A Misguided Poem

WD November Chapbook Challenge, Day 3. Write a misguided poem
A Misguided Poem
When this poem saw
its writer, it counted on
seventeen syllab
-les
© Marie Elena Good 2022
WD November Chapbook Challenge, Day 3. Write a misguided poem
A Misguided Poem
When this poem saw
its writer, it counted on
seventeen syllab
-les
© Marie Elena Good 2022
WD November Chapbook Challenge, Day 2. Write a sweet poem.
I prefer my sweets
to whisper, not scream. Infer.
Teach my buds to taste.
© Marie Elena Good 2022
WD November Chapbook Challenge. Day 1. Write a beginning poem, or an ending poem
“Asking for a friend”
Dear fellow persons,
When did handwritten letters
become an art form?
Birthday greetings change
from carefully picked cards, to
instant facebook posts?
Did spelling our words
become an imposition
on us? idk.
When did we mutate
from people people, to mere
convenience junkies?
Have we managed to
make effortlessness a god
of our own doing?
A god that will bring
us to our knees when we see
it filched our intents
made us its robots
robbed us of our humanness
made us drop our
love.
© Marie Elena Good, 2022
I’m not observant.
You’d be amazed at how much
blows over my head.
I’m like memes that say
“I was today years old when”
I fin’lly noticed ‘this’.
It often seems like
thoughts swirl around in my brain,
but can’t seem to land.
And obvious things
don’t click … until they do. Like
Dorothy’s last name.
(c) Marie Elena Good, 2022
A Ukrainian student,
who speaks nearly no English,
brings a map and photos
to class.
The map shows her home,
and its proximity to Russia.
Her quivering finger moves across it
showing us her escape route.
Border-to-border, across Ukraine.
Romania.
Germany.
The U.S.A.
She moves from photo to photo.
“Our central park.”
Before,
and after.
“Capitol building.”
Before,
and after.
Her house,
out of photo’s view by centimeters,
“here,” her finger rests.
The building in view,
demolished.
Her house?
Likely an “after.”
© Marie Elena Good, 2022
#apictureisworthathousandwords
#prayforUkraine
Smacks of death, say some.
But I smell Mom’s pies. Hear Dad’s
marching band pre-games.
Feel crisp air against
my sometimes still-a-bit-tanned-
from-summertime skin.
Marvel at the sky’s
puffy white and charcoal clouds
in deep blue setting.
Relish the jewel-tones
gradually gracing trees,
begging wonderment.
Enjoy leaves crunching
beneath the tires of my bike,
or cute-boot-dressed feet.
Experience leaves
raked in a pile over my
head, then jumping in.
Savor the taste of
a hardy stew with biscuits,
or bowl of chili.
Memories bring smiles,
like the Robbins Avenue
Pizza (a rare treat),
enjoyed on our porch
after walking home from a
nighttime football game.
Smacks of death, say some.
But my senses are filled with
what I’ve fallen for.
© Marie Elena Good, 2022
A young mom stands. The four-year-old boy at her feet sits in his unseen labels: Autistic. Nonverbal. Sensory-impaired. She holds one end of a leash. The other is attached to a cute backpack he wears, as he fidgets in a small spot of dirt in an otherwise flawless lawn of the public library that is, today, being used as a venue for celebrating diversity. The morning is perfection. People of different cultures and languages together, sharing their talents and being offered a public voice. This mom does not move from her spot for hours. The darling boy pays no attention to the speakers the music the dancers other children. His focus is only on his patch of dirt. He sits in it. Lays in it. Plays in it with his hands and feet. Feels it with his cheeks. He pulls a bit of the grass around it, increasing his speck of space. A woman with a long dress gets close. He reaches out to touch the fabric. It is the only thing I see him pay attention to, besides the small patch that grounds him. His momma tells him don’t touch the dress. When I am leaving, I approach her. She stiffens. I smile. “A sort of sandbox, I see,” I say. She tells me nothing soothes him quite like a patch of cool dirt. She tells me his labels. I place my hand on her shoulder briefly, and assure her she is a strong, good momma. She says the only other woman to approach her this day sternly told her, “I pay taxes for this grass.” © Marie Elena Good, 2022
Exposure to the vastness of our world
reveals the limitations of my brain.
As gleaming glows of galaxies unfurled
have come to light, I cannot even feign
to grasp a tiny bit of what exists,
or visualize what else may be out there.
For as the search continues to persist,
we’ll surely find more great unknowns elsewhere.
Here’s me, my feet fixed firmly to the ground;
my tiny world spills full with those I love.
My eyes and heart lift up to God, spellbound
at what He made that I can scarce dream of.
This God who spoke unending realms to be,
sees fit to whisper words of love to me.
© Marie Elena Good, 2022
“When I consider your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars which you have set in place: What is mankind that you are mindful of them? Human beings that you care for them?”
~ Psalm 8:3-4
She sits in silence, listening for God to speak. But she hears no one. She sits in darkness, watching for God’s appearance. But she sees nothing. She grasps at the air, trying to feel God’s presence. But she feels nothing. She raises her voice. “Abba! Father! Where are You?” He, soundlessly, speaks. She closes her eyes, absorbing His attention, knowing who He is. Her heart hears His voice in both silence and sound. He gives her ears to hear. She opens her eyes sees Him everywhere, in all He created. The air wraps her up, blankets her in His shelter, fills her lungs with Him. She knows she is His. She sees and hears and feels Him. She knows what she knows. © Marie Elena Good, 2022
I pick up sea glass, rub it between my fingers, this heart-shaped God gift. My dad finds twin shells, quietly pockets them, then makes earrings for me. Sunset walk with Mom. She tells me, “You’ll soon prefer a romantic walk.” Walking home from Pier, something stings me on my foot. Dad carries me home. The sun dips itself into the Gulf. We give a standing ovation. An early-sunrise- beach-all-to-myself morning. A short bike ride home. Just curious how many dads would carry their teenage daughter home. Turned out Mom was right. And part of me holds regret for lost walks with her. Wonder if the next to find the heart-shaped sea glass saw it as God’s gift. © Marie Elena Good, 2022