Woodland
A forest of hardwood and pine
whispers calm to my soul
as we stroll its quiet path of leaves
and fine needles
with the occasional call
of small birds,
conversation of crows,
or tune composed of
breeze strumming the trees
to the rhythm of woodpecker’s tap,
even as our own whispers overlap
woodland’s song —
one I wish to carry lifelong.
© Marie Elena Good 2025
Photos by Keith R. Good, who attracts and cares for our birds
IF YOU FEED THEM, THEY WILL COME
Aging comes with what seems almost an expectation: Bird beguilement. But my own love of birds began in junior high on Audubon Lane, where pheasants favored our backyard. And though those days have long passed, I can still enjoy the crimson male cardinal singing to his autumn-color lifelong partner. Our bluejays, if not for being common, would be coveted. I’m captivated by the bold ladderback and bright red splash on the red belly woodpecker. The soft sorrowing song of mourning doves does not sadden me in the least. It makes me smile. I giggle at the quirky little honk of the nuthatch as he darts up and down our trees. I find the cheerful little black-capped chickadee entirely enchanting. Goldfinches, bright as lemons, titter as they sail the air as though on waves. When we hear the intricate trill of tiny wrens, we know spring has entered. Orange orioles take our breath away with their arrival. And, of course, the minute emerald body and ruby throat of the hummer is electrifying. These and countless more captivate and delight us. They make our home, home.
Doing what we can
to attract the vocalists
that color our yard.
© Marie Elena Good, 2025
Spring Blooms photo credit Keith R. Good
Preferences
I prefer water
falling, or babbling in brooks,
to crashing on shore.
I prefer my sun
filtered through dense forest pines.
The air I breathe, chilled.
I prefer trees dressed
in fall leaf, winter white, and
spring pastel blossom.
I prefer my sweets
whisper, never scream. Infer.
Teach my buds to taste.
I prefer poems
short. Simple. Unpretentious.
Teeming with meaning.
I prefer poem
to novel. Rain song to rap.
Bird song for play list.
I prefer my eyes
open to seeing the good.
Closed to finding fault.
I prefer voices
softly smoothing sharp judgements
and callous replies.
I prefer humble
to haughty. Natural to
embellished. Modest.
I prefer cozy
to large. Simple to stately.
Relaxed, and restful.
I prefer colors
sparsely vibrant, interspersed
in tranquil setting.
I prefer dancing
leaf shadows on my walls to
swanky wallpaper.
I prefer shadows
(sometimes) to that which casts them.
(Art of creation)
I prefer my love’s
letters on small sticky notes
to grand sky writing.
I prefer my home
and my husband to any
-where, and anyone.
I prefer bridges
to walls. Pathways to highways.
Left ajar to locked.
I prefer the truth
even when you think I won’t.
Even when it hurts.
I prefer Jesus,
gentle and lowly. King. Christ.
Forgiver of sins.
I prefer my God’s
still small voice that compels me
to be still, myself.
(c) Marie Elena Good, 2024
I wrote three of these seventeens previously
Photo by Keith R. Good
darkness fell swiftly
air cooled notably
birds fell silent
awe remains
© Marie Elena Good, 2024
#seventeenintwentyfour
“The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.” ~ Psalm 19:1
Photo by Keith R. Good
You may not have guessed, but I can attest that the Midwest is blessed. And might I suggest your quest be to test if I jest in what I’ve expressed, lest your life be suppressed and you end up depressed for your lack of Midwest nest. I’m from the Midwest, and sincerely request that you come be my guest.
And yes, I’m obsessed.
© Marie Elena Good, 2024
Rose Lake Photo credit: Keith R. Good, 2014
Who came to decide
the precise color of sky –
which blue hue, and why?
For the ocean’s sky
on a sunny day, may be
pegged as Robin’s Egg,
while she that adorns
a brisk Erie autumn morn
is a deep, cold blue –
the loveliest hue.
And I’ve clamed her and named her
my October Sky.
© Marie Elena Good, 2022
Smacks of death, say some.
But I smell Mom’s pies. Hear Dad’s
marching band pre-games.
Feel crisp air against
my sometimes still-a-bit-tanned-
from-summertime skin.
Marvel at the sky’s
puffy white and charcoal clouds
in deep blue setting.
Relish the jewel-tones
gradually gracing trees,
begging wonderment.
Enjoy leaves crunching
beneath the tires of my bike,
or cute-boot-dressed feet.
Experience leaves
raked in a pile over my
head, then jumping in.
Savor the taste of
a hardy stew with biscuits,
or bowl of chili.
Memories bring smiles,
like the Robbins Avenue
Pizza (a rare treat),
enjoyed on our porch
after walking home from a
nighttime football game.
Smacks of death, say some.
But my senses are filled with
what I’ve fallen for.
© Marie Elena Good, 2022
She sits in silence, listening for God to speak. But she hears no one. She sits in darkness, watching for God’s appearance. But she sees nothing. She grasps at the air, trying to feel God’s presence. But she feels nothing. She raises her voice. “Abba! Father! Where are You?” He, soundlessly, speaks. She closes her eyes, absorbing His attention, knowing who He is. Her heart hears His voice in both silence and sound. He gives her ears to hear. She opens her eyes sees Him everywhere, in all He created. The air wraps her up, blankets her in His shelter, fills her lungs with Him. She knows she is His. She sees and hears and feels Him. She knows what she knows. © Marie Elena Good, 2022
Part 1. LEGATO Since love and laughter sang the notes to her childhood, she tuned in to life. She felt melodic, harmonious, and ready to embrace her song. Part 2. ARPEGGIO A child bride’s ballad, meant to mirror her childhood, ends in broken chords. A sharp turn taken, her imposed solo becomes a balanced duet as her new partner discards the shards, and the two play in consonance. Her children (her heart), born improvisers, still long to dance their own dance. Part 3. CODA Moons rose and set. Her parents grew sickly; her song became elegy. Still, her partner hums his strength, and her Composer breathes psalms in her lungs. © Marie Elena Good, 2022
My place atop the Christmas tree
may seem a lofty place for me,
but humbly, I point down below
through greenery and lights aglow
to manger scene that holds the Christ
who paid the price in sacrifice
for every woman, man, and child –
this perfect Lamb – this undefiled
Rescuer, Redeemer, God
I represent, and richly laud.
© Marie Elena Good, 2021
Written in response to Walt Wojtanik’s prompt at Poetic Bloomings to write about Christmas from the point of view of an inanimate object. If you look closely, you can see the cross that tops my Christmas tree.
pictured words 