“Father, forgive them. They know not what they do.” ~ Jesus Christ of Nazareth (Luke 23:34)
Tortured at their hands,
my Messiah didn’t wait
for apologies.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April PAD Challenge: Day 17 – Writer’s Digest (Day 17: Write a Waiting poem.)
Her argument couldn’t be finer:
“Don’t want you to think I’m a whiner.
I’m not just a shirker
I AM a hard worker!”
She said, from her threadbare recliner.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April PAD Challenge: Day 4 – Writer’s Digest (Day 4: Write an ACTIVE poem).
Words may speak comfort
to the wounded. But, more so,
a shoulder. A tear.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April Poem-a-Day Challenge at Poetic Asides (Day 3: Write a Communication poem).
O Bethlehem,
do you know the One you have birthed?
Let the earth rejoice;
raise her voice in song!
For the long-awaited Christ was born of Mary –
the very woman the angel blessed.
She feeds the King at her breast,
as angel choirs sing praise,
and a star blazes above you,
O little town.
No crown for this babe
who is able to save,
and will conquer the grave someday
yet for now, rests in hay –
This Way.
This Truth.
This Life.
O Bethlehem …
your star, a royal diadem.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Few know of Sue, the Santa Shrew,
and that’s a curious thing in view
of all the schmoozing she would do
once scooting down each chimney flue.
She’d shoot the breeze with skillful ease
in English, Welsh, or Taiwanese,
while feasting on her hostess’ cheese.
Then right back up the flue she’d squeeze.
‘Round every tree, she’d socialize –
she’d dramatize and improvise,
and aggrandize, and summarize.
Shrew ebullience, epitomized.
As starlit skies turned pinks and golds,
Sue’d slip ‘tween Santa’s soft cloak folds
and there, she’d dream of each household
and all her stories, still untold.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Image from Pixabay by Gordon Johnson
Until they are brought
together to speak, they’re just
twenty six letters.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Image courtesy of Pixabay’s ThePixelman
My stomach is tied up in knots.
I wonder who’s calling the shots.
And will they admit
when the bullet gets bit
even they had their own second thoughts?
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Image credit: Pixabay
Can we be thankful
for that which we aren’t aware
we’ve even received?
Yet God has blessed us,
every one of us, with
His very own Son,
leaving the glory
of heavenly realms aside,
born of a virgin
in humblest of means,
crying with the bleating sheep,
and braying donkeys.
No silent night, this,
yet holy, miraculous,
and liberating.
A virgin woman
bore this “for unto us” Child
in obedience
to the very God
Who chose her to give life to
the Giver of Life.
She named Him Jesus.
He who had no beginning –
Who was here before
the world’s foundation –
the Co-Creator of all –
became a newborn.
He grew in wisdom,
and did only that which His
Father told Him to.
His Father gave Him
all things, and left our judgement
in His holy hands.
We are guilty, all.
But the Father made a way:
His name is Jesus.
God gave His own Self
in the Person of the Son
to redeem the lost.
We are all the lost,
falling short of God’s glory.
But now He sees us
through the saving grace
of The One who redeemed us
on Calvary’s cross.
So I ask again:
Can we be thankful for that
which we aren’t aware
we’ve even received?
Jesus Christ died once, for all.
Many witnessed it.
And many witnessed
also His resurrection
from that very death –
the death that was ours.
He gifted us with His love,
and His saving grace.
Know Him, and know this:
God sanctified us. God blessed
us, every one.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
Infinite grace, unhindered and free
Limitless mercy, darkness eclipsed
Undeserved pardon, lavished on me
Gratitude lies unexpressed on my lips
Silence of tongue, and hands I can’t raise
Words strung together fall short in their worth
Only my tears are fluent in praise
Here in my tears, my worship gives birth
Eloquent tears spill praise to The King
Dampening cheeks He crafted in love
Moistening lips that yearn to sing
Genuine worship to God above
© Marie Elena Good, 2014
Image by Gerd Altmann via Pixabay
I have to admit
I’ve been syllabically
abusive to you.
I may call you poem
or po-em, depending on
my need at the time,
not even giving
thought to how this makes you feel.
Please forgive me, poem.
And please understand
this earnest apology
stated at this time
will remain sincere
whether at any time I
choose po-em, or poem.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
pictured words 