Home
Is
The state
Of my heart:
Heart-shaped Ohio.
“Ohio, The Heart of It All,”
Is more than its slogan, to me. It’s a certainty
Born of dappled sunlight, porch swing swishes, marching bands, sure love, and lingering laughter.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
(Bummer. My final line, written in 21 syllables, breaks up on site.)
I loved gardening
beneath sun and deep blue sky
in sensible shoes.
I loved Keith as he
painted old cheap plastic pots
‘seventies Corvettes.
I loved filling them
with flamboyant petunias,
modest marigolds.
I loved settling in,
sipping black coffee, watching
red robins rummage.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
I love, “I love you,”
daily coming from your voice –
confirmed in your eyes.
I love, “I love you,”
emitting from hand-drawn hearts
on scraps of paper.
I love, “I love you,”
proved in daily selfless acts,
both little and vast.
I love, “I love you.”
But I treasure the daily
non-verbal “I do.”
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
Happy Anniversary, Keith. 30 years of daily thankfulness for the gift of you.
In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April PAD Challenge: Day 20 – Writer’s Digest (Day 20: Write a love and/or anti-love poem.)
We walk around the park’s pond,
eyeing mallards and geese,
clear blue skies.
Tree blossoms of white, pink, and purple
dapple sunlight on the greening grass
and manmade path at our feet.
Lilacs scent the breeze,
as does the pleasing sound of
improving English
from my brave and delightful friend.
She speaks of her sweet/smart girls,
(the youngest of which, with her large dark eyes and
dark golden curls, holds tight her momma’s hand,
and her little bag of chips),
Syrian war,
and lost and scattered family.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
In response to Robert Lee Brewer’s 2021 April PAD Challenge: Day 14 – Writer’s Digest (Day 14: Write a “from where you’re sitting” poem.)
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
My love for you is deep,
yet my words steep in
tepid water.
No flavor; nothing to savor.
They begin, but fade,
delayed by … what?
A depth I can’t reach,
though I beseech them.
A well with no bucket.
A spell I can’t cast.
My tone, a droning bore.
I wish my words would
soar
surprise
rise
revel
to the level of love.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
It’s time to unveil
a new year. Inhale fresh air,
and care for what’s there.
Let my voice take wing
to sing in the key of peace.
May mercy increase
where now there are chains.
Where cold-heartedness remains,
may warmth fill my veins.
Let love with no caps
gush compassion, not rationed
in morsels or scraps.
Make me teachable
and easily reachable
when You wish to speak.
Please help me seek You.
In new ways through this new year,
help me feel You near.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
I grasped Mom’s finger –
stared into her loving eyes –
my first breath of air.
As a child, always
held her hand to cross the street
and for bedtime prayer.
Sometimes as a teen
I would grasp her hand as we
walked on Naples’ beach.
Elderly, and soon
to pass, she gripped my hands as
though to save herself
as sensation of
falling overtook her, and
she needed grounding.
An honor to hold
dying hands of one who held
my hands in her womb.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Chapter 1. Rain.
The day I was born,
it rained hard on my sister …
submerging her soul.
Chapter 2. Wombs.
Her first pregnancy’s
uniqueness dimmed, when I found
myself pregnant, too.
Pregnant together
again. A son for me. A
tragic loss for her.
Simultaneous
third pregnancies perhaps seemed
a cruel joke, to her.
Chapter 3. Lost and Found.
In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a common heartache.
In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
shared grief is shared love.
In thirty-five days,
we lost Mom and Dad, and found
a needed sister.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Sow seeds of love –
for their blooms
are beautiful,
and guaranteed
to reseed.
© Marie Elena Good, 2010
