pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: Life

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

#lifeistooshortfor

Life is too short for
grudges, shame, ill-fitting shoes,
yesterday’s coffee.

#fivesevenfive
#lifeistooshort

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

WHAT IF?

Photo credit: Keith R. Good

We humans tend to look back,
often
having trouble reconciling the life
we live
with the life we naively dreamed of
in the
midst of youth, mulling the likelihood that the
land of
our reality borders our kingdom of
what ifs.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

#waltmarie form

The poem within reads:

often
we live
in the
land of
what ifs

The #waltmarie, created by Candace Kubinec, is a 10-line form of any subject. The even-numbered lines are 2 syllables, and must form their own poem when read separately. The odd-numbered lines are longer, with no syllable count restrictions.

In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April PAD Challenge: Day 24 – Writer’s Digest (writersdigest.com) (Day 24: Write a Question poem.)

WITH HIGH LEVEL OF ACCURACY, I PREDICT:

Photo by Alex Andrews on Pexels.com

WITH HIGH LEVEL OF ACCURACY, I PREDICT:


As soon as hands are wash-me wet,
my phone will start to ring.

When I am snoozing, you can bet
my phone will start to ring.

The moment we sit down to eat,
my phone will start to ring.

Before my urgent task’s complete,
my phone will start to ring.

The final seconds of the game,
my phone will start to ring.

Car warranty’s good, but all the same,
my phone will start to ring.

About to step in to the bath,
my phone will start to ring.

When I have moved from rile to wrath,
my phone will start to ring.

When I’m with someone, it is known
my phone will start to ring.

The second I put down my phone?
My phone will start to ring.

While pulling up my drive at home,
my phone will start to ring.

When nearly finished with my poem,
my … Sorry.  I need to get this …

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April Poem-a-Day Challenge at Poetic Asides (Day 2: Write a What does the future hold poem).

NAVIGATING LIFE

Photo courtesy of Shutterstock

Some stare straight ahead.
Some can’t help but gaze behind.
Others, eyes closed, dream.

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

#seventeensyllables

MY WRITING SPACE, IN THIS MOMENT

scattered furniture
what used to be here, now there
drop cloths and paint fumes

jazz notes billowing
rollers, brushes, straight edges –
that man God gave me

© Marie Elena Good, 2021

I Remember John-John’s Third Birthday

My five-year-old eyes
watched a three year old salute
his daddy’s coffin.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

Written in response to Walt Wojtanik’s “I remember …” prompt at Poetic Bloomings.

UNTITLED

OIP

“They call me Mr. Tibbs.”  ~ Virgil Tibbs, In the Heat of the Night

It’s 1967. I’m 9 years old. My dad is explaining the gist of a movie I am not allowed to see. I don’t want to see the movie.  More than that, I don’t want to see the nightly news.

It’s 2020. My granddaughter is 9 years old.  As in ’67, I don’t want to see the news.  Yet, there is a difference in the images this time:  Many protesters and police officers are wearing masks, attempting to protect those they see, from a virus they can’t.

The Long Hot Summer
of Nineteen Sixty Seven
begs us take a knee.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

voice

revolution-30590_640

Image courtesy of Pixabay

in need to be heard,
he sings. flies.  calls. cries.  songbird –
winged and otherwise.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020

DEAR MOM,

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DEAR MOM,

I wonder if you smiled after tucking me in at night, as I yelled, “I love you and I like you,” until I heard you reach the bottom of the stairs.

When I was in high school, you and I would often walk Naples’ beach. I told you how much I enjoyed our beach walks.  You told me I would get a boyfriend, and would no longer choose to walk the beach with you.  I got that boyfriend, and spent a great deal of my waking hours with him.

I wonder if you smiled each time I asked you to walk the beach with me.

Even through my teen years, you made sure you were home when I got home from school.  You didn’t want me coming home to an empty house. You stopped whatever you were doing, and took time to talk.  Even then, I understood the blessing of that.

I wonder if you smiled whenever you remembered me telling you I appreciated coming home to you.

I believe early Alzheimer’s began to separate you from yourself.  I think you recognized that, and feared eventual separation from all of us.  Perhaps that’s why you began saying, “I love you.  You know that.”  You wanted to make sure your love for us was so deeply rooted that there was little risk of it getting lost somewhere in a possible future of unknowingness.  You know that.  That little phrase attached to I love you was part of who you were.  Yes, we knew that. You were kind, and good.  You loved well.

I wonder if you smiled somewhere inside when I whispered, “I love you and I like you,” in those final days when you were growing less responsive.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020