Teasels

You teased my skin with silken touch

immersed my soul in your embrace,

we whispered dreams to distant moons

divined our future by the runes.

Between the dusk and morningtide

chased shooting stars and will-o’-the-wisps;

explored each crag, each dampened cave, 

and carved our names in hieroglyphs.

No matter how secure life seems

               time devours youthful dreams…

Yet sometimes ‘tween the dusk and dawn

when full moon dips in western sky

and shines through blinds to chart the sill,

I still recall those days long gone—

   time cedes her secrets from the deep

   and in the cache where memories keep

              the taste of you still lingers on.

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Image: Jackie Curtis:A stand of teasels in yesterdays mist

Sea Glass

The smell was in the air tonight,

drifting in on an eastern wind

recalling those summers at the Cape.

We’d walk along the shore, collecting

shells and bits of colored glass,

watching the sun wrap itself in threads

of peach and pink and purple and gray

before slipping slowly past the horizon.

A chorus of crickets would be heard,

mixed with raucous laughter that trickled

down from the road and tickled our ears

as cars cruised by, windows open,

searching for relief in the cool night air.

Up the lane colorful lights beckoned to the line

forming outside the ice cream shack,

frosty reprieve on a warm summer's eve.

One of the great unproven laws of physics is

that the closer you get to the beach,

the longer the days seem to stretch.

We’d finally crawl off to bed, our

sunburnt bodies finding cool respite

between soft cotton sheets.

If we listen carefully, we can hear the sound

of the waves kissing the shore; as the

warm breeze rustling through the trees

calls us back to the sea once more.

 © Ginny Brannan 2018

Cape Cod near Harwichport, MA 2016

Top Image: Seamarias/Etsy

Bottom Image by author, taken on Cape Cod.

To the You I Barely Knew...

I never really knew you, except in the long ago;

...lipstick on…nails just so,

soft leather handbag, Tabu cologne—

you smoked Chesterfield Kings

    I remember these things.

And you would bake…

  oatmeal cookies, cream puffs

coconut pies with perfect crust

—a taste I would die for

would that I could taste once more.

It’s hard to live up to the memory

of  the you I barely knew—

shorter than five foot nothin’

yet a force to be reckoned with.

With these less-than-perfect hands

and broken nails, I favor

the crafter, the woodworker,

the other half that molded my existence.

But I have your eyes, and when I look in the mirror

   it’s you I see looking back at me.

So I carry all your stories in my heart,

told by the ones who knew you best

living on the memories we never had

           

…we could have been such good friends.

© Ginny Brannan 2017

Circa 1962 Franconia Notch, N.H.

In loving memory of Clementine "Tina" Mary Donzello, 1921 - 1963

Our "Thanksgiving" Family

We come together each November—and occasionally between— a group of transplants who have found themselves away from the families and places we were raised who have landed together in this small New England town. Some of us have known each other for decades, others not so long. Some have children close in age that go to school together, others are extended family. We are bound by similar values, work ethics, our love of family, and the friendship that we share.

We are college professors, career military, civil servants, healthcare workers, moms, dads, grandparents, children, grandchildren, and friends. We have come from places near and far: from Texas and Oklahoma, New York, and Vermont, a U.S. territory, and a country to our south.  We have crossed state lines, borders, and oceans to arrive here. We are an eclectic mix—Polish and Italian, Irish, Scots, and Scandinavian, Mexican and Puerto Rican, whose families settled here in this country for reasons as diverse as we are—to escape fascism and oppression, to educate and further themselves, to integrate and become a part of this great melting pot called the United Sates; where dreams are possible, differences welcomed, hard work rewarded, and there is freedom to grow and become whomever one believes they can be.

We all bring something different to the table, both literally: turkey with all the fixings, pernil, yellow rice and beans, tamales, Jamoncillo de Leche, pumpkin and apple pies and other deserts; and idealistically with different viewpoints and traditions. The diversity of our backgrounds may have shaped us, but it is our commonalities that bind us; and our mutual respect, fondness and love for each other that makes us family.

© Ginny Brannan 2016

Para

La familia de Madera

La familia Pérez

La familia Natella
The Muse Family

Y todos los de mi familia el Día de Acción de Gracias

Con cariño y agradecimiento

(Think about it: we are all from "someplace else," we are all 'immigrants.' Even the indigenous people, the “Native Americans,” crossed by a land bridge that existed between Siberia and Alaska long before the first Europeans “discovered” this country.)

Mile Markers

Gray chalk hills fade one behind another

until they dissolve into oyster sky.

Ice crystals dance on gelid air,

glisten highway’s edge, and settle

in the crooks of sleeping maples.

Evergreens bend under weight

 of their thick winter shawls.

In spite of its bleakness, we are taken by

the stark frost-coated beauty of it all.

Northbound…

my core senses those timeworn mountains

long before my eyes discern them.

Yet, it is not these ancient mounds

that draw me back, but the folks therein

I long to see—those I love who wait for me.

With each mile passed, the years begin to dissipate

like those hills now veiled in mist and gloam;

my pulse beats faster as this heart anticpates

that final stretch of road that leads me home.

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

A Walk on a Winter's Night

Remembering a Christmas long ago…

we walked the village streets on winter’s night,

waiting for the rain to turn to snow

The church bells chiming carols, soft and low

reminding of the One who brought His light

on another Christmas, long ago.

The darkened stores awash in indigo

imparting their displays in twinkling white…

waiting for the rain to turn to snow.

The dampened road reflecting streetlights’ glow

shining as if it bathed in candlelight—

in mem'ries of that Christmas long ago.

We rallied from the cold like Eskimos,

butt'ning up our coats against the bite—

waiting for the rain to turn to snow.

Some memories we never quite outgrow

just store away to view when time is right…

remembering that Christmas long ago

and our delight when rain turned into snow.

© Ginny Brannan 

Image taken by Michelle Torres Lowe, borrowed from BFDDA (Bellows Falls Downtown Development Alliance)

Sharing at d'Verse Poets Open Link Night December 2014 

Continuity

On entering, we are assailed by the smells:

sausage and sage, butter, brown sugar,

cinnamon …

commingling, tempting;

then the warmth

oven on long before dawn,

steam rising from various sized pots…

not to mention body heat—

for everyone gathers here in this room.

Johnny Mathis, Frank Sinatra, Nat King Cole

echo from the wooden console radio

in the next room,

two sisters croon out their favorites;

a third—younger—swoons, exclaiming once again

how she “loves that skinny Italian boy from Jersey.”

A cacophony of voices and laughter

rise and fall.

The house becomes a budding entity

breathing,  beating with the life

of those gathered here…

We carry these images from our past...

family, friends, gatherings

spinning together as one.

Defining; reminding where we come from,

who we are

...and we pass it forward

to our children,

this gift of unconditional love

in a place we call ‘home.’

©  Ginny Brannan 2014

Family photo, 1956. 

Shared: dVerse Poets Meeting the Bar: Thanksgiving Turkey with a side of Poetry
Also honored to have it shared here by Women's Spiritual Poetry

The image is my family: towards the back Aunt Jane on the left; then my mom, with her back to us, stylin' as always; then Aunt Mary and Aunt Rose, to the far right peaking in with glasses I believe is my Aunt "Butch"(Bernadette); in the foreground leaning over I believe is my Italian grandfather, that baby on the lap, that would be me, not sure in whose lap but it could be Aunt Ginny or one of my dad's sisters. I remember so many Christmases of my childhood, tradition to stop at Aunt Mary's house after church (she lived across the street from the church!). Her stereo would be on playing all the holiday favorites. The reference to "that boy in NJ" is for my Aunt Gin, who adored Frank Sinatra! My mom passed when I was seven, this photo a freeze-framed memory of a very special time.

Orphaned

Her collection spanned the years:

old photos and cards, well worn

books with dog-eared pages,

an odd assortment of furniture

that no one else wanted.

Perhaps she saw a bit of herself

in each piece rescued—

each looking for love

and a place to call home.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Shared at Magpie Tales #221.  

Image provided by Tess Kincaid: she provides the image, we the story! Come see what others are sharing!

Excerpts

Do you remember that summer long ago?

Hottest week in August, as I recall.

We got to the trailer on the beach--

damn sight-unseen summer rental;

had to clean it out and make it fit for use

before we could even bring our stuff in.

We didn’t care…

We were so much younger then.
I remember.

We took in that fresh sea air

like we couldn’t get enough...

Watched the gulls spiral overhead,

and those little birds, the sandpipers,

being chased up and down by the waves.

I still feel the sand stinging our faces in the wind,

and taste the salt clinging to our lips.

Spent our days splashing in the surf

turning nutmeg in the sun…

walking to that little Clam shack for fritters.

The waves sang us to sleep each night.

We were so much younger then…

I remember.

©  Ginny Brannan June 2011  
Sharing at d'Verse Poet's Pub Open Link Night #51

Cardboard Memories

I stumbled on your photograph today,

a curled up image in a cardboard case,

just an old snapshot that was tucked away.

Beneath a pile of aging notes it lay,

its glossy paper looking out of place--

I stumbled on your photograph today.

Though it was only sticking out partway,

it  was just enough to see your face

in this old snapshot that was tucked away.

The fading image just does not convey

those cherished memories time could not erase…

I stumbled on your photograph today.

           

The passing years have caused the edge to fray,

so very carefully I did replace

this aging snapshot that was tucked away.

Sometimes it seems like only yesterday,

these retrospections we cannot retrace...

I stumbled on your photograph today,

just an old snapshot that was tucked away.
©Copyright Ginny Brannan April 2011

*I am inspired or "triggered" to write about things from my own life, so you can bet that this came from finding an old photo. Perhaps a little clichéd,  but my memories, my clichés.
Image: Kookaburra Laughs.blogspot.com

Sweet Summers of My Youth

Long days playing with my friends,

daylight felt like it would never end;

hours passed till night was rendered,

and dad would call me home again...

oh, sweet summers of my youth

Crickets chirping and fireflies,

seeing the love in my momma’s eyes;

tucking me in, saying, "Sleep tight”

I was too young then to realize …
oh, sweet summers of my youth

Warm breezes blowing through the screen

a glimpse, a moment so serene

our family together, it’s like a dream

holding tight to that precious scene...

oh, sweet summers of my youth

These twists of fate, we’ll never know

why some may stay and some must go...

through this uncertain ebb and flow --

each curve, each bump helps us to grow.

So I look back on memories,

in my mind’s eye I still can see

a mom … a dad … a family

and a little girl who still felt free.

Oh, sweet summers of my youth           

        

Copyright ©  June 2010

Photo: Visual Photos, Mitch Diamond