Wednesday, June 24, 2020

Silver Spoon

He laments of pain and affliction;
Of how he's found God,
and triumphed over addiction.

Anger seeps through the crevices
of my rattled skeleton,
as I cringe with every word.

Another day, I must endure
diatribes of spiritual healing,
and miraculously,
from the drink, you're cured.

You say you were born with a silver spoon
and how it will all change soon.
All disguised with guilty projection
Spewing hatred and rejection.

Countless hours spent in self-pity:
The world owes you everything;

For years we persisted;
living in a foggy existence.
I accepted that it was the truth.

But now, in quiet reflection;
I realize there were no lies
Between me and you.

Life was profoundly in play.
We don't escape, 
We choose to stay.

I can't pity me, 
for in reality, 
It was the path I chose.

And yet, 
from the ashes I rose
Someone new, 
I suppose.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved

Tuesday, June 23, 2020

The Art of the Heart

Here is my heart. 

Sculpted by knives, 
which once represented our lives;
Molded by your hands, 
Yet, evidently made of clay.

Take it.  

Take it from me. 

Take it away.

I cannot bear to hold it, a moment longer;
as I flounder in its memory.

There will be no long conversations, 
blame or accusations, 
For you are too difficult to reach;
Though I silently beseech,
Over the music that you play.  

This heart, made of paper-maché;
The media once used;
When I was your muse,
So naive and nude in a doorway, 
completely on display.

I will put it in a gilded frame,
And, hope some day,
To find its rightful keep;
But for now, it will sleep
For the joy and butterflies have flown away.

Reaching for you, 
In the dead of night.

O, the want of you...
As the tenor reaches its height,
the wraith from this death bed takes flight.

I grasp my heart to come hither;
Wanting you in little pieces,
and not wanting you, together.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Wednesday, March 4, 2020

The Wheel

Waves crash fore and aft,

foamy spray soaks my little craft;

I take hold of the wheel,

So this is what it's like to feel?

Tear drops mix with spray,

and ebony skies give way to grey;

No horizon yet in sight.

I stay the course,

weather the storm;

determination replaces fright.

The waves roll gently now,

And land is over yonder.

Grass so green,

and sand so clean;

It makes me wonder.

If four hands were on the wheel,

and was it you, 

my brother?

© Denise Goodwin,  All rights reserved.

Monday, February 24, 2020


Here, in my delirium,
surrounded by a thicket of trees,

I welcome this isolation,
as pale light scatters through summer leaves.

They quiver and bend,
dispersing pearls of fragmented light,
in an unforgiving breeze.

Daylight fades into an azure haze,
As the sun sinks into the horizon.

The moon is nearly nigh,
it's pale light transcends feathered clouds,
vaguely assisted by some formless fireflies.

I attempt to reason with the wind,
To come fast with me,
And forthwith end thy suffering!

Lo, I wait on bended knee.
But the breeze gives no reply;
Yet, faithfully, I wait.

I wait.

I listen and strain to hear 
the footsteps... 
those familiar footsteps,
or the creaking of the gate.

Hence, I laid my head upon the grass,
to rest upon it's velvet pillow;
and recall the past,
of your last standing in the threshold.

I was so starved for your attention,
in retrospect I realize,
That your affection was my demise.

For, what I mistook for love,
was my own insecurity.

The bitter wine we drank so fervently,
was the sustenance of our love
and ironically, welcoming poverty.

And yet, 
with all the emotional bankruptcy,
I still hold you dear.

I know that this penance is earned;
For the seasons that froze us, still burn.

The wine has been spilled,
which soiled carpets and the draperies with 
stains of fear.

I've only myself to blame,
for staying all those years.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Thursday, February 20, 2020

Black Thumb

I am not a gardener,
as my house plants can attest.

To winter, they bear witness,
near the cold and drafty door;

For my fidelity for Botany, 
and living things are poor.

I did not tend the succulents 
or the verdant vine.

Flowers did not bloom, 
nor did the ivy climb.

Withered and neglected,
I put them in the sunshine

and gave them all some water, 
and a little of my time.

I pulled their yellow leaves
after which, and as I feared,

they all appeared, 
somewhat smaller.

I was mortified to notice,
that the soil was so very dry,

so dry, nearly petrified;
they drank until the soil bloated.

Two days later, 
after my pruning and loving labor;

Green leaves have returned,
and little flowers have emerged.

Nature is forgiving;
yet, who am I kidding?

They will all soon be forgotten.
And I beg your pardon,

I am not a gardener,
nor a fairy godmother;

Soon again, I shall be nipping, 
to resurrect the scarcely living.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Monday, February 3, 2020

Inevitable Winter

In the blackness of an early morning,

The church bells ring and the crows give warning,

Yet the sound is distant and delayed.

The leaves rustle like a dead snake's rattle,

in an invisible wind that feels like the color grey.

From their boughs, 

brittle leaves shake and travel.

I have, again, mistaken this sound for rain.

A waning moon scatters light 

at intervals 

through parched leaves, 

And again, 

agitates that lonely wind.


I hear a rusted gate, 

resonating from it's hinge.

From frozen rose hips rests one last blossom, 

Its scent still wafts through the frigid breeze,

Though now, the scent has softened.

Fallen leaves crackle 'neath my feet,

Betwixt the dying grass and disparate weeds;

Frost is illuminated top and 'tween

The brittle branches of trees.

I pause to consider the long winter to come,

As the shortened days have already begun.

I beseech the skies, 

nay to deliver,

To save me from thy inevitable winter. 

So beautiful and terrible,

such is the nature of winter.

And from the chill of this morning's depths,

I consider the confinement and isolation;

The subsequent depression and desolation,

when the dust collects and the mind forgets.

There is no peace, 

that may bear me hence.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Friday, January 10, 2020


Some days it seems as if I scarcely endure 
the pleasantries of our small talk and idle chatter,

As grey matter is splattered onto the walls and floor,
and is tucked away in a forgotten drawer.

It is here, that we exist, in this endlessly myopic,
microcosm of monotony;

Always together, but hopelessly alone, 
and utterly monochrome.

As strange as it is, this tedious continuation
is void of loathing and indignation;

As it seems we’ve found comfort in such mediocrity,
We ride the tide of incessant normalcy.

I wait in expectation for some kind of wrath,
but only silence enters, and quietly recedes;

I feel half mad, as if inside the mind of Sylvia Plath;
waiting for a reaction, that never will be achieved.

Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved