Poetry

Teetering on the Edge

/ Pam Goode / 10 Comments

I’m not the

edgy girl.

No tats, no spikes, no dreads.

No piercings, no punk.

I may

on certain

days

look like the herd animal who

waits

and waits

and watches —

hour by

hour.

In truth,

I love to teeter on the edge.

I love the glance.

There are lifetimes in a glance.

I love the sudden moment,

the realization that points me toward a choice.

I love the choosing,

rife with possibility.

I love the release,

the willing trade of certainty for chance.

I love the dance,

the should I? in full blood alliance with the windswept YES.

I love the joy,

the fearless taking of the Yes Yes Yes.

I love the leap,

the secret willingness to fly.

I love the fall to earth,

my home, my love.

Waves may be small, but oh

I love

the splash.

© Pam Goode

Coming Home

/ Pam Goode / 1 Comment

Fluff my garden
Sweet pink.
Rustle me til all my pollen whirls
And let me water you
With sticky sweetness
Top to toe
In the dew-wet morning.
Wild
Flowers.

c. Pamela Goode

Leaving Home on a Morning Walk

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

Poem and Photo by Pamela Goode

When I walk now,
I gasp a little.

Weak-kneed and queasy,
trusting myself only on this simple
path —
straight and safe and
known

(we love the known),

but walking,
nonetheless.

Sun and breeze a shield of sorts,
holding me together or
(at least)
familiar parts of me
within arm’s
reach.

Comfort enough
for now.

 

c. Pamela Goode 2012

Fah Who Rah-Moose

/ Pam Goode / 1 Comment

from shloshspot.com

‘Twas the night before New Year’s, and all through the house

Every Who down in Whoville was doped up and soused.

They hated the New Year; they grumbled and whined,

“We don’t want a NEW year; this suits us just fine.”

But the clock wouldn’t listen, it groaned and it wheezed,

And it paused not a whit on the cusp of the breeze

That would blow that foul second hand forward and then

Slap the faces of Whos with a pointy-mouthed grin.

Auntie Em hugged her teacup; Vern gripped hard his bottle

Cindi Loo sucked her nipple of mead on full throttle.

While Muffy poured scotch and Big Joe warmed the wassail,

I saw Gramps downing Nyquil to plump up his fossil.

Homer was huffing and Jane rode a bender

While Grams poured tequila and rum in the blender.

They binged and they cringed and they cowered in fear

“We must stop it from coming! We’ll stop it this year!”

But no matter the moonshine, no matter the crack,

Father Time gave the gift that he wouldn’t take back.

He granted them change and a hope for the new,

Whilst snickering snickers, ice cold as a shrew.

It’s a New Year, My Lovelies, You Hortons and Whos,

And you’ll take it and thank me; you don’t get to choose.

So get on with your hopes and your dreams and your wishes,

Cause I’ve got the clock, and you dogs is my bitches.

~ c. 2011 by Pamela Pardue Goode,

with apologies to Clement C. Moore and eternal gratitude to Dr. Seuss  🙂

rewrite

/ Pam Goode / 3 Comments

the world is topsy turvy on me now
and i am left to wonder
if my center is askew
or simply old
and hardened,
and seeing these new days with eyes
unable or unwilling
to adjust
from my accustomed way
of watching doing caring.
asking soft if i will need to (want to) (or be able to)
re-right (rewrite)
myself ,
or if the universe
will find her quiet balance
now
at last.
or maybe
we will both fly off our axes
toward
the twinkly
stars.