There was a moment
that I raised my head
to yours,
an uncommon
instant
for shy girls.
It was a meeting
of hearts —
one strong.
one reticent.
But your smile was a steadying hand
that reached across divides
of country, persuasion, tomorrows, or names,
and steadied me.
One heart steadying another.
Fleetingly —
and ever present.
© Pamela Pardue Goode
A mother is passing me on the wind,
with the shaping, re-shaping
of life, of this life, of my life,
of our life,
in this most fragile fabric of life.
And her whispers hold fast as my worlds careen,
shifting wildly at 20, now 30, now 40 and
more there than here, and then there, and then here —
as I age and I wait and I watch for your song,
as I wait and I watch for you there,
as I age and I wait and I age and I watch, as I age, and still you do not.
And the time that I opened my soul to the waiting,
with winds washing through me,
around me, into me,
with voices and songs of full ten thousand souls
all rushing to soothe and to shape and to soothe
for this fast-coming onslaught
of loss, always loss,
as I’m filling my mind with the stories and songs
of love and of life and of change,
— too much change —
and I knew, of course,
it was here.
A mother is passing me on the wind as she reaches once more for my hand,
and I know ….
and I know, and I know, and I don’t want to know,
not so soon, not this soon, not this soon,
but I know.
And the ashes fly slowly through peace and through tears
as she takes to the sea that she loves —
on the wind, with the wind, kiss the wind as she swirls,
as she flies her way out to the sea, to the sea,
as she clings to the sea, to the sand, to the the sky,
and all of heaven between —
as she sings her hello and goodbye and hello,
and then one day, hello and hello.
It’s Halloween! It’s Halloween!
It must have been that lucky bean
That raced me round and round and round —
My magic feet still on the ground,
Still chasing socks and rocks and blocks,
And ticking tocks —
It’s HALLOWEEN!
And I’m a tad more weary now,
Just one more race ….
I’m snoozing now.
For my little Charlie Barley on his second Halloween.
Poem by Pam Goode
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
Some days
I am roundly pleased
to fancy my
self
a poet.
Other days
I open my
eyes
and see
that I am
only
the
typist.
Thank you all for the incredible opportunity to see, to learn, and to love once again in this magical place called Listowel.
If you’re in town, please join us tonight, 5:00 – 7:00 at Olive Stack Gallery, where Laura McKellar and I will be shamelessly flaunting our passions.
Love Always,
Pam
There are moments in the heart
that sing so readily
i have to dance,
and whether feet or arms or spirit
is no matter,
knowing only that
the dance
is all —
and ever in my soul.
© Pam Goode
Inspired by a month-long artist residency graciously provided by Olive Stack Gallery, Listowel, Ireland
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
In the end,
(and there is always an end),
I will never be
the
wild
one.
The one who leaps
without looking.
Who says her mind
of a moment
(without weighing
alternatives
options
costs).
The one who feels so
strongly,
invincibly,
that she speaks
and Acts
in a fluidity
that escapes me.
My wildness is
considered.
quiet.
deep.
and my leaps teeter on the wind like fledgling birds.
And yet I leap.
Because the heart
still rules,
and the wind still lifts.
© Pamela Pardue Goode
(Written while cutting pink circles in a race to finish a mosaic)
What is the cost of vulnerability,
the cost of living
without thought to self ( -protection or -deceit ),
to stress and stretch my ego
thin and imperceptible as wire
pulled high above the cloud that crowds
the net until it lays full
burdened, flat upon the ground.
What cost
to loose my soul like yellow kites
unbound by human hands but
simply, gladly,
taking to the sky quite unconcerned
like heat and wet to tea-bag,
grasping nothing more than my
free-willed collision with unknowing.
Change.
What cost
to walk the wire and follow free the soul,
to answer yes, to hear, to feel, to know.
c. Pamela Goode
Pam Goode Writes 