pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

RHYTHM AND RHYME, RHYTHM AND RHYME

hands music sound black and white

Photo by Stephen Niemeier on Pexels.com

Some folks enjoy rhyming:
embedded in scheme,
delighted in priming
delectable scene
exact in its timing –
tight; metrically clean.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

Song (Senryu)

robin-5022383_1280

Photo by Paul Bates (Pixabay)

You sang creation
into being.  You “sang” me.
Lord, teach me my song.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

 

RHODODENDRON

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She was planted with care,
right there
where her dark leaves and white flowers
would give hours of joy each day.
But it hasn’t worked that way.

Years have passed
since she last bloomed.
She seemed entombed
immured, as she simply
endured

until Keith dug her up,
changed the makeup below,
which allowed the free flow
of water to root, and
we can’t dispute the wonder.

Once freed from earth’s clay,
we saw growth the first day.
Now she won’t just survive.
She’ll thrive.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

MORNING’S OPEN WINDOW CALLS

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Photo by Keith R. Good

I see and hear the birds, the deer,
the kids that play across the way.
I feel the breeze, and watch the trees react,
and I make eye contact with Chickadee.
I smile as he rests on my sill.
Then I refill my coffee mug,
sit snug and still and know
the golden glow of morning sun,
and glorious One who made it rise
and harmonize with all I see
outside my window;
inside me.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

YESTERDAYS (Father’s Day 2020 Sonnet for my Dad)

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Just one more chance to hear your drum set swing,
And feel the pride well up inside my core.
And I believe I’d give most anything
To watch as you conduct a band once more.

To hear you call Mom Sweet Pea one more time,
And see the love for her in aging eyes
That cleaved to days of youth, well past their prime,
Embracing the enchantment love implies.

From time to time, I feel as though you’re near.
I sometimes hear your words play through my mind.
Oh how I’d love to linger for a year
While you are here, and death is left behind.

Though we may try to hold what fades away,
Our yesterdays were never meant to stay.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

UNTITLED

OIP

“They call me Mr. Tibbs.”  ~ Virgil Tibbs, In the Heat of the Night

It’s 1967. I’m 9 years old. My dad is explaining the gist of a movie I am not allowed to see. I don’t want to see the movie.  More than that, I don’t want to see the nightly news.

It’s 2020. My granddaughter is 9 years old.  As in ’67, I don’t want to see the news.  Yet, there is a difference in the images this time:  Many protesters and police officers are wearing masks, attempting to protect those they see, from a virus they can’t.

The Long Hot Summer
of Nineteen Sixty Seven
begs us take a knee.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

2020 VISION

architecture art clouds landmark

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

In my imagination,
I see the eyes of a nation
opening
focusing
noticing
seeing each human being,
and agreeing their wellbeing
gives meaning to our own
as we bemoan our past
and hold steadfast
to our bloodstream’s dreams
of fairness for all
that made landfall
in 2020  –
not for the goal of the many,
but the whole of humanity.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

voice

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Image courtesy of Pixabay

in need to be heard,
he sings. flies.  calls. cries.  songbird –
winged and otherwise.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

A Memorial Day untitled senryu


His Navy Dress Blues

displayed on the bed, look like
he was ten years old.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

SIGNIFIC’ANT

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Image courtesy of Prawny at Pixabay

At the top of the slide, she screams.
(As in chillingly nightmarish dreams.)
And it’s all justified:
There’s an ant on the slide,
So she’s coming apart at the seams.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020