pictured words

April 5, 2017

SYRIA (Sonnet for the Severed Souls)

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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.

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March 26, 2017

PLAQUES

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“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.

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March 15, 2017

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME …

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Irish roses bud and bloom

Side-by-side in mother’s womb.

Beautifully, they grew in grace;

Elegant as Irish lace.

Happy Birthday to Mom and Aunt Peg, with love and great respect.

4 Comments

March 4, 2017

Reluctant Warrior (Sonnet for my brave, sweet friend)

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.”

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Image | March 3, 2017

January 15, 2017

LOVE SPEAKS

Photo by Keith R. Good

When love speaks,

It speaks softly.

When love listens,

It listens intently.

But when love sings,

It ascends to the heavens,

And enchants its very Creator.

Originally posted at “Across the Lake, Eerily”

3 Comments

January 7, 2017

OF WAR AND WORTH

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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.

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January 7, 2017

SONNET FOR MY DAD

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My father earned a living teaching youth.
He shared with them the music of his core.
He showed them how to honor life and truth,
And gave his time to all who graced his door.

My father is a man to emulate –
A man who holds to ethical ideals.
And even now, though years have slowed his gait,
They haven’t marred the crux of what he feels.

My father’s love is deep; allegiance strong.
His charity continues to abound.
He taught me well to judge what’s right and wrong,
To gather stars, while keeping feet aground.

And so it is I pen this gift through tears –
I thank my God for granting us these years.

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December 24, 2016

HOW SILENT?

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Photo: Marie Elena Good

As cattle low and donkeys bray,

A worried man begins to pray.

“She’s weary, Lord, and birth pains loom,

We need an Inn, but none have room.”

A stable with a bed of hay

Affords them with a place to stay.

She lies amongst the bleating sheep –

Where there she finds no peace for sleep.

The hour of our Savior’s birth

Sweet angel voices sing His worth,

While Satan howls – himself, enraged

In knowing that a war’s been waged

A war the Babe Himself will win –

To free us from our senseless sin.

Beneath the sacred star-lit night,

How silent was that holy night?

December 23, 2016

Attention Deficit Christmas (to the tune of Jingle Bells)

Photo by Deanna Marie Metts

Dashing through the thoughts

Of an A.D.D.-fraught head.

Presents to be bought;

Writing this instead.

Pretty snow outside

Calling me to play

“Ought to/want to” soon collide

Now, which will win today?

Hey!

Cards to write! Sweets to bake!

Stockings to be hung!

Presents to be bought and wrapped, and carols to be sung!

Hey!

Cards to write! Sweets to bake!

Stockings to be hung!

Presents to be bought and wrapped, and carols to be sung!

Dashing through the mall

In a state of frenzied fear.

Busy! Aren’t we all?

It’s that time of year!

Who did I forget?

Did I check my list out twice?

Then I break into a sweat

For paying retail price!

Oh!

Cards to write! Sweets to bake!

Stockings to be hung!

Presents to be bought and wrapped, and carols to be sung!

Hey!

Cards to write! Sweets to bake!

Stockings to be hung!

Presents to be bought and wrapped, and carols to be sung!

As I sit and write

And I work to make this rhyme,

Joy creeps in despite

I’m running out of time

To do the things I must

Like write my Christmas cards.

Instead I sit and look nonplussed –

Give judgment my regards.

Oh!

Things to do! Things to do!

Running out of time!

Cannot pull myself away from working on this rhyme.

Hey!

Things to do! Things to do!

But I’m not uptight.

Oh what fun it was to write a Christmas poem tonight!

Hey!

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