Photo by Alice Ochs/Michael Ochs Archives/Getty Images
Oh, Mister Silverstein, we need more of you.
Childlike rhymes (not child-like) and
Oddities you drew.
Oh, Mister Silverstein, how we need your views!
Giggling at our differences,
Poopooing the news.
Oh, Mister Silverstein, help us all to see,
Anything can happen, sir.
Anything can be.
Oh, Sister Milverstein, I am just slo bue.
Runny Babbit yisses mou
And I yiss mou, too.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
“So you write your novels, if that’s what you do,
Or scholarly texts, or cerebral world view,
While I write my lighthearted, fun-to-write rhyme,
Then do it again for the ten millionth time.” ~ Marie Elena Good, 2009
Now sometimes I write some political stuff –
Some downers and bummers, and, oddly enough,
It isn’t dependent on what’s in the news,
Nor spotting and schmoozing with some obscure muse.
What moved me back then and still moves me today
Is the awe of my God – and to this end I pray:
That whatever I write, be it witty or grim,
It will honor my God, and point others to Him.
© Marie Elena Good, 2019
Written in response to the Motivation prompt at Poetic Bloomings: Write a poem about what moves you to write.
Does Lannet rhyme with planet, or away?
Okay, please chime in any time now … hear?
‘Cause dear, my word buffet is spilling crud,
And bloody well could ruin my Lan-NEIGH.
(See, LAN-net would not work as well up there,
For its wrong stress would smirk at me for life,
And I’d be rife with strife forevermore!)
Oh LAN-net, don’t you see what you have done?
You’ve ruined all my Sonnet end-rhyme f … joy!
(Hooboy, I almost blew it on that line,
benign though that faux pas would surely be.)
A Sonnet-wannabe, is this Lan-NEIGH!
Its WAY confusing diction drives me nuts.
To write with these restrictions took some g … nerve!
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
Photo by Keith R. Good
When poets sigh, they sigh for love –
In awe of fragrant fruit thereof.
To spill the heart from breast to page
Release it from its living cage –
Free fragrant ache to fill the soul, and reach the sky,
And my-oh-my, breathe in love’s scent, when poets sigh.
And how I dream our words would fill
Our world with peace. With love. Goodwill.
And I believe that words can heal
And so I’ll write, and speak. Appeal
To peacemakers whose soothing words are as a stream
In moonlit gleam. It’s how I pray, and how I dream.
When poets write, they seek within
To find the space where dreams begin
Where love writes sighs, and peace prevails
Where words can heal, and goodwill sails
To span the breadth of all that’s true, and there alight.
We’ll dream the love, and love the dream, when poets write.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
Photo by Marie Elena Good
Spirit bestows it –
Worship swells from the Wellspring.
Oh my soul, take part!
Would that this poet
rise up and sing like the king
after God’s own heart!
© Marie Elena Good
They say a picture paints a thousand words.
The pairing of the two gives me delight.
And if a picture paints a thousand words,
Then picture this: a picture painted write.
The pairing of the two gives me delight –
A complement of image with my words –
Appealing to my mind, and to my sight.
Perhaps a picture paints a thousand words
But here is what I try hard to pursue:
I strive to bat a thousand, with a few.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
This morning at Poetic Bloomings, Walt Wojtanick prompted us to write about our own blog.
Photo credit: Pixabay
The garden gate parts,
releasing sweet aroma
of former florae.
She softly steps in,
breathing the beauty that binds
virtuous voices.
The presence of peace
silences the restlessness
grinding at the gate.
Now bejeweled with joy,
renewing friends and florae,
she picks up her pen.
© Marie Elena Good, 2018
Response to Poetic Bloomings Prompt #209
Image credit: Pixabay
She and a friend she’d never seen
used to tend a garden – serene
and seemingly ceaseless.
Meandering beauty gleaned
from home, and continents afar –
grand cognizance of sand to star,
and all that lay between.
There came a time, what needed tending
sadly meant the swift suspending
of this space the tenders prized –
teemed with blooms that mesmerized.
Sorrow burrowed ‘neath the furrowed fields.
Gone, fresh blossoms. No new yields.
Seasons rose, and seasons fell.
A new day dawned and she, compelled
by want and bond, returned to see
once-planted seeds still bloom, carefree.
Her heart looked east, and there he was,
with tools and seeds and garden gloves.
He glanced, and flashed that knowing grin,
tendered a spade, and said, “Let’s dig in!”
And they both saw that it was fate,
as they unlatched the garden gate.
© Marie Elena Good
More details: https://poeticbloomings2.wordpress.com/2018/07/31/the-return-of-bloomings/
Photo by Keith R. Good
The very word is musical, to me.
Her soft iambic pentameter, calm.
Her rise and fall, a wave of soothing sea.
A therapy. A troubled spirit’s balm.
The sonnet seems to whisper, not to shriek.
No heart has she for bias or outrage.
Her soul is surely humble, yielding, meek.
A lady, moving gracefully through age.
When strolling wood, I hear her hollowed call.
While contemplating God, she sometimes sighs.
Perceptible in mid-west farmland’s sprawl.
She’s many means to draw and mesmerize.
Each time she calls, I gladly sit with her.
I stroke each word, and listen for her purr.
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
Photo by Keith R. Good
words crack open
some willingly
spilling
some win-
some
some wince-
some
some pester
and fester
some swoon
in moonlit sky
and wonder
why
she’s deaf
to their cry
© Marie Elena Good, 2017
pictured words 