pictured words

a simple pairing of pictures and poetry

Tag: Respect

FINAL ACT OF FATHERHOOD (a sonnet filled with love for my dad)

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James F. Fagnano
January 7, 1932 – March 15, 2018

As you declined in health, we traded roles.
You, once a leader, now deferred to me.
Our switched positions jolted and left holes.
An altered beat, but how it had to be.

Your mind became confused, and body, frail.
I know you mourned your slipping stance as dad.
But in the end, your core was what prevailed –
Your father-teacher heart was ironclad.

I wanted terribly to be with you
When your heart halted beat, and breathed its last.
I told you I’d be back in “just a few.”
That short time I was gone, was when you passed.

It wasn’t happenstance. I think in fact,
It was a father’s final loving act.

© Marie Elena Good, 2018

In The Name of All That is Right

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Photo by Keith R. Good

This Land of the Free can’t agree on taking a knee.  But it’s not about the knee.  It’s about equality, and that’s the key to being free, from sea to shining sea.

See?

© Marie Elena Good 2017

#takeaknee

I Am An Aging, Living Being

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No longer vibrant
smooth
-skinned strength, framed
on the nightstand

No longer quick
-witted or
-stepped
fluid in mind
agile in stride

No longer resourceful
proficient
a step ahead
with a head in the game

At times still life,
I am life, still

I am aging

living

being.

 

© Marie Elena Good, 2017

UNITED

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I wish all had disembarked.
Teach United
the meaning of its name.

 

#seventeensyllablesfortwentyseventeen
#aprilpad

A ROSE BY ANY OTHER NAME …

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Irish roses bud and bloom
 Side-by-side in mother’s womb.
Beautifully, they grew in grace;
Elegant as Irish lace.

Happy Birthday to Mom and Aunt Peg, with love and great respect.

SONNET FOR MY DAD

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My father earned a living teaching youth.
He shared with them the music of his core.
He showed them how to honor life and truth,
And gave his time to all who graced his door.

My father is a man to emulate –
A man who holds to ethical ideals.
And even now, though years have slowed his gait,
They haven’t marred the crux of what he feels.

My father’s love is deep; allegiance strong.
His charity continues to abound.
He taught me well to judge what’s right and wrong,
To gather stars, while keeping feet aground.

And so it is I pen this gift through tears –
I thank my God for granting us these years.

© Marie Elena Good, 2012

MOTHER’S DAY

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Photo by Deanna Marie Metts

All I wanted was to give you a gift –
A pretty something you could wear
On your wrist,
Or around your neck.
Something having nothing to do
With construction paper,
scissors,
or crayons.
Something purchased with paper money
From a department store.
Something wrapped in ribbon.

Now all I want is to give you a gift –
Something having nothing to do
With purchases
With paper money.
I want to give you

Sunny smiles,
Smooth sailing,
Sweet solace.

Crayola and Me, 1958

crayons

Photo credit:  Today I Found Out

I began as Flesh,
But only because it was 1958,
And they didn’t yet understand
A white baby may have a tint
Of Raw Sienna.

No understanding that changing Indian Red
To Chestnut is not only untrue,
But negates a child’s ability to learn
That Indian Red describes a pigment native
To India,
And not the skin of a Native American,

Or for that matter, the ability to learn what it meant to be
Prussian.
Was it easier to change Prussian to Midnight,
Than to teach us the blues of history?

And sixteen new colors were added that year, and
When I turned four I was no longer Flesh,
But Peach.
Peach with still no tint,
And no understanding that Peach is not white,
And I am not white, and I am not Peach.

But colors are sharp,
And when the summer sun shines
On sixty four colors left on Grandma’s porch,
They can run together
and
Permanently
Mingle.

© Marie Elena Good

LOOKING BACK / FORWARD MARCH

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We line the street
Despite the heat;
Await the beat
Of drums.

The cadence stirs
My heart, and spurs
Excitement! Here
It comes!

The Stars and Stripes
And countless types
Of instruments
Pass by.

The pride I feel
Is deep and real
Beneath mid-
Summer’s sky.

My father’s band,
Baton in hand
Directing more
Than tunes.

His students find
He’s guided minds
And morals
Many moons.

Time marched along
So fast. So long,
Oh fleeting song
Of summer.

Now winter’s come
And slowed the drum –
But oh, I love
The drummer.

(With love and great respect for Dad … drummer, conductor, teacher, mentor,  father)

© Marie Elena Good, 2016