pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: Family

In the Far Reaches

Deanna’s cutie camel, all tuckered out


WD November Chapbook Challenge, Day 4.  Write an “In the (blank )” poem

In the Far Reaches

There’s currently nine
and a half-hours’ time diff’rence
between her and me. 

I use what seems nine
checking the clock to reckon
what time it is, there.

© Marie Elena Good, 2022

High School Years, Snippets with Mom and Dad (Naples Beach, 1970s)

“Naples Pier in Naples, Florida on a clear sunny day.” IStock photos
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

NONNA REE’S PRIORITIES

The older I get, the older I feel
It’s hard to run. It’s hard to kneel.
Can’t cartwheel as in childhood.
(But, truth-be-told, I never could. 😉 )
Consistently can’t find my words –
Can access just perhaps two thirds.
Can’t run too fast. Can’t hear when asked.
My skates and skis were long-since trashed.
But I’ll still race you on my bike,
and take a walk or even hike
and talk and laugh and draw (kind of 😉 )
and listen well
and deeply love.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

The Heart of It All (fibonacci)

Home
Is
The state
Of my heart:
Heart-shaped Ohio.
“Ohio, The Heart of It All,”
Is more than its slogan, to me. It’s a certainty
Born of dappled sunlight, porch swing swishes, marching bands, sure love, and lingering laughter.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

(Bummer. My final line, written in 21 syllables, breaks up on site.)

THANKSGIVING, 2020

Photo by Markus Spiske on Pexels.com

I should first explain that I went 30-plus years with a severe reaction to butter and chocolate.  ONLY butter and chocolate.  I know, I know … it makes no sense.  For 30-plus years, I have had to be ridiculously careful, because even minute amounts wreaked havoc.  When my thyroid was fixed, this went away.

THANKSGIVING, 2020

Buttered potatoes,
and stuffing with butter.
Slather that nut bread
(my heart is aflutter!).

No need to ask
“is there butter in this?”
Now I can happily
fill up my dish.

But now that selecting
what goes on my plate
no longer concerns me,
we can’t congregate.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

HANDS I USED TO HOLD

Mom and me

I grasped Mom’s finger –
stared into her loving eyes –
my first breath of air.

As a child, always
held her hand to cross the street
and for bedtime prayer.

Sometimes as a teen
I would grasp her hand as we
walked on Naples’ beach.

Elderly, and soon
to pass, she gripped my hands as
though to save herself

as sensation of
falling overtook her, and
she needed grounding.

An honor to hold
dying hands of one who held
my hands in her womb.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

Two Sisters in Three Chapters

My big sister and me

Chapter 1.  Rain.

The day I was born,
it rained hard on my sister …
submerging her soul.

Chapter 2. Wombs.

Her first pregnancy’s
uniqueness dimmed, when I found
myself pregnant, too.

Pregnant together
again. A son for me. A
tragic loss for her.

Simultaneous
third pregnancies perhaps seemed
a cruel joke, to her.

Chapter 3.  Lost and Found.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a common heartache.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
shared grief is shared love.

In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a needed sister.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020


Home is where I watch the Buckeyes with Dad

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As August slips into the back side,
and daylight is squeezed
into fewer hours,
I miss the distant sound
of drum cadence,
bringing in a new season.
In just a couple weeks,
Dad and I would have had
our decades-long ritual
of gathering in front of the T.V.
and saying (as though it is a surprise),
“Can you believe it is already
the first game of the season?
Didn’t the season just end?”

It didn’t matter whose home we
were in,

until it did.

Those final years, he became too frail,
and it became harder,
and then impossible,
to get Mom out the door.
So we would haul food to their place,
and hope Dad could stay awake
and out of the bathroom
for most of the game.
We hoped he could enjoy it
a fraction of what he used to.

The lamp that was part of each home
Mom and Dad called theirs
now lights my front window
as I write poems
about football
and marching bands
and drum cadence
and Mom
and Dad.

Because poems
and their light
are all that remain.

 

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

 

YESTERDAYS (Father’s Day 2020 Sonnet for my Dad)

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Just one more chance to hear your drum set swing,
And feel the pride well up inside my core.
And I believe I’d give most anything
To watch as you conduct a band once more.

To hear you call Mom Sweet Pea one more time,
And see the love for her in aging eyes
That cleaved to days of youth, well past their prime,
Embracing the enchantment love implies.

From time to time, I feel as though you’re near.
I sometimes hear your words play through my mind.
Oh how I’d love to linger for a year
While you are here, and death is left behind.

Though we may try to hold what fades away,
Our yesterdays were never meant to stay.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

ONE (Ekphrastic)

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Love, laughter, and fun
under the same moon and sun,
for we are all one.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

#seventeenintwenty