Her toes, tanned,
saunter in sand
as sun wanes.
She remains,
steeped in still
-nes’tled blush of dusk.
Settled. Hushed.
Moon taunts her,
fetching her heart –
sketching shore shadows –
stretching fern and frond
beyond her vision.
And far beyond
her once-upon-a-sand
box.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
As I near my autumn days,
I think of all I have not experienced.
No trips abroad.
No vacation home.
No award-winning book.
No fame.
No second-glance beauty.
I think of all I have not experienced.
Yet, let the autumn leaves summon,
For I am content to sit side-by-side,
In dappled sunlight or soaking rain.
(c) Marie Elena Good, 2012
They say a picture paints a thousand words.
The pairing of the two gives me delight.
And if a picture paints a thousand words,
Then picture this: a picture painted write.
The pairing of the two gives me delight –
A complement of image with my words –
Appealing to my mind, and to my sight.
Perhaps a picture paints a thousand words
But here is what I try hard to pursue:
I strive to bat a thousand, with a few.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
This morning at Poetic Bloomings, Walt Wojtanick prompted us to write about our own blog.
As I embrace One who was slain,
and forfeit self,
what will I gain?
Eternal life in Christ is mine
not of my self,
but His design.
His agony, my boundless gain
corrupted self
cannot attain.
In death to self I gain no loss
my life secured
on Calvary’s cross.
(c) Marie Elena Good, 2012
“For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it. What good is it for someone to gain the whole world, and yet lose or forfeit their very self?” ~ Luke 9:24-25.
I do not like Ae freslighe, Ma’am.
I do not like her sans iamb.
She messes with my rhythmic ear.
I wish that she would disappear.
I do not like Ae freslighe, Ma’am.
I’d rather eat green eggs and spam.
© copyright 2013, Marie Elena Good
“The Ae freslighe (ay fresh lee) is a fascinating, but fairly challenging Celtic poetic form.” ~ R.J. Clarken
Per Terry Clitheroe of The Poets Garret (http://www.thepoetsgarret.com/celtic1.html):
Ae freslighe: (ay fresh lee):
Each stanza is a quatrain of seven syllables. Lines one and three rhyme with a triple (three syllable) rhyme and two and four use a double (two syllable) rhyme. The poem should end with the first syllable, word, or the complete line that it began with.
| x x x x (x x a) x x x x x (x b) x x x x (x x a) x x x x x (x b) |
Caring for the yard is hard
when clay sits atop
once-upon-a-swamp
and damp drains down
heavy on your skin,
and feels like breathing soup
as you heave your weight atop a spade
to dislodge one weed from clay.
Repeat, all day.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
Photo credit: Pixabay
The garden gate parts,
releasing sweet aroma
of former florae.
She softly steps in,
breathing the beauty that binds
virtuous voices.
The presence of peace
silences the restlessness
grinding at the gate.
Now bejeweled with joy,
renewing friends and florae,
she picks up her pen.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
Response to Poetic Bloomings Prompt #209
Image credit: Pixabay
She and a friend she’d never seen
used to tend a garden – serene
and seemingly ceaseless.
Meandering beauty gleaned
from home, and continents afar –
grand cognizance of sand to star,
and all that lay between.
There came a time, what needed tending
sadly meant the swift suspending
of this space the tenders prized –
teemed with blooms that mesmerized.
Sorrow burrowed ‘neath the furrowed fields.
Gone, fresh blossoms. No new yields.
Seasons rose, and seasons fell.
A new day dawned and she, compelled
by want and bond, returned to see
once-planted seeds still bloom, carefree.
Her heart looked east, and there he was,
with tools and seeds and garden gloves.
He glanced, and flashed that knowing grin,
tendered a spade, and said, “Let’s dig in!”
And they both saw that it was fate,
as they unlatched the garden gate.
© Marie Elena Good
More details: https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2018/07/31/the-return-of-bloomings/
Grief is a peculiar beast,
prowling when
and where
and how we least expect –
often at inopportune moments
when there is no fitting release
and nothing to do but cram it down,
thinking it will recede
and let us be,
but no
it lingers about,
then slinks in
at the next inopportune moment ,
chafing,
never ending,
like a run-on thought
or a spinning yarn
with no end in sight
and no
… funny,
how relief,
though brief,
comes conversely
through
tears,
and laughter.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
A book of books; a letter to mankind
God-breathed to men of many walks of life –
And yet this faultless work is undermined.
Some say its very Author causes strife.
Translated into fourteen hundred tongues,
No other book approaches such renown
As this, which is as breath to failing lungs.
Throughout, God’s living hallowed voice resounds.
Amazing in enduring relevance
Astonishing consistency of thought
Unparalleled in unbound eminence –
Deny its holiness? No, I cannot.
Though there are those who disregard His word,
My God will not be silenced, nor unheard.
© 2013, Marie Elena Good
