didn’t hit me with the usual sense of anxiety and dread; no painful moments running like a loop in my head. And while I don’t believe such moments will ever really disappear, for today there was reprieve. Perhaps a gift. He always read me so well!

"Testing, Testing...One, Two, Three"

 

Hope lies between the lines

of dreams and of unanswered prayer

as we, mere mortals, search to find

peace from pain we've buried there.

               *  *  *  *  *

Believe in the power if you choose

that parts the seas and turns the tides

Could such entreaty be refused;

a whispered word of urgency

from the place where love resides?

 

When all else fails we’re left to conjure

hope beyond all hope to cure

the ills from which there’s no returning;

I watched you fade into thin air...

you wonder why faith disappears?

 

How many prayers have you seen answered?

How many hearts are left to bear

the pain of loss despite “believing”

that there’s a God that truly cares

while undeserving loved ones leave us

    lost in our unanswered prayer.

                  *  *  *  *  *

“No” has always been the answer,

reprieve short lived; the end’s the same.

We look to pin the fault on someone,

but really there’s no one to blame.

Miracles are not forthcoming

we bear our loss as best we can

our questions gather dust, unanswered

derived from pitting God to man.

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Image: Photographer C. Parant, Appetite for Photos. Used with espressed written permission.

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.

Like a Strand in the Wind

 

“And the days go by, like a strand in the wind

   In the web that is my own, I begin again”

                                     – Stevie Nicks

 

I lost myself to the grayness of days,

my light hidden inside the recesses of a broken heart.

The nights passed slowly, one to another

rare moments of peace were swallowed 

by the endless hours in the half-light.

They say that “time heals,” yet it does not erase.

We somehow come to live with these changes

wondering if we can ever get back to that place

where the glass was half-full, where hope survives.

 

It was a cold winter’s day when the sun broke through

and I finally felt the heaviness slipping away. 

Healing is a process, and each of us must discover 

our own way out of the darkness,

how to stay afloat, how not surrender to the abyss–

until we finally become the hero of our story:

not unscathed by pain and loss, for

we carry the scars of every battle we have fought

and every person we have ever loved.

Yet, it’s not our losses that define us  

but the ability to continue in spite of them.

For loss is the price we pay for love,

and ultimately, it is that love that carries us 

to the place where we can mend

and come back to the light again.

.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Artwork Maritime Strand, Philip Juras

In the Still Hours

 

“But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men Go often awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain, For promised joy! 

Still you are blessed, compared with me! The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary! 

And forward, though I cannot see, I guess and fear! “

                 Excerpt ‘To a Mouse’ by Robert Burns
 
The empty house is quiet now

it echoes sounds from Christmas past

of footsteps running down the hall,

the moments that we thought would last.

The frost lays heavy on the sill

to set upon us winter’s chill,

no children’s giggles filled with mirth

or Christmas greetings of goodwill.

The stillness breaks, another dawn

our children grow to leave the nest

to make new memories of their own–

as roles reverse and are recast.

A star still shines from highest bough

traditions passed from mom to son,

and in the baubles on the tree

images of yesterdays

filled with love and family...

and so it is we pass baton

and watch them leave and carry on.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

*The piece by Robert Burns is written in heavy Scottish dialect, and while a pleasure to read and see in original form, it is a difficult read to translate and grasp, so I chose the English translation.

I have never been good at this, this writing

 

I have never been good at this, this writing

of my emotions, especially when writing of love—

it is such a personal thing to express; rooted

in the heart where words always fall short...

 

I might say that it feels like the sun 

on my skin, that I drink in the warmth of 

your smile— like a hummingbird drinks

from the delphinium, wings beating so fast

 

you can hardly perceive them, that’s how

my heart beats for you (surely you must

feel it too?)  And the way that your face lights up

when you’re laughing, which happens

 

more often than not. and how, without words

you can tell what I’m thinking, as you

answer me back with a nod and a wink

(your response has alluded a clue)

 

and so, I’m enamored with you. the larkspur’s in

bloom, taking root where it’s planted, and so then

the garden begins. and as the years pass which one

shall outlast; our love–––or the delphinium?

 

© ginny brannan 2023

 

Image Credit: Black Chinned Hummingbird with Foxglove & Delphinium by Susan Bourdet

Today's prompt calls for us to read a love poem by e.e. cummings, then write a love poem in similar style  that contains at least one flower, one parenthetical statement, and line breaks in unusual places.

Facts to note:  a hummingbird can flap it's wings up to 70 times per second. Delphinium and Larkspur are two names for the same plant. It is perennial that reseeds itself.

Star-Crossed

You were

the summer rain,

the moon in the night sky

the brightest star that I could see...

and I,

the darkness of a cloudy night

I knew we wouldn’t be.

'Twas you who left

not me.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

Attempting my first Cinquain. I thought I'd written one before, but if I had, I never labeled it. There are several styles. This is a nine line Cinquain with a syllabic count as follows: 2,4,6,8,2,8,6,4,2.

A Bit of Spackle and Some Glue...

 

I can’t tell you how it will happen

the moment the light fades

and the darkness swallows  you,

of the crushing weight of just trying to catch your breath

I can’t tell you of the days that follow

one bleeding into another, running on autopilot

the fog of just getting through them.

And the rain that appears, unannounced,

falling whether we want it or not.

Milestones are the hardest,

every Monday, every 7^th,  every holiday.

“Keep your mind busy, it’ll get better”

the lie you tell yourself because you can’t imagine 

that this could be all that is left.

I can’t tell you when it changes;

when the boulder you carry 

becomes lighter, less noticeable, or when 

you can finally whisper the memories

and feel only their warmth, not overwhelming

regret for all that could have been.

I can’t tell you when the shadows will recede

or when the light will finally crack through the darkness

reflecting back the happiness you still ferry;

never actually gone, just lost for a while.

Time doesn’t heal all of our wounds

but it teaches us how to live with them.

We draw strength from all that we’ve been through

and all that that has brought us to this point.

Love comes in many forms,

and it is the love

that gets us through

that gets us past

and finally heals us.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Imperfectly Perfect...

 

Artwork: Cesar Biojol

I like people who aren’t perfect–

the ones with scars and crooked smiles,

the ones with messy homes and messy lives;

the ones that have felt anger and pain

yet did not give up their souls,

the ones that so many would dismiss as ‘different.’

We are all flesh and blood. We are all finite.

We live, we work, we grieve, we love;

we breathe as one inside this fragile dome...

 

Hate holds no place here.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Carrying On

 

At the mall the other day

I stopped to drop a donation

into the red bucket;

a tradition, something 

we always did for our fathers,

two WWII veterans who spoke 

of the kindnesses rendered

by this “army of salvation.”
I gave more than usual

then tried to explain that this year

I was donating for you, too,

but I couldn’t find my voice.

In routine there is peace,

joy found in small moments:

a visit with family,

time spent with friends,

in memories shared

 and in traditions…

each thread woven with love.

If a tear should appear,  it is not from sadness,

but from the place where the heart remembers.

It is Christmas, after all.

© Ginny Brannan 2021