Photo credit: thedancingimage.blogspot
What changes would no twister bring?
Everything.
The wicked witch? I guarantee
Would still be
Ruby slipper’d, with stockings striped
Black and white.
Her Aunt Em’s home would not take flight
No straw psyche; no tin goodwill
Contentment would elude her still
And everything would still be black and white.
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
Bomb or gun
Mass or one
Gay or straight
Hate is hate
Foreign-run
Or homespun
Vain debate
Hate is hate
Deeply flawed
“Under God”
Won’t negate
Hate is hate
(c) Marie Elena Good, 2016
Photo from http://www.gmpcc.org.uk/news/stand-together-against-hate-crime/ .
I do not trust each nominee.
I cannot vote for T nor C.
I will not vote for he nor she.
I cannot, will not! Nope, not me!
This poem I penned is childlike:
Less fighter jet – more toddler trike.
But this election’s not grown up –
We’re drowning in a sippy cup.
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
Photo by Keith R. Good
“… for His compassions never fail. They are new every morning.” ~ Lamentations 3
Dawn’s light emerges,
Hastening a new week’s cares.
Her knees, eroding.
Vivid moss roses
Flamboyant ruby hummers
Adore(n) her prayer walk
A murky morning.
Gloom seems to silence nature.
A still, small Voice calls.
The sun failed to rise,
She believes. And so she seeks
Son’s radiant grace.
Unsettling dream
Halted by sound of music
Caroled in her heart
Her heart feels absent;
Her spirit, arid and parched.
A gentle rain falls.
As dusk’s light withdraws,
She reaches out for His hand,
And there, finds her heart.
© Marie Elena Good
PHOTO BY KEITH R. GOOD
The trouble with hawks
Is they cause trouble.
So when they began
To nest in our oak,
They were not welcome.
Squirrels were here first.
Jays were here first,
As were robins,
And chickadees
And others.
Don’t under-
Estimate
Others.
Hawk nest?
Hawked.
15 Weeks (photo courtesy of donum-vitae)
the problem with a
botched abortion
is that the baby
is at the risk of being
This morning
This mourning broke me.
Reality pierced my soul,
Left a gaping hole, with fears
No tears can fill.
This morning
His eyes haunted me,
As I already strained to recall
The implausible love I saw in them
Before the cross.
This morning
I longed to once again see myself –
Me as he saw me –
The me he presented to others –
Instead of the wretch I see in me.
This morning,
In darkness of mood and day,
I made my way to his tomb.
My heart and breath halted
As my eyes assaulted my senses.
This morning
He was gone.
I was even robbed of his lifeless body?
The cruelty of this was agonizing
And my wounds grew deeper still.
This morning
I wept harder and longer and deeper
Than I ever have before –
Not even at the cross, for I was too traumatized
For tears.
This morning
I saw men? Angels? Someone – something – angels
At the head and foot where he had lain.
They asked me why I was weeping.
How could I explain such pain?
This morning
I turned and saw a man – the gardener?
He asked me the same question the angels had.
“Woman, why are you weeping?”
Once my closed throat allowed me to speak,
I begged of him, “PLEASE sir, where have you put him?”
“Mary.”
Rabboni!
This morning
Mourning broke.
Light rose from darkness,
Spoke my name,
And I will never be the same.
©Marie Elena Good
Gospel of John, Chapter 20
Photo credit: Shutterstock.com
Photo by Keith R. Good
“Make it dark, make it grim, make it tough, but then, for the love of God, tell a joke.” ~ Josh Whedon
My mind was entombed
In the dark night of my soul.
Then it dawned on me …
“Break of Day,” we say –
And let me weigh in on that.
Or not,
For if the scales tip further,
They may break with the day.
PHOTO COURTESY OF LOVABLE IMAGES (lovableimages.blogspot.com)
My lover asks me:
“What is the difference between me and the sky?”
The difference, my love,
is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky.”*
I sigh.
Forever I’ll yearn to compose,
In verse or prose, for you my love, and affirmation thereof.
‘til then, let’s kiss
And pretend I penned this.
© Marie Elena Good
pictured words 