Sunday, September 18, 2016

You, Me and God

As I arrive at the end of my life, knowing I shall not survive,

I am compelled to analyze the disappearance of our existence.

I am too lost to attempt to explain the spiritual;

It seems that feelings, now, are for the weak and sentimental.

Yet, here we stand, holding a hand across our breast;

as if  hurled from a maelstrom of a woeful tempest.

Gazing into each other's eyes, we've arrived at the divide,

Between the rain showers, and the sun's torrid flames.

And, neither can command the sky, nor the tides;

For we all parallel between forgiveness and blame.

Perhaps, I've grown bitter, as I consider that

my heart's regard is that I owe fealty to no one.

For this story is not yet over;  No, it has just begun.

Through the usual pain and suffering,

We cannot describe with words the ordinary imagery;

Like, all things must die, and thus, return to dust,

like any life devoid of sustenance, withers.

Indeed, the virtues of love are crucial, yet terrible;

And, are far more complex than any metaphor can deliver.

All of life is beautiful and ugly, it is both hellish and heavenly;

These opposing illusions create our everlasting reality.

And though, life's conclusion is truly horrible in it's finality;

My heart desires to express a measure of felicity.

I am not so cold or indifferent to deliver this message,

without a deliberate degree of concluding serenity.

For, in my mind, I know that our parting is not real,

And, true love only exists outside the confines of this world,

What we think and what we feel, are how we strive to define

the ribbons of emotion that naturally unfurl.

Here, on earth our insignificance is regrettably clear.

We are diminutive, absorbed beings spinning on a sphere;

And, there are exterior forces, far greater than you or me.

We shall all return to the Creator, eventually;

Void of the familiar chains of common mortality.

Far removed from the metaphysical explanations,

Love transcends.

Love transcends into a light,

so pure and unconditional,

that is not easily explained,

though, many have tried, in vain.

As I leave, my soul will transcend

over the turbulent seas and pastoral planes;

And, if I had only one thought to leave you,

Know that I'd come home to you, again.

There are no further conclusions,

which I have not uttered or expressed;

For, in death, 

we can no longer oppose one another,

but embody only the best.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Image credit: “Lovers:  Death and the Maiden” by Jaroslaw Datta
via Pinterest

Friday, September 16, 2016


Daily, I carry with me,
feelings of doubt and despair.
I know not from where they come,
As they manifest from thin air.
I seem to question everything,
From the unjust to the fair;
Surely there must be others,
Who think like me, and care?
"Do the right thing",
a voice echos from within;
Yet, apparently,
You are blind to what others see.
There are rules for all;
Nonetheless, it's your perception,
that you are the exception, and
For you, we will take the fall.
You will blame it on ignorance,
or lacking common sense.
Children and fools tell the truth;
yet this couldn't include you...
No, you are too calculating and cool.
We will suffer the consequences,
as the result of your deception.
Should I mention?
It will be at your own expense.
Though I live with my own insecurities,
I will always stand on the side of honesty.
So, just when you think no one is watching,
your plotting and dodging,
you will be snared in the net of hypocrisy.
So, publicly, I say to thee,
I disapprove of this perfidious ruse.
One day, you will ask me to choose,
But, I won't swing from your noose.
Over your grave, I will be dancing;
I'll be the last one standing,
waving the flag integrity.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Image credit:

Saturday, September 3, 2016


Mooring bells resonate in the distance, 
The sound is without rhythm, languid and listless.
The resounding ringing, imparts the air, 
like a visitor's unexpected knock.

It disturbs the gulls, resting on the wooden dock;
And, upon the delayed resonance of metal against metal;
They take flight, as if emerging from a cannon's blast,
with their brazen laugh, they disband, and reassemble.

I watch the transluscent moon lazily disappear,
over the restless waves and the same pier.
It dissolves in a slow and sensual manner,
like the Arabesque movements of a ballerina dancer. 

Yet, the chill from the night and fog still linger, 
As an anemic sun emerges through silver skies.
Delivering shivers, as the summer lovers whisper,
Farewell, fair well... this will never be goodbye.

And, along the sea shore's familiar strand,
is the never-ending collapse of water onto sand.
Seashells are scattered, and and starfish lie in wait,
for the next explorer, to collect and investigate.

The yellow petals of the black-eyed flowers are fading, 
Where goldenrod and purple asters are now invading;
Yet, the red, wild roses are still languishing on the vine;
Among wayward verdant ivy, entangled and entwined.

It is the beginning of the end, as September begins, 
so beautiful and cruel, as it leaves August behind.
As the nights extend and the days decline,
No mortal can command nature's grand design.

Soon the autumn leaves will ignite the sky, 
like flaming jewels to adore and admire;
and we will walk near the familiar shore, 
under a blazing canopy of fire.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved
Image credit:  brockdavesphoto.tumblr

Thursday, August 25, 2016

The Quick Trip to the Mothership

An errand brought me to that strange, yet familiar town;
And, just as the mid-day bells began ringing,  
it began to rain, from a great and billowing  grey cloud.
I emerged from my car, to place silver coins in the meter.
When the sky suddenly appeared blacker, bleaker.

From beneath my parasol, I conceded that
Nothing had changed, since I was here last;
For, the old perverted men, sat on the same stone walls, 
And, I endeavored to suppress a laugh.

Impersonating themselves, as great debaters;
They hide behind a paper cup, or the local newspaper;
Covertly observing all the girls and women.
Yet, their furtive actions are explicit, and not well hidden,
as they casually bend forth to feed the pigeons.

Here, politicians and lawyers freely walk the street,
Beside their assistants, in high heels and plaid pleats.
The ruddy faces that appear from beneath their collars,
display tension and defeat, like a beaten boxer.

Everywhere is irony. Life, here, is an oxymoron.
Buddhist flags wave over multiple satellite dishes;
and on every other car, bumper stickers express co-existence.
And yet, nothing could be farther from the truth.

Your point of view is confused and misconstrued;
As is the general attitude, from the lens of a camera.
It reveals tidy houses lined up like neat cans of soup,
Yet there are those who walk about in their pajamas.

Half of the people, appear to be living and breathing,
And, those numbers are steadily decreasing.
The other faction, behave like automatons;
Mechanically moving, exchanging dollars for hours,
you can easily spot them, lurking among the trees and flowers.

Beneath the beautiful river, is putrid, toxic waste;
And the majority of the real estate is over-appraised. 
Though many may attempt to debate this,
Their tax bills will convince them, that they are hypocrites.

Graffiti is exposed between green ferns and Sumac trees,
With the "home of the brave", and "the land of the free".
The words are recognizable, and never erased.
And, mammoth trucks destroy roads that are paved,
because what they are hauling, is exceedingly overweight.

Like the river, this town has its dirty secrets; 
Behind the closed doors, of the both rich and the poor,
Parents plead with their addicted sons and daughters.
They beg their kids to quit stealing their effects and money.

Dad's exasperation has tested isolation, and threatened slaughter,
And Mom, more gentle by nature, attempts sweet persuasion, 
by using words like, "sweetheart" or "honey".
Yet, all the same, the situation remains unchanged, 
and the plain truth is grotesque and ugly.

The little snow queens, cry of injustice, when they are busted;
Yet their crowns cannot be polished, nor easily dusted.
The troubled sons, who live on the run, 
are detached and distant; and, can never be believed or trusted.
Yet, with each use, these youth tighten the noose,
they swear to improve, amid their terror and destruction.

Enter the earthy women, appearing like saints and martyrs,
They speak in firm tones to their effeminate, submissive partners.
Tritely reeking of yesterday's patchouli and sweat, ad naseum.
They stroll along, leaving their stench, like moldy breadcrumbs.

From their heads, they don scarves or mouse-colored dreads;
And, from below, where they hide their sex,
are multi-colored cotton skirts and New-Age Birkenstocks.

They wipe from their "perfect" children chins,
sticky lollipop drool and runny snot.
To the world, they feign pink clouds of fluffy bliss,
But, in reality, they are tired, broken and pissed. 

As I rounded the corner, I observed some disorder,
Where protesters stood beneath the entrance of City Hall.
The signs they were holding, appeared to be scolding,
a national neanderthal.

From beneath the canopy of my umbrella.
Wafted the smell of garlic, burnt meat and mozzarella,
I ventured a look into the merchant's shop displays;
Amid the protester's vocal explosions, so crazed.

Feeling ill at ease, I quickly sought retreat,
For, in the window's glass, I caught the refection of myself turning blue;
As I was suddenly assaulted by a man's burning cigar
and the odor of reoccurring urine.  In a flash, I withdrew.

It was then that I noticed, on the outskirts of the demonstration,
Several uniformed patrolmen, so well mannered,
that they seemed out of place, as the American flag waved,
'twixt the stark monochrome and rainbow banners.

So engaged, had I been in these observations,
and the current situation, that I almost lost my way.
Yet, my feet kept walking through the sodden streets,
through the puddles and the bubbles from the rain.

I conducted my business somewhat reluctantly;
As the temptation to deviate from my obligation, 
was a simply a mindless flirtation or a means to escape,
as the surreal nature of the external, seemed almost better, 
than the pressure of my responsibility.

Returning to my car, I passed by a local bar, 
When I heard the same tired drum beat, with a screaming guitar,
and the scratchy sound of dirty boots and shoes,
scuffing across the wooden floor.

That same song I've heard a thousand times before.
The song that was recorded in Nineteen Seventy-Four.
Sweet Home Alabama, will you ever die?
Surely people, there is another score that you can amplify?

I looked in to see several young women of similar diversity;
I assumed they were avoiding work, or perhaps, University.
Barflies, sitting on high stools, with tattoos displayed as decorations;
Flaunting ink on their legs and arms, and various other places. 

Silver rings dangled from the brows of their eyes, 
and shiny studs were embedded in their nostrils.
I wondered if this were a requirement or prerequisite, 
or even, the establishment's Holy gospel?

Here, the yuppies and rednecks converge,
Along with men in white undershirts and black leather;
Generation-X mix and mingle with computer nerds, 
Talking too loudly, they motion, wave and gesture.

Perfumed girls were wrapped in pretty ribbons and bows,
Releasing pheromones for every Tom, Dick and Joe;
They giggle and drink, puke and stink,
until they fall, like proverbial dominoes.

My feet are now speeding, and my mind is reeling, 
As I dream of receding from this contrived little city.
I am unexpectedly energetic, as I pounce down the street.
I am thinking this place is pathetic, and feels quite synthetic;
And, here, is not where I want to be.

As I opened my car door without forgiveness, 
For I was glad to have concluded my business;
And, in that moment, all of time did transcend.
I firmly concluded that I'd never recommend 
this place, to family, foe or friend. 

The showers were now declining, as the sun returned to shining;
Smugly sneering, I rolled the windows down,
I concede that I felt as if I had been pulled from a muddy trench.
and, I was more than anxious to leave this town.

I am aware that your impression, may be that of a veiled assassin,
and that your perception is that I have exacted sweet revenge.
Therefore, to your resentment,  I shall plead the First Amendment. 
For these conclusions, I shall rightfully defend.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.

Image credit:

Saturday, August 20, 2016

Dutiful, Me

I am alone, 
silently sulking in contemplation;
where my imagination, 
can run wild and free.
My thoughts return to the afternoon,
and my devoted obligation, 
for the love of you and me.
The shadows of leaves, moved in the breeze,
through the sunlight that illuminated the room.
And, in our bedroom window, 
the electric fan hummed on low;
Your eyes were closed, and not with me.
They were somewhere far away, 
locked in fantasy.
Yet, I found no reason to anger,
and what may be even stranger,
that I felt only complacency.
I'm not sure when this happened,
and now my mind is full of questions...
What happened to you and me?
The nine to five grind, keeps us alive;
but, what price have we paid for conformity?
I admit the day's end leaves me tired,
Yet, you arrive home with that look in your eyes,
full of want and desire;
And the next thing I know, 
the fan hums on low...
Dutiful me.

©Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Sunday, August 14, 2016


I picture you in a blackened room,
with moonlight spilling through the blinds.
You are quite alone in this view, 
and that's no surprise. 
Here, the music plays without a tune;
There is no feminine touch, or possessions,
No self expression, or lingering perfume.
Yet, I hesitate to be the judge and jury,
as you describe, in diatribes, words of glory;
for loneliness seeps from your soul.
I am sorry for you, and my heart bleeds;
Though I sadly confess, my heart is like a machine.
Words, you use to describe power and control ,  
Words that exude accusations and hate.
The inverted projection of guilt and shame,
are frequently your means of escape.
Every day is a soliloquy of salvation.
No one, but you, can provide alleviation,
or hold the vocation to find a solution;
For in your mind, you are the keeper of the key.
You spend so much time defending,
your justifications without ending;
told through your cynical comedies.
Suffice to say, we grow weary of your tragedies.
And, you seek no true redemption, 
for your perpetual aggression;
As your truths are your beliefs.
As human beings, we all tout morality,
and bend the reality of our true philanthropy.
We seek the same absolution for our sins,
and all are subject to the same undying wind.
We want to substantiate our authenticity,
and to vindicate our time and energy. 
Then my mind returns to thinking
of you, alone at night, with the moon.
and these thoughts are persisting,
as I imagine of how you must desire perfume.

© Denise Goodwin, All Rights Reserved

Sunday, July 24, 2016


The music of a heavenly violin is fading, 
and the light grows dim;
Vainly, I strained to hear one last note of the hymn.
Yet, darkness spread across the land;
And, the utter silence was invading, 
My attention, it did demand.
Now, the earth is desolate, and bare;
All of humanity has fled in fear.
The land is cursed with atrocities;
No light can penetrate such blackness,
For the dark is so black, its blue.
And yet, despite countless adversities,
A tiny ember of light slowly grew.
A weak obsession to seek the truth,
Compelled to preserve the insignificant,
Of this something called self;
Gave me strength to draw a feeble sword,
to clash iron against the subconscious;
For my own salvation, I desperately implored.
Then, the dark was shattered into countless pieces;
and in the subsequent calmness,
One of which, became me.
For, darkness can be defeated, 
but never destroyed;
As the incarnation of all fear, 
is the void.

© Denise Goodwin, All rights reserved.