pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

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“Mary” (Entry from the journal of Mary of Magdala)

 

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This morning
This mourning broke me.
Reality pierced my soul,
Left a gaping hole, with fears
No tears can fill.

This morning
His eyes haunted me,
As I already strained to recall
The implausible love I saw in them
Before the cross.

This morning
I longed to once again see myself –
Me as he saw me –
The me he presented to others –
Instead of the wretch I see in me.

This morning,
In darkness of mood and day,
I made my way to his tomb.
My heart and breath halted
As my eyes assaulted my senses.

This morning
He was gone.
I was even robbed of his lifeless body?
The cruelty of this was agonizing
And my wounds grew deeper still.

This morning
I wept harder and longer and deeper
Than I ever have before –
Not even at the cross, for I was too traumatized
For tears.

This morning
I saw men?  Angels?  Someone – something – angels
At the head and foot where he had lain.
They asked me why I was weeping.
How could I explain such pain?

This morning
I turned and saw a man – the gardener?
He asked me the same question the angels had.
“Woman, why are you weeping?”
Once my closed throat allowed me to speak,
I begged of him, “PLEASE sir, where have you put him?”

“Mary.”

Rabboni!

This morning
Mourning broke.
Light rose from darkness,
Spoke my name,
And I will never be the same.

 

 

©Marie Elena Good

Gospel of John, Chapter 20

Photo credit:  Shutterstock.com

INVENTION’S FOE (a Sonnetina Tre)

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Photo credit: shutterstock.com

 

What right have I to claim a poet’s heart?
What write have I inside this heart I feign?
What depth of wisdom have I to impart,
Or story that’s not dreary, nor inane?

Perfectionism is invention’s foe:
Methodically it stalls, then stops me cold.
I want to breathe and let the words just flow –
Exhale a poem exquisite to behold.

My only hope to fight perfection’s sway?
Curl up in something soft at end of day.

 

© Marie Elena Good, 2016