pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: Healing

SHE CALLS HERSELF AN ADDICT

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I suppose when cravings for poison
introduced in past moments of pain
threaten to pull you to ocean’s floor
and you remember the relief of
oxygen to your lungs,
you might find it irresistible, this temptation to
breathe –

even if it is one breath.
Even if it threatens
to fill your lungs with death.

But she –
she would rather not breathe

than return to the venom her body craves.
She would rather hold her breath,
while waiting for her Redeemer
to meet her in the depths.
To lift her face.
To breathe life to her very soul.

She calls herself an addict.

I call her a child of the God who Saves.
I call her brave.
I call her inspiring.

I call her friend.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019

Reluctant Warrior (Sonnet for my brave, sweet friend)

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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.”

 

© Marie Elena Good, 2017

“Mary” (Entry from the journal of Mary of Magdala)

 

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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

DELIVERED (Sonnet to Jesus, Our Redeemer)

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Photo by Deanna Marie Metts

I prayed for one I love for countless years,
For healing of her heart, her mind, her soul.
My faith was often blinded by my tears,
Just longing for my loved one to be whole.

A Savior’s unremitting hunt pursued.
In sacrificial, unrestricted love,
Each moment and heart-rending  instance used
To draw her broken spirit’s eyes above.

The enemy at work may mystify,
But his sick plot is frail and deeply flawed.
His seeming grip on us is just a lie –
He’s simply powerless against our God.

Her life in Jesus wondrously revealed,
Now with His Holy Spirit, she is sealed!