Ice melts, water flows
rivulets run down dirt roads
the night slips back to winter freeze,
the change is measured in degrees.
The pas de bourrées now begins,
step light lest you get sucked in,
as winter cedes a fast retreat
we’re stuck in the muddy street.
I’m drawn to the broken poems
written in imperfect rhyme
painting shadows on a page
where emotions intertwine
Where lines may halt without good reason
breaking formulaic rule;
scripted for some revelation–
a purpose-driven, cryptic sign?
Or a puzzle with some hidden meaning,
meant for someone else to find.
Hiding truth protects the bearer,
in life riddled with old scars
candor hurts as well as heals
and yet, defines just who we are.
With no proof that you are worthy
I build a wall till trust is gained
not meant to hide my broken parts
but to protect all that remains.
Our stories lie outside the lines
and sometimes in the broken poems:
where two divergent souls align
in friendship from a different time.
Some might say that “It’s a sign”
I just call it ‘undefined’
© Ginny Brannan 2026
We would do well to remember who we are
–to protect the vulnerable
–reject the hate
–inject compassion into all we do,
to embrace our better angels.
The practice of hate in our country
tastes like rust in our mouths,
like the blood of those shot in the street
not because they were criminals
but because they had the audacity
to to stand up for their beliefs–
to speak for those whose voices
have been stifled for far too long.
A government that is not for its people
isn’t right, it’s just wrong.
A president who profits off the marginalized
while wielding the knife that slices through
all that we are and all that we do
is no more than a dictator in disguise.
Open your eyes to this darkness
that threatens our very soul.
We have a choice:
stay silent in the face of autocracy
and watch these blatant atrocities,
or use our voice
no matter how difficult
no matter how long it takes
keep making noise.
© Ginny Brannan 2026
There sits an almost eerie chill
on these cobblestone sidewalks and empty streets
where footsteps of a storied past
can still be heard while the city sleeps.
Scrolled wrought iron balconies
overlook the avenue;
gaslights fade in the early dawn,
the jazz clubs silent and subdued.
The hectic pace is different here
slower, almost cavalier
as the “Easy” spins her silken web
on all who choose her streets to tread.
Through the shrouded morning mist
a single silhouette appears
its darkened presence more distinct
than the apparitions of yesteryear.
Slow, a new day has begun…
her ghosts are fading with the sun
while in the purview of their gaze,
their spirits keep the city safe.
Ginny Brannan 2025
Bulbancha is the Choctaw (Native American) name for New Orleans.
Image credit: David Florentine, Florentine Photography.com. Shared with me by a friend from NOLA
Under the light of a thin crescent moon
two children walked onward, heading for home.
To watch younger cousin, the older agreed,
the younger one thrilled to just follow his lead.
’Twas just after dark when the movie had ended,
they exited theater to make their way back;
the street lights shone dim on the staircase ahead
past church into cemetery, the older now led.
Aware now it was getting late
the older suggested an alternate path
and so they passed through the iron gate
past shadowy headstones where the ‘undead’ await…
She tried to keep up in the eerie half light
she knew that their street wasn’t that far
as he ran up ahead, no longer in sight
—not a sound could be heard, not even a car.
And as he jumped out, she let out a scream
—he thought it was funny (he's really not mean)
It’s a wonder she didn’t faint then and there
at being the victim of impromptu scare!
The rest of the trip was spent trying to appease
with the offerings of bribes and apologies,
the older not wanting to face the wrath
for scaring his cousin on that darkened path
* * * * *
To this day, I can still recall
the shadowy path on that long ago night
when I thought that the undead had risen from hell,
my dear older cousin to thank for that fright!
© Ginny Brannan
True story, of being "allowed" to accompany my older cousin to a 7 pm movie, already dark out when movie ended. The shortest route home was the road was through the Episcopal church cemetery, a direct line between two streets.My cousins are great, but when not playing "big brother" to protect me, I am apparently "fair game" to be picked on.
* *Image of Immanuel Episcopal Church, Bellows Falls. Yes the actual church and cemetery. Apologies to the photographer who took this image. I found it online, and cannot seem to find it again. Name credit will be added when found.
