A Lot Like Fear

 

No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.

  — C.S. Lewis

 

Grief is like being a dark tunnel, the light so far away

that you don’t know if you will ever reach it again...

Each ‘sorry’ echoes and amplifies in your head.

constant reminders of that loss,

—as if you need a reminder—

There are physical manifestations: 

a weight in the shoulders, a knot in the neck, tightness in the chest. 

You scuff and shuffle along,  going through the motions

trying to keep up the illusion of being okay.

There’s panic: the voice in your head screaming “What’s next?”

And the ongoing scrutiny of others constantly assessing you;

the ever present “How are you doing? “No, how are you really doing?”

—How the Hell do you think I’m doing?

You see, grief feels a lot like anger, too.

– Anger at God for unanswered prayer

– Anger at the world for continuing to turn despite your loss

– Anger at the one who’s gone for leaving

– Anger at yourself for being unable to stop it

Sadness, pain, loneliness, anger; the four horsemen of death and loss...

 

  and yes, grief does indeed feel a lot like fear

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Broken Heart Syndrome

 

How do I mend a broken heart

that doesn’t want to mend?

How do I piece the shards together

to make it whole again?

How do I rebuild something

that no one else can see–

shattered into a thousand pieces

there, inside of me?

The ache I bear weighs heavy

and makes it hard to breath;

it would have been much easier 

 if you didn't leave.

There is little to be done

 and nothing to be gained...

the wind blows through this broken heart

and tears, they fall like rain—

tell me why is it when someone leaves,

it’s we that bear the pain?

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

*Takotsubo cardiomyopathy or "Broken Heart Syndrome" is when the heart muscle becomes suddenly stunned or weakened. It mostly occurs following severe emotional or physical stress. The condition is temporary and most people recover within two months.

Good Universe Next Door prompt Say 22 How to Survive Heartbreak. I have no answers, just do the best you can, I guess.

Forsaken

She met him on the path that led

up past the iron gate,

wrapped up in her winter cloak

could barely see her face.

He’d spoken of the future, 

and all the things he’d do

And promised that when he was set,

he’d come back for her, too,

The road to hell is paved 

with intentions that are good,

filled with ‘what ifs’, and some ‘maybes’
but not always with “coulds”

They could  have gone together

instead he went alone,

she waved  at him and smiled, 

he nodded and was gone.

But that smile was the last smile

to come upon her face

not knowing that the hug they shared, 

would be their last embrace.

Sometimes way leads on to way, never to return;

time is a not a given,  love’s lessons are hard learned.

So hold on tight to what you have

don’t leave to chance or fate.

trust your instincts don’t give in

tomorrow may be too late.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2024

Image credit: Joanne Davis, Bellows Falls, VT. Used with expressed written permission. 

 

*Prompted Poetry from D’Verse Prosery, January 15^th, 2024: to use the specific line, written here in “boldface” in a poem or story. Confessing that I saw the lovely image first, and wrote this piece around it. The boldfaced line comes from a poem by Dudley Randall called "Ballad of Birmingham" written in 1963 quite ahead of the death of Martin Luther King, about the bombing of a church in Birmingham, Alabama.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that.

 Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that." MLK Jr.

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

OOPS! Apparently Prosery is more short story than a poem, of 144 words. I am not a short story person, although a poem can tell a story. And I blew it with 160 words! Guess I'll stick to what I am good at!

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.

All the Paths We Do Not Choose

Happiness is not a given, it is a choice.

We all carry the weight of our years,

the ache of our losses and so many tears.

We can wallow there, condemning

others for our lot. Curse the ones who

got us here, the children who’ve forgotten us,

the bosses who have fired us, and all the

things we’re not.  We can flounder in oblivion

drink till we pass out; pop pills, shoot up

and waste away, really, who can blame us? 

Harder still to face the day when every day

it’s raining. When you take to heart what

others say and wish you could contain them.

I’ve always thought the best revenge is to 

live the life we’re meant to, for even at

our very worse, feeling empty, feeling cursed

when we think we won’t get through, 

we still can find potential.

Just reflect on where we’ve been and the fact 

that we’re still standing, despite

the threats to take us down 

and the demons we’re combating.

There is a strength inside of us, we 

only have to find it. But it’s up to us to come 

to terms, and put our past behind us.

 

One minute, one hour, one day at a time.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

 

 

On Occam's Edge

There was a madness about her

it ate at her days and affected in ways

that very few saw and even fewer knew.

She hid it well, the only ‘tell’

the occasional tear. She didn’t yell

or scream. She kept it under wraps.

When the constant ringing got too loud

she’d escape.  Some would wonder

where she’d been. Oh, they’d see her now and then.

Her pleasant smile would lure them in,

and they’d believe that all was well.

And for a time, she might too.

But sadness is a bitch, it seems...

it sneaks its way through lock and key

and ever lurks inside our dreams.

It lies of its identity,

and the nearest I can tell

is that it does it very well.

And so she walks the Occam’s edge

through never-ending test and trial

and hides behind her practiced smile

And only those who know her well

understand where she has been,

how every day she starts again;

and of the strength it takes to quell;

how tentative the balance is

between her sanity and hell.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2023

Green Sneakers

 

She wore green sneakers on her feet

a heart drawn on the toe

a Marine Biologist future planned

her dreams were set and well in hand

Corpus Christi she would go…

 

I wonder what he thought that day 

as he strode into the school?

What could make a person do

that things that he would do?

Was he lost inside his head,

could he hear their screams…

as he tore their lives apart

cutting short their dreams?

 

Another school has fallen prey,

how many look the other way?

“Thoughts and prayers,” is what they say,

then leave it for some other day.

 

Another child’s life cut short

how hard is it to know

you claim to be “pro life” and yet,

by avoiding you abet

with the 'same ol’ same' retort.

 

We birth our children, raise them up

they are the seeds we sow;

their dreams are ours, we hold them close

never to let go,

then find them in a body bag

a tag upon their toe.

     

The repetition of this crime

reminds us that there comes a time

when we can’t let it go—

for those green sneakers on her feet

 with the heart drawn on the toe.

© Ginny Brannan 2022

All I Have Are Words

I sense the emptiness you feel 

the pain that you don’t talk about

impending loss you won’t reveal.

I feel these on another plane

where such thoughts are spoken freely.

Would that I could lift your heart

raze the darkness that you carry,

yet I don’t know where to start.

Would that you might trust a friend

who wonders at this path you travel

and listens as your dreams unravel

yet doesn’t know where to begin.

On this map we’re left to follow

not every road comes to an end

sometimes we can’t see ‘round the curve

to where the path starts up again.

Many have gone on ahead

and for a while some stay behind—

and through the seeds your words have sown

just know that you are not alone.

 

© GB 2022

For a friend whom I see struggling.  Wishing you light and love on this road you travel.

 

In the Quiet Hours

In the still and quiet hours

when the wind no longer blows,

when the pain eats at your heart

and joy lies frozen in the snow—

how delicate the tiny stem

the one still reaching for the light,

the heart that only wants to mend

that searches for the sun again;

the butterfly with broken wing

who seeks out respite from her pain

as love that’s carried her heart

slips her face like falling rain.

When we’re lost in our despair

and know that we’re beyond repair–

like the stem that seeks the light

and breaks the earth again to bloom,

we ride the storm, the endless night

and wait for time to bind our wounds.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2022

Image C. Parant Appetite for Photos Used with Permission.

Just Below the Surface...

 

When someone screams

“You don’t know what it’s like,”

their pointed words, sharp and honed

their venom cutting to  the bone­–

what gives them freedom to assume?

What is it they hope to gain?

The players change, but pain’s the same…

and is your path so different than my own?

Don’t visit retribution on the stranger

don’t assume you know what they’ve been through

we cannot fix what’s broken by our anger,

or putting out our trials for review—

as tear escapes despite attempts to hide it

it’s because we’re broken, just like you

©Ginny Brannan 2021

Image: Google Images, Shutter Stock, Oil Painting

No Rest for the Weary

It was a temporary patch for a permanent problem

a feel good stopgap to get you through the night;

a chance to erase the chaotic thoughts that chase,

a moment of relief from the pain of life.

 

It was a temporary fix for a permanent problem

an illusion of calm to make the hurt go away­

how quick adapts the brain that wants to shed the pain,

but faster yet the panic on instant “replay.”

 

It was a temporary patch for a permanent problem

but there are no easy fixes to get you through the day;

there is no remand, no short path to understanding

and nothing can amend what you try to belay

 

It was a temporary fix for a permanent problem

why offer it at all when it can’t really expel?

No ready relief for the heart that grieves,

no rest for the weary as they face their hell.

 

There’s no temporary fix for this permanent problem

suck it up and steel yourself, you’re in it for the haul

there are no magic pills to help you with your ills

as you muddle through the madness, and another night falls.

 

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Just Another Bleeding Heart

I bear this weight, this ball and chain

impedes each step with unchecked pain.

The new day dawns yet clouds draw near

reminding me that you're not here.

 

I try to lift my thoughts, in vain

weighted down by ball and chain-

pretending that I’ll be okay

when my whole life's in disarray.

 

"One day at a time," I'm told,

and as another day unfolds

I try to break free from this chain

but sink where memories remain.

 

The wound’s still raw, it doesn’t heal.

I cannot think, I only feel.

my heart lies bleeding in the rain

my cross to bear, this ball and chain.

© Ginny Brannan 2021

Riding the Waves

Now I know now why you did what you did­–

drowning your sorrow one shot at a time,

escaping what your heart couldn’t bear;

masking the truth for just a while longer,

– another drink for the pain and the loss

because anything is better than feeling.

Oh, that it would make a difference…

But I am not you;

we can’t hide from the hand that we’re dealt.

I believe the only way past something

is to go through it.

Riding the waves

But I finally understand why

 you did what you did

—because anything is better than feeling

© Ginny Brannan 2021

This refers back to the memories of my dad. Back in the day of my parents, the loss of someone dear was to be surrounded by well-meaning family and friends and a round (or two or three) of drinks to drown one's sorrow. This was brought to mind, because even though I was oh, so young,  I remember watching my dad going through the loss of my mom. I understand the "why" now, but also know there is no escape, only postponement. Doing my best to deal here, to heal here.

One Day at a Time...

I sit in a vacuum unable to breathe

unable to hold you, to be at your side

not even a glimmer of what lies ahead

I cannot find solace, I can’t find reprieve

while waiting to see just what fate will decide.

 

I can’t seem to get all these thoughts to subside—

you’re not here to hold me, to say “It’s okay.”

They race like a freight train to some unknown stop;

I’ve chosen these strangers with which to confide,

as I struggle to keep all the demons at bay.

 

The world’s upside down, in complete disarray

holding tight to each message, each small ray of hope

white-knuckled, not knowing what will come next.

There’s too many outside forces at play,

I’m treading water,  yet barely afloat.

 

Where will we land? No one can say…

just trying to hold onto one. more. day.

Image by Charlie Parant at Appetite For Photos. Used only with express written permission.

 

The Reign of the 'Baffle King"

 

The change began slowly as things often do

we tuned out the missteps and hoped for the best

 we watched the attacks when the press shared their stories

most of us hoping he’d give it a rest.

But he pedaled his thoughts and his misinformation

—If you say it enough times then it must be true—

his people believed and thought him their savior,

taking all at face value without a review.

And then the vote came, the people had spoken:

they’d seen through his lies, enough was enough,

though the margin was wide, his reign finally broken,

he’d never concede, he’d rebuke and rebuff.

And so comes this time in this great nation’s trials

where a leader spews racism, division, and lies,

never yielding to go ‘gently into that good night’

there’d be no transition and no compromise.

How many bought into his tales and his falsehoods

distortions, dishonesty that changed by the hour

his tainted relationships with all of our allies

the forging of friendships with communist powers?

There was truth to be found in his constant barrages

examine the wording, what’s being said—

more often than not the ones he’s accusing

were being accused of what he’s done instead.

And now an attack on the seat of our nation

enablers empowered by discourse and hate

and he sits alone in his ivory tower

a byline in history, he can’t see his fate.

We mustn’t forget how this all came to pass

our guilt notwithstanding, it’s something we own

unless and until recognition’s forthcoming

all of us liable for the silence we’ve shown.

And those we’ve elected seem no better for it

“Hands tied, “ they have said, there is “naught to be done.”

as we watch in horror and shock at the havoc

the blame is all ours, and none of us won.

I wonder how long it will take to deprogram?

How many years, how much discipline?

His reign has revealed that we’re broken and hurting

that bigotry, bias lies just ‘neath the skin.

Denial won’t heal all the wounds of this country,

there’s work to be done, four years to rescind

and we must admit that we too are complicit

before we can ever move forward again.

© 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