pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Category: Poetic Bloomings

Thanksgiving, 2020

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

This year’s Thanksgiving
is like a tweaked simile:
two peas in a pot.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

THANKSGIVING, 2020

Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

I should first explain that I went 30-plus years with a severe reaction to butter and chocolate.  ONLY butter and chocolate.  I know, I know … it makes no sense.  For 30-plus years, I have had to be ridiculously careful, because even minute amounts wreaked havoc.  When my thyroid was fixed, this went away.

THANKSGIVING, 2020

Buttered potatoes,
and stuffing with butter.
Slather that nut bread
(my heart is aflutter!).

No need to ask
“is there butter in this?”
Now I can happily
fill up my dish.

But now that selecting
what goes on my plate
no longer concerns me,
we can’t congregate.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

UNTITLED SENRYU

Photo credit (c) Keith R. Good, 2018

In these darkest times,
a healing light always shines.
The Son has risen.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

NEVER HAVE I EVER

Photo by Jayant Kulkarni on Pexels.com

Never Have I Ever
is a party game, where one says,
“Never have I ever ___.”
(fill in the blank)
Those who have actually done that thing
lose a point.
Out of points?  Out of game.

I’ll go first.
Never have I ever
seen early-voting lines,
let alone those that extend for blocks,
for days. 

Now, how many of you are still in the game?

Truth is,
it’s not a game.
The stakes are high.
The views, dissimilar.

What do you see in the distance?
Hope?
Fear?
A kinder country?
Loss of freedoms?
Peace?
Chaos?

Don’t answer that.  Because,
you know,
never have I ever
witnessed a greater loss
of kindness and respect
in discussions. 

But, there is a vanishing point
where the look-back perspectives align.
Then we will see, and smile
at the vanity of it all.

In the greater distance, I see
celestial shores.
No lines needed.
We will know for the first time
what it actually feels like to be united.
To have no doubts in our King’s
kindness, love, and justice.
We will know for the first time
what it actually feels like
to be equal children
of the Living God.
To be home. 

Never have I ever
longed more deeply
for a non-foreign Shore.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

THE BLOB

The Blob was unearthed
in the year of my birth.
It debuted the iconic McQueen.

Still, I’ve not seen a scene
on the cinema’s screen.
(I’ve an awkwardly fragile fright gene.)

But the theme song is neat –
it is hip and upbeat.
For a ‘horror’ble soundtrack, a feat!

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

In case you are interested, here is a link to the theme song. And yes, I feel old! 😀

https://www.bing.com/videos/search?q=theme+song+from+the+blob&docid=608056112507847468&mid=E4288864AB1DBA1089BBE4288864AB1DBA1089BB&view=detail&FORM=VIRE

OCTOBER’S SLICK TRICK

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Love autumn with all of my all,
‘cept the end of October’s curveball:
Don’t mean to be mean,
but don’t like Halloween!
(Please don’t spook me or trick me, y’all.) 😉

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

(COUGH, COUGH)

Photo by Kam Pratt on Pexels.com

My first job, at The Niles Bank,
I worked between two men who smoked.
The office held a haze that stank.
I wanted to speak up, but choked.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

HANDS I USED TO HOLD

Mom and me

I grasped Mom’s finger –
stared into her loving eyes –
my first breath of air.

As a child, always
held her hand to cross the street
and for bedtime prayer.

Sometimes as a teen
I would grasp her hand as we
walked on Naples’ beach.

Elderly, and soon
to pass, she gripped my hands as
though to save herself

as sensation of
falling overtook her, and
she needed grounding.

An honor to hold
dying hands of one who held
my hands in her womb.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

Two Sisters in Three Chapters

My big sister and me

Chapter 1.  Rain.

The day I was born,
it rained hard on my sister …
submerging her soul.

Chapter 2. Wombs.

Her first pregnancy’s
uniqueness dimmed, when I found
myself pregnant, too.

Pregnant together
again. A son for me. A
tragic loss for her.

Simultaneous
third pregnancies perhaps seemed
a cruel joke, to her.

Chapter 3.  Lost and Found.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a common heartache.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
shared grief is shared love.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a needed sister.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020


As Awkward as Two on an Elevator

He says hi there;
she says hello.
“Which floor?” he asks.
She doesn’t know.
His finger waits,
then starts to tap.
Her face turns red.
She thinks, “Oh crap.
Why can’t I think?
Just pick a floor!”
Her brain congeals.
He taps some more.
“Just. Pick. A. Floor.”
That thought now slips
from clotted brain
through tense, pursed lips.
With sideways glance
and impish smirk,
he presses 12.
(Joker?  Or Jerk?)
Long, silent ride
can’t end too soon.
It seems to take
all afternoon.
She ruminates
entire ride,
should parting words
be kind?  Or snide?
She isn’t sure
how this should end –

Just like my awkward
poem, my friend.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020