As I Stop at the Light
She, with little to her name, fumbles a moment in her purse, rolls down her window, and hands money to the man with the sign she can’t read. He thanks her, and says, “God bless you.” All she understands is his smile, which she returns with a nod of her head. She rolls up her window. I place my hand on her shoulder. She smiles at me, and I at her.
And how could I have
immediately known her,
if not for the light.
© Marie Elena Good 2025
If not for nations
coming to my own doorstep,
I’d never know them.
I’d never have seen
they’re here to feed me the food
that comforts their souls.
I’d never have seen
they’re here to make my home both
strong and welcoming.
They’re here to make us
kinder. Gentler. Here to make
their own lives better,
but also the lives
of all those who welcomed them,
and those who didn’t.
I want to save them
from the strangling hands of this
administration.
If not for Donald,
would Vance, Rubio, Musk, Noem,
and all the others
be so emboldened
to heartless vindictiveness
and mercilessness?
If not for clear signs
from history (you know which),
one might never know.
© Marie Elena Good 2025
this not a trickle but a wide-open firehose that is not meant to douse flames but to disorient the American people leaving us reeling feeling discounted disregarded overlooked overwhelmed overpowered and overthrown (overthrown?) unquestionably and categorically overthrown and now so unrecognizable my country looks far more distorted than even what I see through my wrinkled retina and make no mistake this firehose is intentional gish gallop in its inundation and devastation and
How can one stall a
strategic tsunami with
a spoon and a sponge?
(c) Marie Elena Good 2025
“I am”
It is a small book –
just seventy-five pages
cover to cover.
As the pages turn,
the voices of brave women
speak in harmony
using a language
they did not grow up speaking;
now trying to learn.
Here, they’ve been given
the opportunity to
escape grave danger.
Their stories speak of
the safety afforded them
here in the U.S.
They came here via
invitation. Legally.
and “through the front door.”
And though they miss home,
they “know” they are safe. Some for
the very first time
in their entire life.
They enrich our lives with their
smiles and love.
They pay their taxes.
They obey our laws. They are
happy to be here.
But there is a “but.”
The safety they felt sure of
when they wrote, “I am”
swiftly disappeared.
From one semester of school
to the next, it’s gone.
The front door has slammed.
Families are being shoved
out through the back door.
Insecurity
is gripping them once again.
We’ve become lawless.
They’ve become victims
of we who invited them,
then pointed fingers
shouted “criminal!”
and decided they are a
danger to our lives.
We have no reason.
They have no recourse.
© Marie Elena Good 2025
Eye of the Beholder
Some of the most
physically gorgeous
sincere
generous
intelligent
strongest
kindest women I know —
women I have the privilege of loving
and being loved by —
scream.
Not with their voices
but with their color
covering
accent
mother tongue.
They scream,
Foreigner!
Criminal!
Unsafe!
Unwelcome!
The beautiful truths in their hearts
are misperceived.
They are viewed as ugly lies
in the eyes of the listeners
who hear only what they are told
to hear.
If only you knew them.
If only you were willing
to spend time
communicating
communing
sharing food
exchanging smiles
searching their eyes
tracing their hearts
experiencing their generosity,
your hate and fear would
shut up
shut down.
Your heart and home would
open
expand
make way.
You would hear not screams, but
intelligent ideas
endearing emotions
liberal benevolence
soothing sentiments
and you would do anything in your power
to protect their lives and their hearts,
and protect your relationship with them.
Anything.
© Marie Elena Good 2025
Maternal Strength (Mother of Exiles)
Her light, once shining full and bright,
now dim from weeks-long dark of night.
Her eyes glimpse loss of prized allies.
Tear-flooded eyes say their goodbyes
to those once-welcomed, now in throes
of deportation, unopposed.
“Rise up!” She pleads, “to stop this man
who’s changed our core in six-weeks’ span.”
Maternal strength with nurturing spirit,
sing your welcome! Let us hear it!
Shine bright your lamp and wail your plea,
“Send poor and tempest-tossed to me!”
© Marie Elena Good 2025
Title and final line of course inspired by The New Colossus, by American poet Emma Lazarus
AI generated image
In Like a Lion
An apex predator vying for position,
he dons an illegitimate crown
and struts it
around the world stage.
He marks his territory
leaving a stench —
his pride
sniffing rank.
He joins forces with males
who also relish the roar —
none of whom have reached
maturity.
© Marie Elena Good, 2025
Out Like a Lamb (Found in God’s word)
And he said, “Behold
the Lamb of God – He who takes
away the world’s sins.” ~ John, the baptist
“… for I am gentle
and lowly in heart, and you’ll
find rest for your souls.” ~ Jesus, the Christ
“Like a lamb that is
led to the slaughter – so He
opened not His mouth —
Though He had done no
violence, and there was no
deceit in His mouth.” ~ Isaiah, the prophet
© Marie Elena Good, 2025
New Neighbors
It’s dark. I see the lit porchlight across the street. A glow shines from inside the home. For several years, there were no lights. It seemed no one lived there, but I knew better. The house used to be graced with a family. Then, only the man remained. He seldom came and went. When darkness fell, the house disappeared.
There’s something about
how the light warms the snow, and
how love warms the house.
© Marie Elena Good, 2025
Twenty Twenty Five
My year’s focus word
is listen. I chose it, not
knowing what’s to come.
The last twenty days,
I see myself shouting on
social media.
The need to be heard
in daunting times is real, but
shouting gets tuned out,
so is left unheard.
And yet, the need is still there.
I can’t help but shout.
The last twenty days,
my listening turned to an
Intense need to scream.
I don’t scream outdoors
out of respect and care for
all of my neighbors.
I don’t scream indoors
for fear of terrifying
my loving husband.
I scream inside me,
silently, lest I drown out
my God’s still, small voice.
© Marie Elena Good, 2025
Call Me Home
She’s lived with me twenty-four years now.
She loves me.
She appreciates how cheerful I am,
no matter what is happening in her life.
Even those who visit us feel my sunny spirit.
No matter her day,
I know how to make her relax.
Her gait has slowed
more than she likely realizes.
I hear and feel her shuffle
across my hardwood floors.
Sometimes she seems to catch herself, and
picks up her feet a while.
The shuffle returns.
It always returns.
More and more, I hear
pauses
as she searchers for a lost word.
She often discovers the first letter,
but can’t retrieve the remainder.
Then sometimes I’ll hear, “All gone.”
Just like her mother used to say.
My post stands at the bottom
of the steps leading to the basement.
It bears my weight,
and the weight of her worry.
Might she or someone she loves
fall and hit their head on my post?
What are the chances of survival?
I hear her and her husband
as they contemplate their future with me.
Perhaps make my guest bedroom
a half-bath and laundry —
eliminate the need for stairs.
But it’s a part of me she admires
just as I am.
She’s lived with me twenty-four years now,
and hopes for twenty-four more.
Maybe her husband and I can make that happen.
I know he’d be on board with it.
She and I are a good team,
making him more cheerful and relaxed, too.
© Marie Elena Good, 2025
pictured words 