A life that’s wanted is a life that’s life.
Unwanted life? Disposable tissue.
So at what point does life become a life?
Unplanned or planned – too often the issue.
The silent scream of babies ripped apart
Is deafening to me – I can’t be still
And not express what grieves my beating heart
While theirs are halted at another’s will.
What right have we to turn a woman’s womb
Into an unplanned baby’s living tomb?
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
Photo credit: Wikimedia
“And why worry about a speck in your friend’s eye when you have a log in your own?” ~ Mat. 7:3
Another checkmark in our verdicts’ log –
Our record of the judgements we decree.
We haughtily embrace the demagogue
Whose words lynch those with whom we disagree.
Rose-colored glasses will not help our plight –
We need to clearly see our world “as is.”
God’s eyes spill love despite His perfect sight.
Oh, may He help us eye our world through His.
So quick to judge. To loathe. To vilify.
So blinded by the log in our own eye.
© Marie Elena Good, 2016
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
When depth of pain has plunged to ocean’s floor,
And memories seem to marinate in tears;
When anguish tries to overtake your core;
When every conscious thought confirms your fears,
I stand in awe of what I see in you –
Your joy in Christ still manages to shine
Despite the flames of hell you’re walking through –
The fruit of lives abiding in the Vine.
Our Father fully comprehends your loss –
Your son now lives, because His bore the cross.
As I absorb the beauty of the earth –
The vast array of color, feel, and taste
My senses quicken as I deem its worth
I pause to grasp this gift with which we’re graced.
What love has our Creator, that He chose
To lavish us with splendor, needlessly?
This symphony of love that He composed
Delights and serenades unceasingly.
Magnificence displayed in all there is.
The palette, infinite – the pleasure, His.
pictured words 