“Let’s rhyme,” he says, and so I do
of summer fairs and barbeque,
with marching-band parades uptown,
and small-town smiles all around.
The carny folk that drew you in
with big stuffed prizes you could win,
but off you’d go with some cheap toy
you’d carry home, but not enjoy.
Yet nonetheless, you’ll reminisce,
and I will guarantee you this:
That you will wish you were still there:
that child at the summer fair.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
Dad was a teacher, a band director, and a professional musician. In all of these professions, he was my father. I was always learning in his presence. He gave everything one hundred percent. I hear, in his voice: “Nothing great was ever accomplished without enthusiasm.” “Take it with you. If you need it, you’ll have it.” “Do your best.” “Practice right.” “Never look back. Just move forward.” “No regrets.” “Love is the most important thing.”
All of it, important. All of it, useful. All of it, wise.
There were times I was privileged to witness him at his core. Times that planted pride and love in my heart that I can hardly express. One of the things that made my knees weak came very late in life. I was sitting with a now extremely fragile man who was watching the love of his life slip slowly away, due to Alzheimer’s. “I’m not sure how to handle the coming day when I go to her room to kiss her goodnight, and she doesn’t know who I am.” My heart. The conversation was one of the hardest of my life. But also one that showed me he was still, in his elderly and fragile state, my father. As we talked about dark days ahead that could begin any moment, he gave me advice that encompassed all he was: “No matter what happens, remember her love.”
Love enthusiastically.
Love takes practice. Practice daily.
Take love with you. If you need it, you’ll have it.
(You’ll need it.)
Thank you, Dad. Thank you.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
American English is clearly a rebel,
against which I must rebel!
And while we’re on the subject,
why do we subject ourselves
to such madness as homographs?
Just for laughs?
And who invented them?
(Eye roll) What a gem!
Well, I think not.
And through all this thorough thought,
I’m fraught with not knowing
Who thought up homophones.
Dim watt!
And silent letters, and
those that change the sounds of others, too.
I have no clue. Do you?
Shrew!
And rules? Hardly more than flukes!
Like the whole “i before e” thing,
albeit cutely rhyming,
is the height of forfeiting
the rule books.
Kooks!
Now let’s talk contranyms.
For instance, weather means to withstand,
but also to wear away?
Well may I just say
only a contrary soul would assign
opposing meanings to the same word.
Turd.
I could go on, but you would just yawn,
and the point would be forgone.
So for now, just know
English brings me woe.
Whoa …
It’s plain to see why. *sigh*
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
Found photo at blog of James Wallace Harris
When I was just a little girl,
I’d whimper in my room.
I’d plug my ears, hold back the tears,
And fight the dread of doom.
With covers pulled up to my eyes,
I’d suffocate my scream.
What once-a-week would make me freak?
The Perry Mason theme!
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
I WAS SUCH A WIMP! Still am. 😉
nos·tal·gia /näˈstaljə,nəˈstaljə/ – noun.
A sentimental longing or wistful affection for the past, typically for a period or place with happy personal associations.
I’d say that everyone looks back on their childhood fondly.
But the unfortunate truth is that is unfortunately untrue,
and that unfortunate truth means I was truly fortunate.
In spite of that wording being almost comically convoluted,
it is written through tears of genuine gratitude.
My parents were simple and loving.
They infused me with a love for simple things.
Perhaps it was the times. Just the way life was.
But I don’t think so.
I think if they were to start over,
this time would be no different.
Family would still be priority.
There would still be no such thing as coming home
to an empty house.
Music would still fill the soul.
All my love, and love me always would still grace every note
in every house we call home.
I love you. You know that.
Yes Mom. I do know that. You lived it every day,
even when Alzheimer’s threatened to erase us
like chalk on a board,
leaving only ghostly swipes.
Longing to return to childhood
for one more day. One more hug.
One more chance to watch Mighty Mouse
T-boned on the floor with Dad,
my head using his tummy as a pillow.
One more turn to curl up in Mom’s lap,
rocked in the very chair that now sits across from me
as I write this poem, longing to hear her voice.
“I love you. You know that.”
© Marie Elena, 2019
Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. I miss your beautiful face and gentle love.
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
furniture
clothes
drums
wood carvings and wood-carving tools
kitchen supplies
medications
wheelchairs
walkers
jazz,
and love,
until one space was empty,
and the other, full
of sunlight and life
that dared each other
shine.
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
alone.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
They began, young.
Lovely and in love
Healthy and hopeful
Playful and promising
To have and to hold
From this day
Forward, fast
Furiously fading
As Alzheimer’s attempts
To dilute and damage
Life and love
Strongly seduced.
Still,
Promise prevailed.
“All my love, and love me always”
In illness and health,
Held by God’s hands
And the cord of three strands,
Stands
Against all
Ashes to ashes
Forever co-mingled
In the perpetual presence
Of the One who,
Singly, and synchronously,
Breathed life
And an always love.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
“And if someone overpowers one person, two can resist him. A cord of three strands is not easily broken.” ~ Ecclesiastes 4:12
Forever my love to Mom and Dad, now eternally at rest, in the presence of the One.
Photo by Keith R. Good
“Hearing is Not the Same as Listening” ~ Sarah Elizabeth (my young, wise, single-mom cousin)
Grunts, yelps, shrieks,
laughs, and cries
are Kenzie’s only tools of communication.
But this morning was different.
This morning, as Sarah readied the children for school,
the pattern of Kenzies “noise” sounded suddenly familiar.
All preparations halted, as Sarah began to sing
lines from a Veggie Tales movie.
Kenzie made eye contact.
EYE CONTACT.
Then Sarah and Kenzie began alternating lines.
No one has heard Kenzie utter a word in years.
Yet all this time she has been singing, unnoticed.
And now Sarah will sing with Kenzie
a hundred times in an hour
if that’s what she wants.
In the cacophony of life,
listen
and hear
cadence,
harmony,
and even dissonance.
For sometimes a solo
hungers for harmony.
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
Photo by Keith R. Good
pictured words 