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
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
A poet and his princess
In April of 2009,
I shyly met poets online.
But there was one who
would help me break through.
I call him my partner in rhyme.
© Marie Elena Good, 2020
I’m thankful for this man I’ve known for 10 years, but have yet to meet. Without his encouragement, I would never have referred to myself as a “poet.” I’m not the best poet, and never will be, but I am a poet nonetheless. Thank you, Walt. Thank you.
P.S. This little gal looks like she could brighten the darkest of days! ❤
It is no small thing
to call yourself a poet.
Thanks to you, I do.
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
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 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
Words strung
Flung prettily
Wittily, woefully
Notably touching
Clutching passion
Fashioning splendor
Rendering reader
Bleeder
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
pictured words 