They crack poetry books while Easter bread rises to the occasion.
@ Marie Elena Good 2026
Written for Robert Lee Brewer’s April Poem-a-Day challenge. Today’s prompt is to write an open poem.
Allen Ginsberg created the poetic form he called the American Sentence. It is a complete sentence of 17 syllables.
He created all that we are,
and are not aware of.
And so that we might “know,”
he created all things in opposite,
and extremes.
He created joy.
The unbounded joy in everything that is good and beautiful.
And sorrow.
The unending sorrow of man’s inhumanity to man.
He created heat
So searing, it turns all it touches into itself.
And cold
So penetrating, it can suspend the very essence of life.
He created the winds
With power enough to destroy anything man erects.
And calm
So still, even the spider’s web is unmoved.
He created love
So full and without reservation, that he gave us his son.
And hate
So destructive, it renders us incapable of love and joy.
And he created you.
You are joy.
The joy that brought balance to the sorrows of life.
You are love.
The love that reproduced itself in two beautiful children.
You are warmth.
The warmth in a world that often seems cold and uncaring.
You have been like a cool breeze,
blowing gently through my life.
And like God,
Who created all things,
I, too, will love you
Forever.
© James F. Fagnano
(Dad wrote this for Mom, for her 60th birthday.)
During intensely busy seasons in life, sudden slight ailments can present a crucial stillness … moments to consider that which goes unnoticed in life’s rush. My ears receive the sound of soft breeze outside my window. Birdsong becomes a symphony, which draws my eyes outdoors. My soul soars to blues in high places. Sparrows in the bird bath splash, relishing refreshing spray. Serenity ensues as my spirit sings praise to my God. Suddenly, I sense words slipping from my mind’s recesses, and I must shape and preserve them before they are lost. So satisfying, this necessitated pause that allows time to stop elusive words from slipping from tenuous grasp.
It isn’t illness
if the stillness that ensues
is life sustaining.
© Marie Elena Good, 2023
WD November Chapbook Challenge. Day 1. Write a beginning poem, or an ending poem
“Asking for a friend”
Dear fellow persons,
When did handwritten letters
become an art form?
Birthday greetings change
from carefully picked cards, to
instant facebook posts?
Did spelling our words
become an imposition
on us? idk.
When did we mutate
from people people, to mere
convenience junkies?
Have we managed to
make effortlessness a god
of our own doing?
A god that will bring
us to our knees when we see
it filched our intents
made us its robots
robbed us of our humanness
made us drop our
love.
© Marie Elena Good, 2022
I’m itchin’ to upgrade, and pitchin’ a fit. For now, I’m afraid, I have zilch to submit. While someone is flippin’ through pages of verse, I want my name there before I’m in a hearse. It’s paltry and petty, this dream I’ve unfurled. But? Improvin’ at versin’ can’t worsen the world. © Marie Elena Good, 2022
With suitcase in hand as she leaves, the thought of it drives her to heaves. Oh what joy it might bring but it isn’t her thing, so she now leaves it up to Rick Steves. © Marie Elena Good, 2021 (Would love to know who to credit for this image.)
Photo by Stephen Niemeier on Pexels.com
Some folks enjoy rhyming:
embedded in scheme,
delighted in priming
delectable scene
exact in its timing –
tight; metrically clean.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
Photo by Paul Bates (Pixabay)
You sang creation
into being. You “sang” me.
Lord, teach me my song.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
I will not write Sestinas, sir.
It’s not the form that I prefer.
See, when I try, my brain won’t purr.
It spits and chokes. My mind’s a blur.
I will not write for him, or her.
I will not write Sestinas, sir.
And you’d be right if you infer
I will not write Sestinas, sir.
To navigate me through, for sure
I’d have to have a good chauffer.
Or wine or beer or hard liquor.
But I don’t drink, so then I’d slur.
I will not write Sestinas, sir.
To your insistence, I demur.
My mind is striking, as it were.
I’m not a poetry poseur.
To Walt Wojtanik, I’ll defer –
Our chief Sestina Whisperer.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
It wasn’t a twister,
but a whirlwind of words
that whisked me away,
introduced my would-be Dorothy
to this would-be Scarecrow
who blows me away
with his way with words,
as very few can.
Our story began across a lake
and make no mistake,
he’s my partner in rhyme.
He believes he’s no longer
in his prime,
but I’ll tell you this (and you’d agree)
that his prolific poetry
has no specific begin and end time.
And moreover, he’ll turnover
every tune or turn of phrase
to raise the bar.
He’s the pace car.
And he will always be
the poetry man,
to me.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
pictured words 