Grandma’s Biscuits

Flour dust on her wrinkled hands,

and apron

Silver gray hair pulled into a bun,

on top her head

Back door open, screen door with a torn screen,

lets in flies

Spring flowers blooming in the yard,

the yellow daisies

Honey on the table, butter in the dish,

same table

Smells of the rising bread in the oven,

hand size packets

To feed us hot; our stomachs rumble,

mouths water waiting

Always worth the time; we watch her work,

as we stare at her stove

We poke our fingers in the soft hot bread fluff,

of our browned square biscuits

And in we put the butter, melting fast, we pour

the honey in the hole

Ah, the best days of life gone past,

as a kid

She made them for us to see us smile,

and be happy

I miss my grandma’s cooking, especially,

the biscuits of love

With the smile she made as she watched us,

munch with joy.



Forever spawning, riding the sea,

or searching the trees with eagle eyes,

from the bright blue sky,

you see.


A morsel or bite, a taste

of nourishment, strength, fate,

a direction we get

for free.


The clouds float above and around

to feed water to the air, and rocks, and ground.


It all goes around:

the salmon and the sound, the eagle and the tree,

the rocks and me.


Toasty, Toasty, Daddy

Toasty, toasty, Daddy

I cried with glee

from the crib


It was his daily thing

now that he had three kids

Mikey wants toasty too


I said for him as I munched the toast

with butter spread, soggy from my gums,

the bread of life, I had it everywhere


He drove one-time Mama said

from California to Carolina

with prayers for us in his head


A man of faith but little means

he laid a silver dollar, his last,

on the altar for thanks


after he arrived safely

to be with us,

to make us toasty in bed


He gave us the bread of life

with his faith, devout

His death quite sudden it was


In a car on a country road

head-on and instant

his short life snuffed out


Mama, she mourned for years

perhaps her whole life left

I got his faith, a gift,

the bread of life,


the toasty from my Daddy.



The travel that stretches

the senses,

the thoughts,

the knowledge of others,

as seen in the eyes of children

and people, all colors, sizes, dispositions

makes the exploration

worth the contemplation as you view

the old – things and people, and hear

the stories told by old ladies and men

and in the songs of the young.


Taste the flavors; inhale the

history flowing through the roots

of the trees of the old cities

of the mountains

of the forests where

peace can be smelled and

love can be held and

seen and felt with the heart.



The light of Portuguese history

reflected off the tiles,

trod upon by many:

mosaics of marble and basalt,

the white and black of pavement

designed by a nation; a town, Lisboa,

of discovery, of art, of the music of

fado –

piercing the heart with stories

of love and friendship,

joy and sadness,

hardship and ease,

the daily life of the river Tagus

and the seas of Atlantic discoveries.


One thought on “Poems by John Goodie

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