Before the dawn, a
mourning song fell hard and long –
one we loved, now gone.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
Marguerite Powers
March 16, 1931 – November 30, 2018
pictured words
a simple pairing of pictures and poetry
Tag: Family
November 30, 2018
November 18, 2018
HOLIDAY BLESSINGS ON PARADE
Oh the feasts that we would eat –
Grandma’s stuffing can’t be beat!
Turkey carved and on display,
Guesses on “what does it weigh?”
Yams and hams and pumpkin pies,
And (to figures’ great demise}
Aunt Peg’s “Goop,” and Mom’s cheesecake.
Hopeful leftovers to take!
TV playing football games,
Watched by mostly men named James.
Conversations, hugs, and laughs.
Later-treasured photographs.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
P.S. Once-upon-a-time, there were so many men/boys named James in our family, it became a running joke. Grandpa, 2 uncles, Dad, and two cousins (one nicknamed Punk)! 😀
October 19, 2018
LINDSAY ROSE
It was early fall. She was young and animated. The baby girl who had cheated death had become a young woman full of soul, and bright as her favorite color. Her palette was in hand. Her imagination as open and vibrant as changes soon to grace the trees. Camaraderie, harmony, and laughter were yearnings, with promise of fulfillment. Until, on her way to a weekend of music with friends, her song was silenced.
she laughs with Jesus
as they paint the sunset with
orange Crayolas
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
(I wrote the 17-syllable ending in September of 2011, on the anniversary of Lindsay’s car accident, and her passing from this life to the next.)
FOR POETIC BLOOMINGS AUTUMNAL POEM-A-DAY CHAPBOOK CHALLENGE, 2018, DAY 6: ORANGE
October 7, 2018
SAVING SOUNDS
They’ve not been gone long.
Just a few month’s time.
Sometimes I hear her laugh.
His voice, singing,
“I don’t buy sugar —
Just touch my cup.”
Her coffeemaker’s sizzle.
His, “Go Bucks.”
Her, “I love you. —
You know that.”
His drums.
Her sigh.
I clutch these sounds —
Secure them to my heart,
And listen to its beat.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
September 9, 2018
INTERMENT DAY
All day, the sky shed tears, and I,
at times.
I prayed no more tears, graveside,
but they fell
and fell
on faulty umbrellas
and baying bagpipe
and wailing sax
and tone of Taps
and stars
and stripes
and dated stones
and downcast cheeks
and woeful thoughts
and hard-fought fear
while lavish love
flowed fierce and full,
affecting a fragrance
of
unreserved grace.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
Patricia A. Fagnano
March 16, 1931 – February 9, 2018
James F. Fagnano
January 7, 1932 – March 15, 2018
Mom and Dad, laid to rest.
In the presence of God
and the hearts of all,
the hardest day of my life,
and a thing of beauty
at once.
September 8, 2018
On the anniversary of their wedding.
May 30, 2018
CEASELESSLY CLOSE (in Cyrch A Chwta form)
Photo from http://www.flowermeaning.com/forget-me-not-flower-meaning/
Seldom did we disagree –
So alike, my mom and me.
Selflessly devoted, she.
I’ve been told I came to be
Through her plea on bended knee.
No one taught me to foresee
That she wouldn’t seem deceased,
Once tomorrows ceased to be.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
April 24, 2018
St. Thomas Island’s Caret Bay (“Someday” Comes – a Roundelay)
Exploring life on new frontiers,
Today my luvs move far away.
Our seasons come in waves and tiers
As drizzle falls from sky of gray
I hug them tight, yet curb my tears.
I have to hold my heart at Bay.
Our seasons come in waves and tiers.
As drizzle falls from sky of gray.
Attentive to the fleeting years,
I want for them sun’s ray. Son’s ray.
I hug them tight, yet curb my tears.
I have to hold my heart at Bay.
Acquainted with life’s fleeting years,
I want for them sun’s ray. Son’s ray.
May God’s vast grasp be crystal clear,
And richly sensed on Caret Bay.
I hug them tight, yet curb my tears.
I have to hold my heart at Bay.
May God’s vast grasp be crystal clear,
And richly sensed on Caret Bay.
Goodbyes are said, and it appears
The time is now, and not “someday.”
I hug them tight, yet curb my tears.
I have to hold my heart at Bay.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
April 7, 2018
PUNK
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
January 15, 2018
IS JESUS’ DADDY MEAN?
all_are_precious_in_his_sight_by_nessie905-d7ywhw1-640×522
At three years old,
She loves.
She loves her family.
She loves the children who come to her home
To be cared for.
She loves dolls,
And coloring
And tea parties
And chocolate kisses.
She loves Jesus …
But the nativity drawing
On a card from Cameroon
Gave her pause.
“Is Jesus’ daddy mean?”
‘No, honey. Does he look mean?”
“Kinda” slips out from under her wrinkled nose.
“He has a black face.”
At three years old,
She loves.
She loves her white family.
She loves the little white children, who come
To her home to be cared for.
She loves her white dolls,
And sister’s brown doll.
She loves her little brown neighbor.
She sees few black people in her world.
“Honey, Jesus had very dark skin.
So did his mommy and step daddy.
It’s just a color. It doesn’t make us mean,
Or nice.
It’s just a color.
Some people who are black are nice,
And some are not.
Some people who are white,
Like you,
Are nice,
Like you,
And some are not.”
With an incredulous look,
She declares,
“I am not white!”
She plays pretend a while,
Then comes to me.
“Nonna?”
“Yes?”
“I like black people.”
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
October 4, 2017
Epiphanies (inspired by My Favorite Things)
Photo by Deanna Marie Metts
Toddlers that “get it,”
That first sense of humor!
Ultrasound showing
There’s two in her womb, or
Suddenly noticing
His shy, sweet stare.
These are some things
That are special and rare.
Seeing my mother
In my own reflection.
More often noting
Decreased recollection.
Pleasant occasions
In which I take part.
Still finding plenty
To capture my heart.
Years fly quickly,
Oh, so quickly!
Decades swiftly pass.
So value your loved ones,
Your home, and your life.
Acknowledge your brim-
full glass!
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
pictured words 