Writing

Staring Into Space

/ Pam Goode / 18 Comments

This morning I knew exactly what I wanted to say. What I needed to say. It was clear and concise — a mix of horror and loss.

This afternoon, I can’t tell my front from my back. I can’t complete a sentence. I can’t remember where I was headed when I left the house. Maybe I just don’t want to remember — to lose these feelings of safety, sharing, and creativity — these days of love and laughter that held much of my life before this morning. It was a good life — filled with happiness, joy, women working together, and love.

And then this morning my husband misread the clock and accidentally trotted downstairs an hour early. I did the same an hour later and by then hell had already broken loose — at least in my house and my heart and the hearts and souls of so many. I’m accustomed to waiting and waiting and waiting for the election results, usually taking a day and a half or so. When have the polls ever been ready in less that a day??? This didn’t seem like a good omen, and it certainly wasn’t. I dropped into my chair and stared at the TV for only a few minutes, and then spent most of the day staring into nowhere, which seems appropriate.

I’ve read part of the manifesto put out by trump and friends, and yes, it scares me sh***tless. And yet somehow I put much less concern into it than I should have. Tonight, if I’m thinking clearly, I’ll delve further to acquaint myself more fully with Project 2025 and the demons that lurk when we’re not looking. I won’t make that mistake again, but is it too late?

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

Her Garden

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

I sang all day in the dirt.
Peat, sawed up wood, manure,
and what once took the shape of leaves
come happily together in my hands.

Good dirt smells.
First like the parts put in,
and rather less than pleasant as you
might expect —
and then all excited like a promise.
Earthworms writhe,
excited and aware.
They know full-out what’s to come:
the breaking down of life
into blackness —
and then rebirth.

Whoever thought beauty could burst
from a handful of chicken shit???

We are so much more than we know,
simply because we don’t take the time to see.

© Pam Goode

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

Little Moments

/ Pam Goode / 4 Comments

To be honest, I have very little recall of most Fourth of July festivities. I don’t dislike the day — I’m just ambivalent. Actually, wait . . . . . . . okay, maybe I’m not ambivalent at all.

The best thing I remember about the fourth of July is children. I love seeing their bright faces, watching to see which balloon figurine they’ll choose and then stand in eye-popping awe as a masterfully (and surely exhausted) moustachioed man (or woman) twists and turns and blows and wiggles his way into the skinny balloons until THWACK! And suddenly the child is magically holding a pretty darn good replica of a dog/spaceship/tuba/baby girl/….. And mind you, this is all AFTER we’ve stood in the forever-line for tiny-tot-face-painting.

The saving grace, of course, is the look in their eyes and the glee lighting the entire night sky.

So yeah … I LOVE the Fourth. Don’t you?

Women’s International Mosaic Project

/ Pam Goode / 6 Comments

Don’t ask me why, but something popped into my head rather suddenly over the past month. And because our time on earth gets shorter by the day, I jumped on it. I’d love for you to jump in too.

I chose the name above because I want it to encompass the world. It won’t, of course, but that can still be my goal.

P.S. You do not need to be a woman to support women.

Details: My plan is to bring women of all ages, sizes, ethnicities and dreamers together. It seems to me that our lives as women are changing daily, and certainly our options are changing already. I won’t fixate on politics because I’ve never been that girl — though I’m beginning to realize that maybe I should be. We definitely have power, but can we control what’s going on now? — or what’s ahead?

What I do know is that we can always stand for peace and right.

Toward that end I hope to share these messages across the globe. And guess what — after one email blast and a couple of days, we already have women signed up from sea to sea in the the US, as well as multiple countries beyond. We need to use our strength. We need to be the women we are without keeping quiet. But most of all, we need to support and learn from each other. Nobody’s going to do this for us — especially now.

So far I’m mostly self-funding this women’s project because that’s my option, and that’s how much I want to bring us together. But as women, we’re inevitably strong, and our fierceness will get us farther into the future than we know.

So here’s what we need: Contact with each other; Appreciation for each other; Sharing with each other; Understanding and supporting each other as much as we can. And then movement: Saying yes, laughing together, brainstorming together, supporting each other. And yes, changing the world, even when it seems like what we do is the tiniest offering. We’re so much stronger than we know.

A Plan: We ALL need a plan, and so far we’re amazingly in sync. I’m good with a plan — I can do that — BUT I can also learn even more if I’m talking and brainstorming with others. Through this project, that’s exactly what we’re doing, no matter how closely or far apart we live, no matter our ethnicities, our shyness, or our uncertainties, we’re already doing it. It’s a pretty good start, and the most exciting part is that 99% of these women volunteered on the own.

Help We Can Use: Cutting templates from fiberglass mesh (perfect for you if you love cutting perfect 6-inch circles); mailing fiberglass mesh templates, talking up the project.

Mailing Templets: The cost to mail three 6″ circular fiberglass templates is variable but quite small across the US. Beyond the US, we’re currently working with women from Australia, Ireland, France, Italy, and Puerto Rico. I’d like to be able to help with the cost of mailing overseas.

Taking Part: If you’re interested, text me. We’ll be delighted to have you involved!

Touch of Fire

/ Pam Goode / 5 Comments

Sam has a touch of fire.
When we got to be almost friends he would put his hand
on my shoulder
when it was time to leaves the parties we both went to
and he said goodbye.

He would come up behind me
and there would be the hand,
and I would know it was Sam without even turning
because his touch was fire.

One night I went to a party and I wore a sundress
with no back.
When it was time I thought
he won’t touch me now.
not tonight.

But then we were leaving and there was the hand again,
On my bare shoulder this time
and it was fire.

Night after night always the same,
and when the hand came without stopping
I was hard pressed
to look him full-on when I said goodnight,
knowing the eyes would be there,
And I couldn’t tell yet what they were saying.

So I mumbled low at the floor,
not wanting to leave until I knew,
but needing the cool night air and the dark ride home
to keep his touch from showing plain.

Excerpt from Touch of Fire by Pam Goode

With Apologies if You Live in the Northeast

/ Pam Goode / 16 Comments
Cherry, Pamela Goode
Weeping Cherry
Screenshot

I don’t mean to gloat, but … IT’S SPRING!!!! IT’S SPRING!!!!

No more cold winter nights (we had TWO this year! Horrendous!) or clamoring around the house searching for a blanket — it was just hell, I tell you! HELL!

And now that every potential frost drop has high-tailed it under the cover of your chinny chin chin, we’ve been frolicking ALL over the place. Yes indeed — every hour of the day and night, and I’m like a whole new person now that the “winter” has passed in the south. I even waved to a stranger!

Here’s hoping with all my heart that your spring is hurtling toward you as we speak. And if it’s not your turn yet, it’s headed your way. I promise.

It Was A Dark and Stormy Night

/ Pam Goode / 21 Comments

Last night, and in fact smack in the middle of what’s often called Premium Sleep Time, a tree fell on our house.

First of all, yes, we’re okay. Secondly, while my husband leapt out of bed and examined every iota of the house inside and out until he knew we were safe for the night — I slept through it. While the occasional deep sleep is understandable if you’re, say, missing breakfast, but it’s more than disconcerting if your house has been ravaged by tree limbs during your slumber. It’s just not something we tend to prepare for, and the concept of sleeping through a major episode makes all my wires short out.

And yes, it was indeed a dark and stormy night. Lots of wind and lots of rain, but not so different from most nights … until the crash. And it’s probably no surprise that 1) it rattled me big time, and two, I can’t shake it.

Once we’d enlisted chainsaw and climbing help via my husband’s (seriously) knowledge of everything on the planet, I slipped away to the studio to work on a project. I calmed down a (tiny) bit after 20 minutes or so, and then there was a knock on the door of my studio/sanctuary.

“I just wanted to let you know that there’s a large gas leak and they’ve asked everyone to leave the building.” Okay, I’m sure there’s a silver lining in there somewhere, but it wasn’t meant for today.

All in all, the tree was about 60 feet tall, and we were lucky (really, really lucky) that it snapped instead of falling full force in all its glory across several backyards. We think it was one of those “surprise” miniature tornadoes. I hope it’s my last.