pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: Mom

HANDS I USED TO HOLD

Mom and me

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

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

COMFORT FOODS

Easter Ham Pie. Mom

It’s Mom’s recipes –
stained, and written in her hand –
that nourish my heart.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019

MOM (a tribute)

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I.
You told me of the love in my eyes for you
when you first held me in your arms
the day I was born.
Is it any wonder.
I knew you, and had already experienced
the gentle warmth that was you.

II.
All my friends thought me the luckiest girl
to be able to call you mom,
even though you didn’t tolerate misbehavior
or disrespect. They saw the love right through
the discipline.  I tried to emulate you,
but it seems that isn’t the same as
it being a part of who you are.

III.
I saw how the mention of you
brought warm smiles.
Your gentle demeanor,
laughter, and love
were contagious.

IV.
I understand being an introvert,
and I ponder with amazement
how you dealt with that part of you.
You could have written a “how to,”
I believe. I understand more and more
the sacrifices you made.
The way you encouraged others,
and always had a kind word to offer.
The way you treated everyone
with the same level of respect.
Fiercely loyal to those you were closest to,
in ways that had to have been draining.
But we didn’t see that you were drained.
You would simply go “rest [your] back
for a few minutes,” or “rest [your] eyes.”

V.
You were my moral compass,
and still are.  I feel your nudges.
I hear your gentle voice. I pray
I inherited more of you
than I see in myself.
From womb to death,
and now beyond,
I thank God for the blessing
of you.

© Marie Elena Good, 2019

CEASELESSLY CLOSE (in Cyrch A Chwta form)

An Echo Azure Butterfly (Celastrina echo) on Forget-me-not Flowers

Photo from http://www.flowermeaning.com/forget-me-not-flower-meaning/

Seldom did we disagree –
So alike, my mom and me.
Selflessly devoted, she.
I’ve been told  I came to be
Through her plea on bended knee.
No one taught me to foresee
That she wouldn’t seem deceased,
Once tomorrows ceased to be.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018

MOM

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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

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME …

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Irish roses bud and bloom
 Side-by-side in mother’s womb.
Beautifully, they grew in grace;
Elegant as Irish lace.

Happy Birthday to Mom and Aunt Peg, with love and great respect.

MOTHER’S DAY

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Photo by Deanna Marie Metts

All I wanted was to give you a gift –
A pretty something you could wear
On your wrist,
Or around your neck.
Something having nothing to do
With construction paper,
scissors,
or crayons.
Something purchased with paper money
From a department store.
Something wrapped in ribbon.

Now all I want is to give you a gift –
Something having nothing to do
With purchases
With paper money.
I want to give you

Sunny smiles,
Smooth sailing,
Sweet solace.

NIGHT SMILES, NILES OHIO

Sunny day of summer play with friends
Ends.

Night falls.
Streetlights call me home.
Bathed and pj’d,
Porch swing lulls, but cannot dull
The day’s fun,
Spun of love.

Mom smiles;
Files away another day.
We pray and say goodnight.
Sleep tight.
Sweet dreams.

Even the moon beams.

 

© Marie Elena Good 2016

 

 

It happened every time