Poems

Crumbs

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments

Some say the purest death
is to be ravaged alive
by beasts —
a final communion with creation
and instinct.
I could give myself to the lions
as red men gave their flesh
with joy to birds of prey, a feast
laid high on offering altars of pine,
their bodies rising
bite by bite to fill
the mouth and longing arms
of god.
And if I should die on African soil
at the pawing of tigers or men,
I pray the ants will piggyback my
sun-pressed crumbs across each undulation
of the ancient and bare breasted earth
and leave me soul to soil,
to nurse the hungry wild
and mingle with the stars.

© Pam Goode, 1995
Adapted, 2025

NOTE: Artist, Writer, Wanderer, Introvert, Philosophical Rambler, Teacher, Worldwide Art Retreat Leader at wildhairadventures.com with LauraMcRaeHitchcock.com and pamgoodewrites.com

Holding Firm

/ Pam Goode / 8 Comments

I saw a house in England —
stones enjoined by mortar
braided into artistry
like kings and queens,

and made my way to study her —
to touch and ape this gorgeousness up close
and OH!

I saw not braids nor fancy icing cake —
designs made plush for those
with fancy fortunes to expend,

but saw instead a simple cache
of rounded river stones, quite niblet-sized —
embedded piece by piece
and skin to skin.

and laughed to see a castle built
so much like me —

pebble by pebble,
and holding firm.

Pam Goode

Crumbs

/ Pam Goode / 2 Comments

Some say the purest death
is to be ravaged alive
by beasts —
a final communion with creation
and instinct.
I could give myself to the lions
as red men gave their flesh
with joy to birds of prey, a feast
laid high on offering altars of pine,
their bodies rising
bite by bite to fill
the mouth and longing arms
of god.
And if I should die on African soil
at the pawing of tigers or men,
I pray the ants will piggyback my
sun-pressed crumbs across each undulation
of the ancient and bare breasted earth
and leave me soul to soil,
to nurse the hungry wild
and mingle with the stars.

© Pam Goode, 1995
Adapted 2024

Steam

/ Pam Goode / 7 Comments

The summer is losing its steam,
and you begin to warm
and grow large in me
again.

Just today
I passed too silently
behind you,
and your body grew in greeting leaps
both left and right
until I doubted I could make
my way beyond
without a full submission
to your hands —
so present, and so full
of opportunities
to touch,

Your body
a forgiving bank
of second chances,

And I wanted my
hands
to have them all

in fingers full.

© Pamela Goode

i

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments

i cough.

and breathe and

cough

again

and wash

and walk and

run

and run and run and

run …

and still you stick

in me.

© Pam Goode

Beach Poetry

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

Some days the wind is so merciless
that the few birds venturing out
hasten in their flight,
cursing the rougher movements, the lack of food,
the strain of wings.

Some days the sand blows so briskly that it stings,
minuscule dots of quartz and glass
co-mingling
with the sharper air that
pulls my breath away.

Some days seem ripe for staying in
and lolling here and there on
softer sofas than this.

Yet some days lay splendidly before us,
mingling breath and sea and quartz
into our dreams.

© Pam Goode 2023 (Poem)

Image by Ben Wiid

Waiting

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments


Is there a purpose in waiting? I feel a bit like it’s a vigil, which makes sense. I know it will mean a bevy of time, a tsunami of pain, a gasping of fear.

I can do that.

What it doesn’t require is my personal presence, but most definitely my spiritual presence.

And I can do that.

What it doesn’t promise is a requested outcome, allowing only my prayers.

What is does promise is waiting. I don’t mind waiting, and yet I hate it. Or maybe I don’t hate waiting, but I hate the reason.

Some reasons are joyous. Some, uncertain. Others, life changing.

And the time it takes to receive an answer of “yes, it’s this, and it will be okay. Probably” is both momentary and lifelong.

And the time it takes to receive an answer of “yes, it’s this, and I’m sorry,” is also both momentary and a lifetime.

Lifetime. Lifelong.

I’m not sure I like those words anymore.

I like the word forever. And ever and ever and evermore.

“The tears of the world are a constant quantity. For each one who begins to weep somewhere else another stops. The same is true of the laugh.”
― Samuel Beckett, Waiting for Godot

Love to All

Starry Night

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments



Into this night

of stars two thousand-fold,

I burrow in to join

the dance of darkness

versus light,

of days spent courting night,

of spiraling constellations rapt

in silent dialogue,

and drift into a joy

unparalleled.

And this I know

deep down inside:

that in these star-struck

moments,

true life lives.


© Pam Goode

Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland