In these Grains of Our Existence

 

We are all made of stardust–

the signs are everywhere.

For four and a half billion years

floating on this spatial sea,

collecting bits of every planet that ever existed, 

every sun that no longer shines.

Quantum and classic physics aside,

deciphering our place on a finite line 

in an infinite universe boggles

even the sharpest of minds.  

Even our atoms resemble tiny solar systems.

and the elements that compose our human body

are also found inside the stars.

Made of stardust? You bet we are.

We are a miracle of evolution,

breathing the air from plants 

that existed a hundred million years ago.

We need not question who we are.

It is in everything that surrounds us.

All of us travelers in time

 walking among the stars.

© Ginny Brannan 2024

The grains of sand at Hoshizuna-no-Hamma beach in Okinawa, Japan are shaped like tiny stars. The star-shaped “sand” grains in Okinawa are actually the calcite endoskeletons of microscopic organisms known as Foraminifera.  Foraminifera are a quite old phylum, having been around since at least the Cambrian era (over 500 million years ago), 

In Praise of "Banned Books"

 

I lost my mom when I was seven

not knowing how different 

my life would be; yet I was still me.

I lived with my dad, surrounded

by aunts and friend’s moms

and teachers who guided me

in a town where everyone knew

us;  our families, parents, grandparents too.

I grew up in the era of civil rights and Kennedy

Vietnam, the Cold War, Charles Manson, LSD.

Our teachers encouraged us to read.

They planted the seeds that expanded

our own little corner of the world.

The Library’s Summer Reading Program was our passport

to learn of lives and cultures outside of our own, such as

—four orphaned siblings who create a home for themselves

    in an abandoned boxcar.

—the hardships of a Jewish girl in Nazi Germany

—the alleged guilt of a man of color, 

    a coming of age story about the roots and consequences

    of racism in the south.

—the life of two migrant workers, one slow in intelligence, 

    in California during the Great Depression

—the hard reality of a farmer and his wife from a village in China

    which opened my eyes to the inequality of women

    depicted through a different culture pre-WWII

I read the dark tales of Poe,

solved mysteries with Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes;

escaped into Science Fiction with Jules Verne and Ray Bradbury.

I walked from the Shire to Mordor and back

traveling through these stories to places different

—yet somehow the same—as my own.

To decide what children can or cannot read

based on your own biases, or the opinions of others, is unjustified.

If you believe, based on someone else’s word, that a book

is perverse or deviant, read it yourself first to find out.

As a parent or caregiver, it is your job to educate yourself

and discuss these matters with your children.

My son devoured stories from the time he began reading

often opening my eyes and mind to stories I had not yet read.

I am forever grateful to the teachers, the librarians, the adults

in my life,  for allowing me the freedom

to read: to expand my knowledge, my interests; to see 

life outside of where I lived,  so that I could

make informed decisions on who I wanted to be.

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

Forever grateful to authors Gertrude Chandler Warner, Anne Frank, Harper Lee, John Steinbeck,  Pearl S. Buck, Edgar Allan Poe, Carolyn Keene, Jules Verne, Ray Bradbury, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, J.R.R. Tolkien, just to name a few,  and Alice Walker, Stephen King, J.K. Rowling, and all the authors of my adult life, too. Too many to mention, but forever appreciated.

On the Eve of the Wolf Moon

 “By the full moon’s light our desires we know.
By the waning quarter we ebb and flow…”
— Unknown 

The moon, our ever-constant companion, mysterious light in the darkness… goddess, night traveler, ruler of oceans— nearly all civilizations from ancient to modern have been captivated by you, following you, reveliing in your story. Cerridwen, Luna, Artemis, Selene, known by these and so many other names. Even our Native Americans had titles for the you— Wolf Moon, Snow Moon, Corn Moon, Hunter’s Moon—in your cycles through the heavens ruling the months and seasons. We gaze at you from afar, shadowing you, observing your transformation as you recede past full and transition into final quarter. Though you are slowly waning, your light still shines brighter than all of the other lights in the night sky. And as you transform, so your dominance on nature evolves with you. Even the mighty oceans and seas bend to your influence: the tides slipping now to Neap phase— a time of balance, a time of least difference between high and low water. Is it any wonder that we humans—who are composed of 77% water—may be governed by your changes as well; that your lunar body may indeed play a critical role in the tides of our consciousness?

We sense your changes deep in our souls. This is a time of releasing, a time of forgiveness, a time of cleaning up; of putting everything back into place and letting go of the emotional intensity of previous weeks.  During this disseminating phase the time arrives for us to reap the rewards of a job well done with celebration and accolade. As writers, we intuitively sense these cosmic changes deep within our being.  We reflect on them and are drawn to share them in our words—perhaps in the sharing to better understand the shifts and rifts, the effects of these changes inside us;  or perhaps to allow us to open our hearts and minds, discovering the pathways of our own release.  I know the allure, the call of your waning moon, have felt your invitation to release the pain of the past through words that rise from deep within me. And I have found myself adrift, caught in your Neap phase: a limbo with no “high” no “low,” lost somewhere between the ebb and flow.  

Oh pale-faced Huntress of Souls, we feel your command, convergence, confluence— with all of our being. You shine on the pathways our consciousness, and in your waning light we come to understand that all things have a season, and that all that fades will again be reborn.

 

*******************************************************************

  

Re: quote at beginning: it is an excerpt of a longer poem I discovered in my research. Sharing full poem below.  Credited to ‘Unknown’ author.  Here it is in full: 

Bide by the moon, follow her glow,

By the light of the new we renew and grow.

By the waxing quarter our determination shows,

By the full moon’s light our desires we know.

By the waning quarter we ebb and flow,

By the dark moon’s presence we return what we’ve sown.

Bide by the moon,

Follow her glow.

–        Unknown

      *Chapter 7 Intro, Last Quarter Moon, 2016 "Poetry as a Spiritual Practice, Illuminating the Awakened Woman"

From the Observation Deck

9/11/2001
My husband and I worked for the same supermarket company, at that time both in the same store. I was Customer Service at the Front End of the store. His job of Security Receiver had him at the back entrance to take in the trucks and various vendors that supply the store. The radio was on in Receiving. He was one of the first to hear the news, but it was hard to take in. Surely it couldn't be true. That couldn't happen here. The ripples came through the store. Employees passing through the backroom lingered to hear some word of what was happening. We got home that afternoon, put on the TV to find the images. Surreal. We watched again and again until our hearts were so overwhelmed and so broken we could not watch anymore...

In the days directly after 9/11, our local Red Cross was swamped with calls and donations. My employer generously sent volunteer employees to assist them, paying our wages for our time with them. I was honored to be one of those employees, and spent the next 3 weeks there. The flow of generosity was overwhelming. When the chips are down, we Americans do what we do. We give what we can, then do it again. The stories that came with the donations wrenched our hearts. The head of our local Red Cross would reach out to families who had lost friends or loved ones. One such story was as finding three separate checks from three separate locations given by the same man, with the notation that he had lost his daughter in the towers. No matter who you are, you knew someone...friend, family member, family of your co-workers. No American spared.

In the days that followed 9/11, we rallied. Heartache gave way to anger, but also a newfound pride arose. We are Americans after all. When push comes to shove we won't be intimidated. We raised our flags, we stood tall, we volunteered, we give whatever we could, we gave till it hurt because our "family" was hurting. And for awhile, we became a kinder, gentler nation. We will NEVER forget the ones lost, but we would do well to remember that we are all brothers and sisters, we are all family. No matter who tries to break us, to divide us from outside or within, we are better, stronger, more resilient than they can even imagine, and our better selves will always rise again.

The Doors to the Temple

Why are we compelled to write?

Why do we eat when we are hungry?

There are times when we see something

so amazing, so heartbreakingly beautiful,

that we search for the perfect words to describe it:

maybe it is a sunset painting the horizon

in hues of salmon and amethyst;  

or the steady and progressive rumbling

of distant gray clouds signaling an approaching storm.

Perhaps it is the glimpse through a wooded copse—

the black almond-shaped eyes of a young doe

barely visible among the saplings, staring back at you.

It might be an injustice, so heinous,

so blatant, that we need to shout—

to scream it from the page using words to expose it.

And sometimes we are so overcome with emotion,

that the only way through it is in the writing.

Someone who touched our souls has passed.
And yet, I must confess that every day

I am moved by so many poets and storytellers—

unsung…unknown… pouring their hearts and souls

into words; composing their symphony

with their nouns, with verbs, and Oh! those adjectives…

compelled by something intangible that lives inside—

sharing their truths, baring their being;

writing for the one or two who recognize

themselves in those words

so that perhaps one day when the music stops,

  someone might turn and say

      “Oh, isn’t she the one who used to write?”

© Ginny Brannan 2019

Be still and listen to your soul...

Honoring not only an amazing poet of our time, but all of the poets and writers whom I call friends, whose words speak to and inspire me daily...

Illumination

Curiosity, the spark that sets us apart

       on our quest for knowledge... 

Common sense is learned in degrees

starting at the knees of our elders.

In their words and stories, we learn about ourselves,

When we finally learn to read, we travel—

floating on a raft down the Mississippi;

chasing an elusive white whale on an endless sea;

joining a group of unlikely companions

on a quest for something ‘larger’ than ourselves.

The world expands, becoming greater than we ever imagined.

The more we absorb, the hungrier we become;

history teaches us, but it’s the stuff outside of the margins

        that holds the real story...

Who wrote this? What guided his thoughts as he lay

in the trenches of the French Revolution

the Civil War, World War I?

So we follow these word paths, penned from the souls

of a thousand, nay, a thousand times ten thousand.

We hold their stories and garner their memories

adhering them to our own.  We are with them

as they climb the path to Mt. Doom,

slip down the rabbit hole,

feel the pendulum brush their skin,

and click their shoes to go home again;

never wanting to leave this secret garden,

this Neverland of dreams and imagination.

Through the words we learn to sort fact from fiction,

weigh guilt from innocence, solve crimes;

discover ordinary heroes rising against extraordinary villains.

Words hold the power to change the world:

willfull ignorance and lies cannot hold up against

those who have learned to recognize truth

The early scribes and monks of old had a daunting task:

they laboured for hours on vellum pages with ink and quill,

 no computers then, nor ballpoint pen...

the process ever slow and tedious.

Is it any wonder when their pens would wander?

That even early on, if given a choice,
they would surrender to their inner voice

        setting free their imagination

to provide not just a story, but illumination.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Illumination has several definitions, two of which pertain to this:
1) Spiritual or intellectual enlightenment
2) Painting or drawing included in a book, i.e.:medieval manuscripts

For NaPoWriMo #24: using the marginal drawings and artwork known as "illumination" as inspiration.

Yes, even humor could be found in medieval manuscripts!

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

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.  

Still Crazy After All These Years...

The Beatles introduced on Ed Sullivan February 9, 1964

We are the 'baby boomers' 
conceived in the 50’s when Elvis was King.

We are God fearing, hell-raising all-American kids, educated in a small town, 
taught to fear Jesus in a small town...

We survived the turbulent 60’s:

We saw the Cold War and the end of Camelot;

watched as Kennedy fended off the Soviets in Cuba,

working to find peaceful solutions abroad

and racial equality at home.

He fought a war on two fronts

                  ….and was gunned down.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. spoke of dreams;

of peace and tolerance, a better world for
our children, and our children’s children

                  … and was gunned down.

Bobby, our new hope, our golden boy

                  … he too, was gunned down.

Too young for the marches, the war surrounded us,

brought into our homes each night by the voice of Walter Cronkite

…and like John, Martin and Bobby, we dreamed of peace.

We are the Beatles generation…embraced their music from moment we heard them.

We grew up with Opie and Lassie, Robin Hood and Superman.

No Kindles no tablets; give us a super hero comic book any day.

We watched as Neil Armstrong took “…one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.”

We listened to Dylan and Fogerty, Crosby, Stills Nash and Young, Jethro Tull

We Bungled in the Jungle and sang songs of protest and antiwar;

“War, huh yeah, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing,’oh hoh, oh…”

We are the teenagers of the ‘70’s...

Hendrix and Zeppelin, Aerosmith and Kansas—
like ‘Dust in the Wind,’ we kept  ‘Dreamin’ On.’ 

We held our collective breath waiting for draft cards to arrive.
   Then, just like that, the war was over.

Our lives moved on, college , work, marriage, children, career…

we were the be-bop babies on a hard day’s night… and we danced

and we listened to the pop rock of the 80’s

that morphed into techno, and rap, a music evolution—

a revolution set in place by those four lads from Liverpool.

We cried over senseless murders of children; our classrooms no longer safe-havens.

We chose sides on gun control; yet all of our hearts mourn the innocents.

Yes, we’ve lived through the good, the bad and the ugly—

                  …and we are still going

Think about it— we’ve been around through JFK, RFK, MLK; Elvis, the Beatles, Dylan; war and peace, another war and so much more. We saw the fall of the Twin Towers, and the fall of the Iron Curtain. We were here for Roe v. Wade and Watergate, Star Trek  and Star Wars,  and the original ‘space race.’ We’ve seen innovations in medicine, and computers that fit in the palm of your hand. We have instant communication with anyone, anywhere in the world. We’ve ushered in the first black president, and may yet see the first female president. We are the computer techs and the mechanics, the greens-keepers and bakers, the poets and the dreamers.  In the almost 6 decades that we’ve been on this earth, we have seen history…lived history…made history…

We are the gray-haired 50-something tattooed rock 'n rollers— 
perhaps a little bit older and a lot less bolder than we used to be

…but hell yeah, we’re still here...
                        Here's to us!

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Who says you can't go back…looking back on the last 4 decades and beyond, on the occasion of my 40th class reunion. For my fellow classmates and my friends from BFUHS class of 1974, and all the other 'boomers who remember...  

Follow the lavender links to the music and the speeches, the real trip down memory lane.

Giuseppe

Written in February, thought I'd visit dVerse Poetics: Your family hiSTORY and share this little piece of myself: 

Universal Studios Lot, Instagram by sessepien 

He was born before the turn of the 20th century in a small town
near the coast of Sicily. Little is known to us of his early childhood.
As a young man, he sailed on Italian merchant ships, where he
learned to weave and repair nets. In the early 1900s he immigrated,
coming through Ellis Island into New York City then on to
Chicago–where he saw his share of crowded tenements and
common bathrooms–before finding his way to and making
his home in a small mill town in southeastern Vermont.

I don’t know exactly when or where he met his

wife Anna; only that she was from Milan in northern

Italy.  Mixing northern Italians with Sicilians is like

mixing oil and water–opposites–yet their union worked.

They raised seven children, two sons: John and Joseph, and

five daughters: Clementina, Marguerita, Mary, Rose and Virginia

When I was born in 1956, he was in his late sixties.

By the time he was in his 80’s, he’d lost both legs to diabetes .

He passed just four months shy of his 93^rd birthday.

I still remember him sitting in the wheel chair in his kitchen,

hands busy weaving yarn into beautiful net scarves just as he’d

learned to weave those fishing nets so many years before.

He never truly mastered English, except for cursing,

which for some reason was always perfectly understandable.

He had nine natural grandchildren and one step-grandson.

He’d keep Hershey bars in his top drawer for when we

would visit, and in the summer would give us quarters

for ice cream.

I've often wondered of the courage and determination

to come to a new country, leaving family and everything

you knew behind, and despite limited skills and language

barrier– marry, raise a family, and survive such adversity.

Stubborn, tough, humble and proud—that was my grandfather.

© Ginny Brannan 2014

Turn of the Century, 11th Avenue, NYC

Grandchild number seven, only child of his oldest, Tina, I carry the names of my youngest aunt and my grandmother. My Grandpa Joe, Aunt Ginny and I had the unique privilege of sharing the same birthday, and for many years we would all gather at grandpa’s house to celebrate. Some time later when I got married, I would discover that my dear father-in-law also shared this special day.  

                     Grandpa passed in 1980, the year before I married.

                     Aunt Gin in 1991, the year we bought our house,

                     My father-in-law passed early the next year.

Not a February 24^th passes that I don’t remember and raise a glass to all of them.

Grandpa "Giuseppe" and me

February 24th, 1975





An immigrant's story, written and shared on 2/18/14 at  Magpie Tales #207

On This Christmas Day...

As I watched the dawn break this morning, an orange 

sliver on a gray horizon, my thoughts wandered to that 

first Christmas, and how it might play out today…

Manhattan (or any major city): man and woman arrive, 

little money, can’t even afford a cheap hotel room. 

She’s quite obviously pregnant, and the paternity is sketchy. 

No matter, boyfriend doesn’t care, loves her, and vows to
raise the child as his own. As they walk through this city, 

the woman collapses in labor, and their infant son 

is born in the park. The story warrants a few lines under 

Human Interest in the daily paper. A handful of strangers 

who read it actually step up and help the couple find work 

and a place to stay so they can get on their feet. They beat 

the statistics, and stay together to raise their son, who 

becomes a well-known lobbyist and human rights activist,
speaking up for the people down on their luck,
and bringing needed attention to the ills and
mismanagement of government and society.

I have heard the Christmas story described as a fairy tale.

Whether you believe or not, there is no denying the

lessons we learn from it, the moral to the story of Christ's life:

that we need to care about each other;

that we shouldn’t be afraid to spend time among the ill,

the destitute, the so-called sinners and low-lives who need

a kind word, their spirits lifted,  a hand up;

and mostly...

that we need to treat others like we wish to be treated.

As each one celebrates this holiday in their own way, may your hearts be filled with wonder, and with the true meaning of the of the season.

©   Ginny Brannan December 2011

Daenerys' Song

Written for d’Verse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft Prose to Poetry challenge, 11/10/11: Pick a passage from a novel, essay or short story that qualifies as prose, but for you is particularly poetic. Step 1: reformat without changing so it appears to be poetry. Step 2 convert from poetic prose to pure poem. 

The Quote:

"Somewhere beyond the sunset, across the narrow sea, lay a land of green hills and flowered plains and great rushing rivers, where towers of dark stone rose amidst magnificent blue-grey mountains, and armored knights rode to battle beneath the banners of their lords."

A Game of Thrones by George R.R. Martin, Daenerys page 29

Prose to Poetry:

Somewhere

beyond the sunset,

across the narrow sea,

lay a land of green hills

and flowered plains

and great rushing rivers,

where towers of dark stone

rose amidst magnificent

blue-grey mountains,

and armored knights rode to battle
beneath the banners
of their lords.

Daenerys' Song

I gaze across the narrow sea

recalling in my memory

a lush green land where rivers flow

fled in exile long ago.

Can see the towers of dark stone,

the castle that was once our own;

and far across the flowering plain

the blue-grey hills call out again.

Armored knights with blades of steel

rode out in service to our seal.

Usurper now sits on the throne

and dares pretend that it's his own.

I know someday I will return

to rule again, and watch him burn.

Winter comes, and time grows nigh

soon they’ll hear our battle cry…

  

as sun sets on this savage land

the dragons wait for my command

©  Ginny Brannan November 2010

It should be noted that full credit for this excerpt, the inspiration for this piece, is given to George R.R. Martin. It is he who created the amazing characters of this tale. My wonderful 26 year old son has introduced me to the books, and A Game of Thrones is also currently a series filmed for HBO. An incredible and fantastic story well worth reading and watching!

Top Photo: G.Brannan personal collection, door at Kilkenny Castle, Ireland

Here is a link for d’Verse Poets Pub Meeting the Bar: Critique and Craft Prose to Poetry challenge, 11/10/11

Below please find a YouTube link--my words put to music and sung by a lovely young lady from Germany, who prefers to be known on You Tube by the pseudonym: Mother of Dragons. Many thanks to A.B. for contacting me and sharing her wonderful voice!

For the Love of Books

Written for Bluebell Books Short Story Slam Week 13, inspired by their picture prompt provided below:

Blue Bell Books Short Story Slam Week 13

When you were small we had our nightly ritual:

After supper and before lights out

I would sit on the edge of your bed and

read you a story --‘Good-Night Moon,’

‘The Velveteen Rabbit,’ ‘The Adventures of Pooh’

Still hear your little voice echo “One more time, mommy…”

Soon enough you started school, learning to read

and reading to me.  But after homework lessons,

you would still ask me to read to you for a while.

We graduated to chapter books:

the ‘Happy Hollister’ mysteries from my childhood,

the wonderful poetry of Shel Silverstein.

We travelled to Middle Earth alongside Bilbo Baggins,

Frodo and Samwise.  No matter I couldn’t speak elvish--

I would change my voice for each character and make up

tunes for each song, and we would be on our way over the

Misty Mountains on our quest to destroy the ring.

In Middle School you met a young man named Harry Potter,

who paralleled you in age.  Yet another quest: protect friends

and loved ones and defeat the evil Voldermort.

We shared these stories too, though now you would

read first--devouring from cover to cover non-stop,

then passing along to me. I loved our discussions--

what we liked or didn’t, and where we thought

the next book in the series might take us.

In High School you discovered my old Stephen King

books  on the bookshelf, and read them all, then

added even more to the collection. And every so

often,  you would revisit Middle Earth again,

J.R.R. Tolkien a perennial favorite.

I count among my greatest achievements  

instilling the love of the written word in you.

No money is ever wasted that is spent on a book.

Our next great adventure lies in Winterfell,

as we share the series  “A Game of Thrones”

“One more time, mommy…”

Indeed!

©  Ginny Brannan October 2011

 Here is a Link to Bluebell Books Short Story Slam Week 13

G.Brannan, personal collection, 1990

Photo of my son with winning artwork and gift certificate from Waldenbooks, with which he chose Charlie the Caterpillar!