When I consider He who made all things,
In awe, I bow before this King of kings –
This One whose creativity’s arrayed,
And in whose image, we have all been made.
Creator, He, and so creators, we.
He gifted us with this ability.
So all creative ways point to our God.
Let us then recognize, give thanks, and laud.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
Reflections of autumn’s trees on Rose Lake in Ohio’s Hocking Hills region. Photo credit: Keith R. Good
Describing “yellow” leaves in fall, for me,
Does not at all depict their cheerful gleam
As sunlight spills as liquid through the trees,
And they themselves could light the day, it seems.
So also “orange” can’t describe the bliss
That autumn’s gorgeous vista just compels.
And though I can’t rename it, I know this:
Fall’s celebrated color casts its spells.
My favored autumn shades though are the reds:
From rosy blush to crimson, fire-and-iced.
They fairly flaunt and flame as they turn heads.
There’s no way common “red” would have sufficed.
How can we label paints and pens of God
That leave us reverential, praise-filled, awed ?
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
FOR POETIC BLOOMINGS AUTUMNAL POEM-A-DAY CHAPBOOK CHALLENGE, 2018, DAY 11: CRIMSON
I live among the oak, and pine.
The locust. The buckeye.
The sugar and silver maples.
Home is dappled sunlight.
In nearby fields, green corn and soy,
orange pumpkins, or golden wheat
contrast against intense-blue sky.
No wonder why the man I love
longs to return to farming the land,
missing the “big toys” he used to enjoy.
The open fields that call his name,
and leave space for breath and prayer.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
How many years have you and I come here
To seek a respite from demands of time?
We listen long as birdsongs echo clear,
From porch swing’s nest, to hills we dare to climb.
We had to leave behind our getaway,
As pressures of life’s urgencies took charge.
This season rendered cabin dreams “someday,”
But pressing needs no longer loom so large.
We’re homebodies (both you and I), and this,
Our quiet cabin nestled in the pines,
Feels so like coming home, it’s simply bliss –
This space where life and harmony align.
I’ve seen these hills with no one else but you.
There’s none with whom I’d rather share this view.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
I sat at the left end of a long
cafeteria-like table.
No food before me,
no scent of food.
My eyes focused on something
in my hands, which
I cannot now recall.
Forward and to my right,
old fashioned, quilt-look, diner-style
double swinging doors
open.
I glance up
smile
glance back down,
before my heart quickens in my chest
and I look back up.
“Punk!” barely escapes my lips –
more air than voice
as our eyes engage –
His,
smiling, crinkling at the sides.
Mine,
misting as my lips quiver.
He comes to me,
his cadence the same as my heart
remembers.
“Punk!” barely escapes again
as we hug.
His scent and chuckle,
unchanged.
His breath moves my hair.
His familiar voice in my ear speaks only a few words:
“What do you want to know?”
An unexpected question.
My heart quickens again.
What do I need to know?
“Punk, I just want one more hug.”
He backs up
just enough for me to feel his warm hands
on my cheeks.
I can see only his smiling eyes.
I look into them, and see
everything.
It can’t be explained any other way.
Everything.
In less than a moment.
Everything that ever was
seen
felt
heard
known
unknown,
is now
ever will be.
The beauty of it all filled me full.
Left me no words.
He gave me one last hug,
walked to the double doors,
glanced back with those smiling eyes,
and walked back through.
And the living live the here and now,
but those who have passed
and are alive in Christ,
know.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
© Marie Elena Good, 2009
Photo by Keith R. Good
Hushed splendor
echoes through rich autumn forests,
softly laden
with a palette of Eden’s origin.
Photo by Keith R. Good
It’s best when
It’s not the hard places
That stand out.
Photo by Deanna Marie Metts
Searching for her God,
She captures His signature –
Snowflakes on trashcans
