Sink or Swim

 

I’m doing it again…

writing the same poem over and over

Same words, different order
exorcising my ‘demon’ thoughts,

as if in doing so, the outcome might be different, too.

I’m old school, taught long ago

that girls don’t make the first move.

Times have changed, but I’m not sure how to.

Sometimes I sense that we are connected. 

“soul friends” as they say,

living parallel lives, with a deeper understanding

of each other than either of us care to admit.

But words don’t come easy to unpracticed hearts.

And where might we even start?

All we seem to come up with is 

an occasional tempered “How do you do?”

Two strangers testing the waters with our words 

–being ever so careful not to drown.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Skeleton Bones!

 

Spooky, spooky skeletons

dancing on the lawn

their shadows move in firelight

to their favorite song.

Witch’s kettle on the flames

stirring up a stew

eye of newt and toe of frog

in their special brew.

From the woods there comes a howl,

an otherworldly sound;

watch dismembered body parts

crawl out of the ground.

Spooky, spooky skeletons

dancing on the lawn

while batwings whisper from their caves

into the woods beyond.

The will o’ wisps blink in the mist

what secrets might they share,

preying upon simpletons 

to catch them unaware?

The undead rise before our eyes

searching for the feast

We do not know which way they’ll go

– no rest for the ‘deceased.’

Spooky, spooky skeletons

dancing on the lawn

on the edges of the night, 

Blink…and they are gone.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

In no small part inspired by Disney's "Skeleton Dance", couldn't get the tune out of my head. The words, however, are my own!

It's Not "All About Me"

 

In your words I’ve sometimes sensed

—at least in my interpretation—

that hidden in the metaphor

or sometimes in the lines themselves

they might have been inspired by me–

(am pretty sure they wouldn’t be.)

Presumption, or perhaps a wish
that surfaces from time to time…
I am the one you’ve never met

who hears the echos of your thoughts

and in our commonality

understands where you have been:
two kindred spirits who’ve been scarred,

and in our words we spin our shards

confessing dreams in their inflection

lest we admit our feelings there 

hidden in these words we share.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

Files! Files! Crocodiles!!

 

And so the emperor stands his ground, lest he be exposed,

lest we see him naked: no makeup or no clothes.

The lies come rolling off his tongue of drug lords on the seas,

while with intent he sinks the boats just to firm his needs.

A war with Venezuela would ensure a longer term

“Leadership Forever,” no matter how infirm.

Don’t say I didn’t warn ya when Zelenskyy made his visit
–Laws and rules do not apply when dealing with ‘illicit’

Deep inside our jester’s head was dropped a craven seed

taking root in blackened heart where it grows like a weed

There can be no dissension, no discourse in the ranks

he certainly will never cede should his favor tank.

He makes you think he’s set his sights on outside evil-doers

trans and gays and blacks and browns and democratic losers

He’s silenced all the laughter, he cannot take a joke

I hesitate to think what’s next, what new hell he’ll invoke
And so he tricks his followers, dividing “us” from “them.”
Yet, no matter what he says, we’re all Americans.

What trouble would he go to, to try to circumvent?
How many would he “disappear” to show his discontent?
as he denies and doubles down against all allegations

won’t even stop at killing to prevent incarceration.

He’s calls arrests on anyone that does not agree,

He’d throw us all in prison, then throw away the key.

A madman with a following, we’ve seen this one before…

and yet among his followers he’s losing some allure.

We may yet land in Florida, among the crocodiles...

Oh! the steps he’s taking, to not “Release the Files.”

Image credit to site Dreamstime.com

© Nattysiri

Searching for Balance

 

Writing needs more than an idea...

it needs fertile ground to grow

a bit of sunshine 

a measured amount of rain

balance.

Tip the scales and chaos ensues.

Inspiration dries like the lawn 

under a hot August sun

or is choked in a jungle

of tangled weeds, hiding a flower

that you can still see

but no longer reach.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

On Hopes and Wishes, Beggars Ride...

Sometimes I’ll read the words you write

each turn of phrase, each metaphor;

the choice of words within a line

wondering if I might learn

if they were put there by design.

I’ll fall into their ebb and flow,

each intimacy you reveal…

How is it that you know my thoughts?

How is it that you read my mind?

And in that moment, we are one,
such is the power words can wield.

And lost inside this reverie,

each flaw exposed for you to see.

you hint to things we’ve never shared:

how each of us has lived with pain,

felt the clouds burst, walked through rain.

If truth be known, 'tis but a dream

in a time when dreams have gone.

When life is shattered, torn to shreds

sometimes we grasp onto the threads,

the remnants of some tapestry;

and I am drawn to meet you there,

inside this broken frame we share.

                  ~ ~ ~

And in this place where poets bond

    I still listen for your song.

© Ginny Brannan 2025