pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

LIFE

Photo by Keith R. Good

Sometimes we don’t see
past the beauty in focus.
Sometimes life holds life.


#seventeenintwentytwo

17 syllables written on freedom

Photo by Anna Shvets on Pexels.com

Never “not now,” I
curl into the lap of the
One who answers prayer.

#seventeenintwentytwo

For me, this is the hands-down greatest freedom of all. 

REDUCED

She drips eloquence,
but her needs, desires, and core
are not free to speak.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

#seventeenintwentytwo

GARDEN SONG (a waltmarie)

Photo by Marie Elena Good
A Buffalo poet and I have never met, yet
we tend
a common garden of unlocked gate, with
poets
we welcome as friends we’ve also never met
who plant
pretty poesies of love and life -- friends who share
themselves
with verses that enrich the song  
in us.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

#waltmarie

This is a little tribute to Walt Wojtanik of Buffalo and the poets who frequent the poetry site we share, called Poetic Bloomings.

The form used (waltmarie) was created by Candace Kubinec, and featured on the Writer's Digest. 

Here are the guidelines for writing the Waltmarie:

-10 lines

-Even lines are two syllables in length, odd lines are longer (no specific syllable count)

-Even lines make their own mini-poem if read separately

POET INTERVIEW – MIKE BAYLES

MIKE BAYLES (Photo credit: Steven Foker Giraffe Photography)

Today at Poetic Bloomings I had the privilege of “chatting” with poet and performer Mike Bayles. Come find us at https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2022/05/18/poet-interview-mike-bayles/.

HOLY WEEK

Photo by Vanderlei Longo on Pexels.com

The week leading up
to the most sacred of our
Christian holidays

looks back on events
saturated with the love
of our Lord Jesus,

impregnated with
prophesies being fulfilled
in His light and life:

Some, miraculous.
Some, endearing.  Some, baffling.
Others, horrific.

A dizzying week.
A hill of execution.
A crucifixion.

But 

I believe that the
road to Golgotha began
in a feeding trough

where a virgin girl
gave birth to a baby boy
who already knew

the way.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

He is risen, indeed!

WHERE THERE ARE ANGELS

Ice-scarred trees at six-plus feet will testify for decades to come of the Maumee River’s unwelcome rush into the cemetery where Mom and Dad are interred. She knocked over gravestones, carried some away to heave elsewhere, cracked others, and deposited countless tons of ice plates and river-bottom mud well above a grown man’s head through the entire grounds.

After more than a month, the street leading to the cemetery finally opened, but the drive leading to the section where Mom and Dad are interred remains closed. Though receding, mud-packed ice plates are still stacked 2-3 feet high there, covering hundreds of feet of ground. A “No Pedestrians” sign is posted, lest we think it is only vehicles that are not allowed access. But the drive leading in has been cleared, and today I couldn’t resist ignoring the signs and barrier, to get as close to Mom and Dad’s site as possible.

I’ve told many friends and family how guilty I feel — how petty — for pre-mourning the loss of the endearing little ceramic angel I had placed at Mom and Dad’s stone. As I walked toward the site, I searched the mountains of ice with my eyes, just in case. Getting closer, I spotted a surprising sight. A bit beyond where I would place Mom and Dad’s stone to possibly be, a large gravestone stands upright. An approximately 6-8-foot clearing surrounds it. Clearing. As in grass. Ground. A curious thing, and I can’t figure out how it came to be. And in the middle of that little clearing was what looked like a chunk of not-yet-melted muddied ice.

But at that point, my eyes were welling, because all signs pointed to this being a loving and amazing God-gift.
And it was.
And it is.
And she was muddy, but otherwise completely intact.
Not a chip.
Not a scratch.
Still close to “home.”

I also soon realized there was a small path clear enough to get around the dangerous ice heaps, just enough to retrieve her. God amazes me. We endure difficulties, for certain. But He makes His love and presence and tenderness and sovereignty known in ways that speak to our own heart. Sometimes even when we are petty, and disobey the no pedestrians sign.

And He wasn’t done. As my husband Keith and I were walking back toward the truck, we spotted my daughter Deanna. She was on a quick break from her Yoga Teacher Training classes. She had her lunch with her, and had intended to eat it quickly where her classes are. But she felt drawn to drive to the cemetery, and felt a nudge that she would see Keith and me there.

There was no reason for her to believe that. There was no reason for her approximately 15 unplanned minutes to overlap with our approximately 30 unplanned minutes.

Just as there is no reason for a little ceramic angel to survive a cataclysmic ice-flow flood and freeze, and then make her little muddied white self known in a sea of muddied white.

But, God…

____________________________________

Today is the fourth anniversary of this event. Every detail in this that I wrote then is true. This may not be a poem, but it is a tribute to my downright poetic God, who leaves me in awe.

A DISTANT WAR

Photo by Kostiantyn Stupak on Pexels.com

Even their shadows hide
beneath dark sky
and grim state
as they make
their way of escape
from dark to dark –
or watchfully, vulnerably wait
to face night’s peril
as I write this poem
in my recliner
in stream of sun
while cheerful flowers
named for same
flourish on my screen.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

#prayforUkraine

LIFE, COMPOSED IN THREE PARTS

Photo by Keith R. Good
Part 1. LEGATO

Since love and laughter
sang the notes to her childhood,
she tuned in to life.

She felt melodic,
harmonious, and ready
to embrace her song.

Part 2. ARPEGGIO

A child bride’s ballad,
meant to mirror her childhood,
ends in broken chords.

A sharp turn taken,
her imposed solo becomes
a balanced duet

as her new partner
discards the shards, and the two
play in consonance. 

Her children (her heart),
born improvisers, still long
to dance their own dance.

Part 3. CODA 

Moons rose and set. Her
parents grew sickly; her song
became elegy.

Still, her partner hums
his strength, and her Composer 
breathes psalms in her lungs.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

My Years of Teaching

Water for Ishmael American Schools wall banner, painted by Andrea Price

There are the teachers
equipped with knowledge, and the
skills to impart it

There are the teachers
with a passion for learning
that is contagious.

There are the teachers
who delight in (and well-wield)
books, maps, and whiteboards.

I am gifted with
none of that. But I love, and
love assists learning.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022