Predicament
There once was a gal named Marie
A head of brunette curls had she.
Then some became white
and, what seemed overnight,
she saw scalp where some curls used to be!
© Marie Elena Good 2026
For today’s pictured words post, you’ll have to picture it. 😉
They say
justice is blind.
But,
the jury’s still out on that.
They say
it’s a waste of time,
which they say flies,
but also stands still.
They say
time heals all wounds.
But the writing’s on the wall.
(Read between the lines.)
They say
they just woke up
on the wrong side of the bed.
Only time will tell.
They say
what goes around,
comes around.
So be there,
or be square.
They say
it’s easy as pie
to make a long story short.
THAT’S one for the books!
They say
the icing’s on the cake.
But
it’s right on the tip of my tongue.
They say
if the shoe fits, wear it.
But if I were in their shoes,
I’d be head over heels.
They say
laughter’s the best medicine.
But
that’s a hard pill to swallow.
They say
you keep ‘em in stitches.
But,
you’re hanging by a thread.
© Marie Elena Good 2025
Through My Windows
Antique
Old lamp’s prisms
reveal rainbows
and remembrances.
Night Light
Night’s lesser light
strikes snow’s pure white.
My bedroom awakens.
Senses
slender window
flaunts lilacs,
draws scent
© Marie Elena Good 2026
The Mother of Alzheimer’s
Who birthed (unearthed)
This unwelcome invasion,
Or gave it the right
To hijack each occasion
Meant to endure and assure her
She’s loved. She belongs.
It ceaselessly wrongs her,
Assassinates her senses;
Condenses her being
To fleeting moments,
Thought amputation,
Self dislocation,
And few kin.
And it will win.
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
Mom’s Passing (2018)
She began speaking
of needing to get ready
for the bus (taxi?)
that would very soon
be arriving to take her.
If she knew where to,
she didn’t tell us.
Such questions were hard for her,
so we wouldn’t ask.
We’d just pack for her,
had she asked us to do so.
For years she couldn’t.
She couldn’t decide
what to take, or what to leave.
Empty her closet.
Sleep in the guest room,
as her bed was filled with clothes
she would take nowhere.
Now she couldn’t leave.
Couldn’t get up from her bed.
She didn’t know that.
She didn’t know that
she was on hospice care now.
She didn’t know that
her last fall would be
what interrupts this disease,
and its progression.
That it would still win,
but wouldn’t finish the race.
So she would win, too.
… and the “slow goodbye”
ended in twenty eighteen,
when she journeyed on.
© Marie Elena Good 2026
I look out my window,
and what do I see?
Two squirrels playing tag
in a big maple tree.
I look out my window,
and what do I see?
A face in a cloud
with a funny goatee.
I look out my window,
and what do I see?
My mom’s picnic table
and pitcher of tea.
I look out my window,
and what do I see?
The wind left a space
where my shoes used to be!
I look out my window,
and what do I see?
I see Bigfoot’s footprints!
(You might disagree.)
I look out my window
and what do I see?
Our bee balm is blooming,
and see? There’s a bee!
I look out my window,
and what do I see?
I see the black cap
of a cute chickadee.
I look out my window,
and what do I see?
I see squirrels, trees, and bees,
and a pitcher of tea.
I see funny cloud shapes,
and a cute chickadee.
I see bee balm and Bigfoot.
(You’ll still disagree.)
(But in all of my views,
I don’t see my new shoes.)
I look out my window,
what more do I see?
I reliably see
a reflection of me.
© Marie Elena Good 2026
Raw and unrefined, the crude reliably gushes from within him.
© Marie Elena Good 2026
Written for Robert Lee Brewer’s April Poem-a-Day challenge. Today’s prompt is to write a natural poem.
Allen Ginsberg created the poetic form he called the American Sentence. It is a complete sentence of 17 syllables.
Of Haiku and Children’s Stories
once upon a time
and five-syllable launches:
openings I trust
© Marie Elena Good 2026
We’re not asked to build
a bigger table. We’re asked
to join them for tea.
(c) Marie Elena Good 2026
But if something goes missing, now it’s nothing that’s new under the sun.
© Marie Elena Good
Written for Robert Lee Brewer’s April Poem-a-Day challenge. Today’s prompt is to write a new poem.
Allen Ginsberg created the poetic form he called the American Sentence. It is a complete sentence of 17 syllables.
I believe the only thing set in stone, is that it’s not mine to throw.
© Marie Elena Good 2026
Written for Robert Lee Brewer’s April Poem-a-Day challenge. Today’s prompt is to write a set poem.
Allen Ginsberg created the poetic form he called the American Sentence. It is a complete sentence of 17 syllables.
pictured words 