pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: Longing


Photo by Jayant Kulkarni on Pexels.com

Never Have I Ever
is a party game, where one says,
“Never have I ever ___.”
(fill in the blank)
Those who have actually done that thing
lose a point.
Out of points?  Out of game.

I’ll go first.
Never have I ever
seen early-voting lines,
let alone those that extend for blocks,
for days. 

Now, how many of you are still in the game?

Truth is,
it’s not a game.
The stakes are high.
The views, dissimilar.

What do you see in the distance?
A kinder country?
Loss of freedoms?

Don’t answer that.  Because,
you know,
never have I ever
witnessed a greater loss
of kindness and respect
in discussions. 

But, there is a vanishing point
where the look-back perspectives align.
Then we will see, and smile
at the vanity of it all.

In the greater distance, I see
celestial shores.
No lines needed.
We will know for the first time
what it actually feels like to be united.
To have no doubts in our King’s
kindness, love, and justice.
We will know for the first time
what it actually feels like
to be equal children
of the Living God.
To be home. 

Never have I ever
longed more deeply
for a non-foreign Shore.

© Marie Elena Good, 2020




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



One year ago, today,
we unexpectedly secured
a one-bedroom apartment for Dad,
and moved him into it.
It was just down the hall from Mom and Dad’s place,
where Mom had passed in the wee hours prior.

A back-and-forth blur
of family
wood carvings and wood-carving tools
kitchen supplies
and love,

until one space was empty,
and the other, full
of sunlight and life
that dared each other

Food followed.
A feast, really,
provided by cousins.
All of us squeezed
‘round a long table
with Dad at one end,
and Mom’s brother and her identical twin
at the other,
between which
more conversation and laughter managed to flow
than tears.

Who could have known
a mere thirty five days later,
the one-bedroom’s sunlight would be called to shine

© Marie Elena Good, 2019



I live among the oak, and pine.
The locust.  The buckeye.
The sugar and silver maples.
Home is dappled sunlight.

In nearby fields, green corn and soy,
orange pumpkins, or golden wheat
contrast against intense-blue sky.

No wonder why the man I love
longs to return to farming the land,
missing the “big toys” he used to enjoy.
The open fields that call his name,
and leave space for breath and prayer.

©  Marie Elena Good, 2018



Patricia A. Fagnano:  March 16, 1931 – February 9, 2018


You walk into a room full of people and you ask

who has the best mother

and you can’t see faces in the crowd

for all the raised hands

but mine isn’t raised


it is grasping for Mom’s.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018



Photo credit:  Everett Collection


I wanted

I needed

I begged

I pleaded

I coveted

I must

I craved

I lust

I hungered

I yearned

I hankered

I burned

I pined

I panted

I thirst

I ranted

I longed

I itched

For what I pitched.

© Marie Elena Good, 2009



I long for a world
Not riddled with sin
Where the earth is kind,
And the people therein.

(c) Marie Elena Good, 2009



PHOTO COURTESY OF LOVABLE IMAGES (lovableimages.blogspot.com)

My lover asks me:
“What is the difference between me and the sky?”
The difference, my love,
is that when you laugh,
I forget about the sky

I sigh.
Forever I’ll yearn to compose,
In verse or prose, for you  my love, and affirmation thereof.
‘til then, let’s kiss
And pretend I penned this.

© Marie Elena Good

* “My Lover Asks Me”  By Nizar Qabbani




Not all little lambs breathe earth’s air,
finger blanket’s silk,
rock-a-bye with Grandma,
hold Daddy’s hand,
sleep with a sibling,
laugh with their poppa,
or lay against Momma’s breast.
They never know sadness or hunger,
failure or pain,
the loss of a loved one,
or fear of the dark.
Some breathe Heaven’s sweet scent, and nap
in the arms of the Lamb of God

Marie Elena Good, 2012

I can’t say I understand the hows and whys of a new and deeply wanted heart that was suddenly halted late Christmas night, 2012.  But this I know — God knows the baby’s name, and its life is in His hands.

Someday we’ll hold you, precious little grandbaby.  Your mommy and daddy miss you every day.

UPDATE:  Today (five years later), this little lamb was given a gift.  His momma wanted him cremated and placed in an urn to keep forever.  However, since he was too young to be considered a “person” and given a certificate of death, there seemed to be nothing that could be done.  But there are kind, caring people in the world.  The director of an area funeral home not only found a way to do it, but they will do a service and provide an urn completely free of cost.

Today, this little lamb was given a name:  Noah Ezekial.  Though he was too young to be sure of the sex, his momma chose this name for its meaning:
Comfort and Rest, and God Strengthens.

My heart is full.