Photo credit: Eduardo Munoz/Reuters
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
The Monument of Liberty State is photographed while the solar eclipse is seen over Liberty State Island in New York, Aug. 21, 2017. Photo credit: Eduardo Munoz/Reuters
She doesn’t fit the image in your head –
The one my title planted in your brain.
She’s quilted patchwork, fondly stitched bedspread.
She’s warmly welcomed gently falling rain.
She’s selfless soul and kindness above all.
Her prayers are like symphonic rays of sun.
When help is needed, she’s the one to call –
She’ll set distress aside for anyone.
Her nights are filled with terrorizing dreams;
Her days besieged with raging drug demands.
While patchwork stitches strain along the seams,
Her trembling heart is placed in Jesus’ hands.
If you are without sin, then cast your stone.
But He? He will not let her stand alone.
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
Don’t judge anyone
Until you’ve walked in their shoes
As long as they have.
Photo by Keith R. Good
just once
catch first glint of dawn
chase rise and fall
of moon and sun and sigh
#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
The images. The videos. The news.
The view from here is simply that – a view.
For I can just ignore it if I choose –
Not take in what I’ll wish I never knew.
But you? You watch your babies breathe their last
while hospitals are bombed before your eyes,
and lifeless neighbors’ bodies are amassed.
You plead for help to long-obscure allies.
I want to send for you, and beg you come –
To sing soft lullabies to sooth your sleep.
But see, you are a fearsome threat to some.
That takes me to my knees to heave and weep.
While dead and dying lie within your reach,
Your wails are hushed by those whom you beseech.
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
“After the Rain” (Made with Love by Leeroy. Life-of-Pix free stock}
She writes her life in third person
Once removed.
In ink or lead or crayon.
Or spoon.
It’s strewn about while she
Remains unmoved.
Someone loved her once, she knows.
No. She knows.
She wrings her wrists
And twists her ring.
Can’t tell you what she ate
Or when.
Or who would ask such a thing.
She also knows this:
Each day is a season
Fused with strife,
Escaping her grasp,
Leaving her gasping
For life.
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
Happy Birthday to Mom and Aunt Peg, with love and great respect.
Photo by Keith R. Good
The daddy that abused demands respect,
While brazenly he’s courting the profane.
She waits for alcohol to take effect,
Or swallows pills to numb the memory’s pain.
She daily chokes down bitter, misplaced guilt
That he’s imposed since she was just a child.
Wet pillow, stained where nightly shame is spilt,
Her very tears believe they are defiled.
But now she shuns her means for quick relief;
She’s trading pills and alcohol for truth.
And though her battle’s cruel beyond belief,
She’s vanquishing the crutches of her youth.
Her steadfast vision lifts and touches me.
Her only goal? “To God, the glory be.”
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
Photo by Keith R. Good
New York Times, Jan. 2, 2017
Political post by Sheri Fink and Helene Cooper“Give me a pack of cigarettes and a couple of beers, and I do better with that than I do with torture.” ~ James N. Mattis, Retired General, and President-elect Donald J. Trump’s nominee for Secretary of Defense
A young boy’s torture,
Received
Then imparted,
Swells the hell inside –
Wills famine of worth
Gives birth to young man
Young soldier
Acquainted with torture
And callous of heart.
A young boy’s nurture,
Received
Then imparted,
Renders a tender
Defender of life
Where strife matters not.
Young soldier, familiar
With self-control
And depth of soul.
Young country at war
Divides her own shore.
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
pictured words 