pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

High School Years, Snippets with Mom and Dad (Naples Beach, 1970s)

“Naples Pier in Naples, Florida on a clear sunny day.” IStock photos
I pick up sea glass,
rub it between my fingers,
this heart-shaped God gift.

My dad finds twin shells,
quietly pockets them, then
makes earrings for me.

Sunset walk with Mom.
She tells me, “You’ll soon prefer
a romantic walk.”

Walking home from Pier,
something stings me on my foot.
Dad carries me home. 

The sun dips itself
into the Gulf.  We give a
standing ovation.  

An early-sunrise-
beach-all-to-myself morning.
A short bike ride home.

Just curious how
many dads would carry their
teenage daughter home.

Turned out Mom was right.
And part of me holds regret
for lost walks with her.  

Wonder if the next
to find the heart-shaped sea glass
saw it as God’s gift. 

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

COME HOME (Sonnet to Immigrants and Refugees)

Photo by Elu012bna Aru0101ja on Pexels.com
So, at what point does one decide to flee
the land where fruit and spice speak Grandma’s tongue?
Where generations of their family 
breathe music, art, and song as through shared lung?

This land (their land) where memories are made:
The land that births their children’s love of life,
where laughter laughs, and prayers-in-sync are prayed,
with rooted norms for husband and for wife.

At what point does their home feel foreign-born,
so much so that they have no choice but leave?
How long ‘til all their colors wilt war-torn?
How long until their soul does naught but grieve?

At what point can one let go of what was,
to feel at home in land of unlike flaws?

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

TOO LATE (a waltmarie)

Photo by Skitterphoto on Pexels.com
I ignored your advances. I made you beg my
pardon,
while you strained to gain my affection …
but I 
couldn’t encourage candor. No, not when you
meant to
lead me to altars and vows, and expected to hear me 
say I 
do, while my panic clearly cried I don’t
love you.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

Inner poem reads:

pardon,
but I
meant to
say I 
love you

(Disclaimer:  While most of my poems are based on my life and thoughts, this one is completely fabricated.)

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.