Photo by Keith R. Good
Hate reigns. What remains
To say? To pray?
We disavow
(somehow)
Our sin in errant skin –
Our callous view of life
As strife endures, and carnage lures
The vilest mind.
Oh, mankind!
Weep desolately deep
As France steeps in blood,
And floods of tears release
A piece of Nice.
© Marie Elena Good
Photo credit: dreamstime.com
We as children
Face-up in soft grass
Hands clasped behind our heads
Watching floating scenes above,
Seeing things differently –
Each through our own lens,
Mimicking real life.
© Marie Elena Good
As life bleeds red,
My guilt, this:
I thank my God
My love is not
In blue uniform;
My son, in black skin.
© Marie Elena Good
Image credit: Reusable Art Dot Com
bikes with beaded spokes
ribboned trikes, wagons, drums, tears
rain on our parade
Photo credit: 123RF
Back then, our clocks had hands and feet
No wings, yet time still seemed to fly
As singing trucks brought ice cream treats.
Back then, our clocks had hands and feet,
And we played kickball in the street
While friends and neighbors happened by.
Back then, our clocks had hands and feet
No wings, yet time still seemed to fly.
© Marie Elena Good
Photo credit: Today I Found Out
I began as Flesh,
But only because it was 1958,
And they didn’t yet understand
A white baby may have a tint
Of Raw Sienna.
No understanding that changing Indian Red
To Chestnut is not only untrue,
But negates a child’s ability to learn
That Indian Red describes a pigment native
To India,
And not the skin of a Native American,
Or for that matter, the ability to learn what it meant to be
Prussian.
Was it easier to change Prussian to Midnight,
Than to teach us the blues of history?
And sixteen new colors were added that year, and
When I turned four I was no longer Flesh,
But Peach.
Peach with still no tint,
And no understanding that Peach is not white,
And I am not white, and I am not Peach.
But colors are sharp,
And when the summer sun shines
On sixty four colors left on Grandma’s porch,
They can run together
and
Permanently
Mingle.
© Marie Elena Good
We line the street
Despite the heat;
Await the beat
Of drums.
The cadence stirs
My heart, and spurs
Excitement! Here
It comes!
The Stars and Stripes
And countless types
Of instruments
Pass by.
The pride I feel
Is deep and real
Beneath mid-
Summer’s sky.
My father’s band,
Baton in hand
Directing more
Than tunes.
His students find
He’s guided minds
And morals
Many moons.
Time marched along
So fast. So long,
Oh fleeting song
Of summer.
Now winter’s come
And slowed the drum –
But oh, I love
The drummer.
(With love and great respect for Dad … drummer, conductor, teacher, mentor, father)
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
Photo credit: Desde La Republica Dominicana
Sunny day of summer play with friends
Ends.
Night falls.
Streetlights call me home.
Bathed and pj’d,
Porch swing lulls, but cannot dull
The day’s fun,
Spun of love.
Mom smiles;
Files away another day.
We pray and say goodnight.
Sleep tight.
Sweet dreams.
Even the moon beams.
© Marie Elena Good 2016
Sounds of fun
Blow in through my window.
Mistaking laughter for music,
My curtains dance on the breeze,
While my head has trouble staying on the pillow.
© Marie Elena Good 2016
Image courtesy of en.wikipedia.org
A star-struck me in childhood bliss
Off day dreaming, as dreamers do
And in this dream, I steal a kiss …
And would, were I a cricket too.
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
pictured words 