Keep Making Noise

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

Credit for top photo: Roberto Smith AFP, Getty Images

Credit for bottom photo: Stock Photo Dreamstime.com

Bulbancha

 

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

Tales from the "Crypt"

 

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.

"Megan Marie"

 

The moon broke through the shrouded sky

revealing a ship with tattered sails;

a haunted vessel that sailed the seas,

an enigma masked in mystery,

She’d seen her share of storms and gales

of cannon fire and mutinies.

Whenever her name was uttered or spoke,

it struck fear in the hearts of the hardest of blokes
for all knew the name of the “Megan Marie.”

Some loves are never meant to be

and hearts oft want what they cannot have

And so her captain sailed the seas

trying to forget the woman he’d lost.

And when they gave his eulogy

they spoke of this pirate who scoured the seas

searching in every port of call
for the woman he loved who held the key...

knowing his heart would never be free.

And sometimes, on a starless night,

when the white caps stir from a feral wind

the masts arise from their salty grave

and the ancient ship sets sail again,

fulfilling the ancient prophecy 

of the one who still searches for Megan Marie.

© Ginny Brannan 2025

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