pictured words

June 7, 2026

But … (a haibun for Toledo’s Old West End)

Image is from Toledo’s Old West End site: The Old West End

But … (a haibun for Toledo’s Old West End)

Bullets spoke yesterday near the 53^rd Annual Old West End Festival. Were you there to hear their voices pierce the annual exuberance? They say, “A picture paints a thousand words.” But the words of these bullets repainted the landscape of approximately 25 city blocks. They say, “Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words can never harm me.” But these words spilled blood. Tadeusz Borowski said, “What a curious power words have.” Bullets speak deafeningly, and their words hold power. Sometimes the power of life and death. But …

five-plus decades of
music, art, and inclusion
still have words to sing.

© Marie Elena Good 2026

Toledo’s Old West End

“America. The way it’s supposed to be: Toledo’s Old West End.” ~ American Bungalow Magazine

“Create and maintain a community atmosphere that encourages a harmonious neighborhood that celebrates diversity and inclusion and stands against racism and all other forms of discrimination.” ~ from the OWE’s Mission Statement

The 53^rd annual Old West End Festival, June 6, 2026

“Gunfire erupted Saturday near a busy street festival in Ohio, wounding at least 12 people and sending some eventgoers scrambling for cover while others rushed to help the victims.” ~ Associated Press report

Praying for our region, and especially our Old West End, those who were injured, and those who were traumatized.

OWE: Keep singing your song. ❤

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May 31, 2026

Dispirited

DISPIRITED

Darkness descended
within and without.
No glint of joy.
No moon to spill soft light.

Margins blurred between night and heart
as she sat silently,
giving no voice to the shadows within.

He held her silence,
and built her a fire in the hearth.

Her eyes fixed on the flames,
as if her only solace.
He tended the fire long into the night,
until the final log was nearly consumed.

He then rose from his rocker,
split it,
and kept the flames alive.

© Marie Elena Good, 2012 (reworked in 2026)

This expresses a true event of an evening during one of my daughter’s darkest seasons and her rien remarkable act of sensitive selflessness.

3 Comments

May 24, 2026

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!

For today’s pictured words post, you’ll have to picture it. 😉

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May 18, 2026

They Say (several short poems made of clichés)

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.

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May 17, 2026

Through My Window

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

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May 10, 2026

Two Poems for Mother’s Day

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

3 Comments

April 26, 2026

What Do I See?

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.

3 Comments

April 22, 2026

Spontaneously (an American Sentence)

Raw and unrefined, the crude reliably gushes from within him.

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.

April 19, 2026

Of Haiku and Children’s Stories

Photo by http://www.kaboompics.com on Pexels.com

Of Haiku and Children’s Stories

once upon a time
and five-syllable launches:
openings I trust

© Marie Elena Good 2026

April 17, 2026

My Haiku Offering for National Haiku Day

Photo by Bilge u015eeyma Ku00fctu00fckou011flu on Pexels.com

We’re not asked to build
a bigger table. We’re asked
to join them for tea.

(c) Marie Elena Good 2026

4 Comments