Get Your Premium Membership

Best Poems Written by Daisy Goodman

Below are the all-time best Daisy Goodman poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

View ALL Daisy Goodman Poems

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

To whom-

Let's sit together and talk like we used to. . .
when we were young; your voice was like a bass drum-
pumping through my brain. You were a white noise to
block out the rest of the world. 

I can never remember what we talked about but
I remember the silence when we expelled all our stories and fears.
Closer, you came, and I heard the sound of locusts flying-
their beating wings, drowning out my vision.

I was senseless and clung to you, stable and strong.
There was a deep rent in your soul- I saw it one day.
And for a moment, I fell in love with you. I felt strong
where you were weak.

I wanted desperately to be the one. Am I beautiful
enough? to fill the void, the gap, the space? 
When you look at me: you see my shell,
pretty and useless, with soft hands, soft lips. 

You never did find out if I was beautiful. We stopped
talking long before it ever came up. And I-
never healed the part of you I loved the most.
Where do we go from here?

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

To keep the wolves away

My brave son of seven is leaving!
to spar with military jaws.
And I repeat, Lycurgis taught me these three laws:
to keep the wolves away: if I say three words today,
may they be concise and may they be brief-
"Equality, austerity, and military pay." 
And stole my son at seven, a Thief.

Equality lives in every mothers' grief;
   -' my son the soldier is fit and neat.'
Austere and upright, conditioned to bow and beat.
Yet, I remember seven years ago
his curls when I bore him to breast,
and fed him into a peaceful rest.

In the dark haze before sunrise, I awake to work.
Weave my sandals tight and high on my calves;
My tunic, short and stark, unadorned and Spartan.
I draw water from the well and bake the bread in halves.
One for me and one for him, to reconcile my every sin.

Laconic contest

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

Know Justice, know piece

"Have you called Brigit yet?" A friend to bawl and 
Here she is, in times or tales of plight and fight, 
peace and flight.
One year for every finger on each hand,
one to hold and one to rend.

Will you send me to the brig? To serve is
My only, gaols please? At ease Deedee!
Have I given ten years, ten tours, twin yours?
To win, Towing a boat, about the great blue
Blew sea, Ya so? The windy, windy day.

He, she, it knows by nose, line by line.
Tortured me, then? Shall I, aye, aye capt'n!
Anything else? De rein! The rain, knows things.
Deaf, dumb, and blind, am I.

Have I bought the illusion of chi-says?
'Bolt is the fastest, I am the slowest and the lowest.
There is de rein to due, except for all my debts.
Before I knew it, I signed on the dotted line- lye on.
Mortar and lye built this house, my love is a mouse.

I am a polyglot, fully human and humane, and animal
at best, and person without rest. Call on me, pourquoi?
A lifetime of slavery have I, et de rein. Ecoute! 
Without the accent, I asked the Law'd to save my

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

Fire dancing

In Bulgaria, the Nestinari touched me when I was a child
high above the arm to hold, something new and something old.
She said, "Your feet were meant to walk the fire."
A plain proposition I did not understand; I liked the
	acrobats, flying and walking the wire.

She asked my permission and I granted it unknowing
that my path diverged that night, cool coals on the ground and
Early morning on the rise, I see more than just shadows now.
In Bulgaria, we walk the fire and our feet do not burn-
	in twenty-years time, it will be my turn.

In a trance I spin and the music pumps loud,
"Aye dance", faster like Giselle; and sparks fly 
as I kick the soil, embers in the air;
	just putting on a show for the crowd.

The glory of tradition passed into me; the fury and
the light; the cool of a glacier in my core.
In Bulgaria, we walk the fire and our feet do not burn-
twilight to daylight, there are always more steps to learn.

D.Goodman 11-26-13

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

Touch me here

Through my closed eyelids the soft light 
looks at my skin, warm from the sun.
I hear no one and wish anyone were here.
My chest inhales to cool my blood, pounding,
saying, 'flight or fight'.

'Touch me', I think. If you were here, you would touch me.
Hands cool and rough; gently hold my legs above the knees:
'long and lithe', you say.
'I want to open my eyes now', I am glazed over and dull.
Please. I can't not come with you today. You were gone
and I wanted you.

I'll tell you quietly, 'your hands are golden,' or I'll keep 
Quiet and breathe shallow near your ear. I'll tell you, 
"You're a god," if you touch me here. I can wait until the sun 
drops out of the sky, dew condensing on the grass, cold and green.
I prefer the sun, but I'll lay on the cool lawn at dusk.
Just touch me here.

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem


The fractured imprint of Cassandra remains; 
burns bright; pounds at the gates, silenced. She says,
	"Keep Quiet, your words have power. 
Say only, "Let me be an instrument of your will, Lord." 
Tongues and ties will bind- an act of balance with no end.
In turn, opening His love for you, pounding nails in a board.

 "Your reward is not in this life: your reward is this life.
 Your gift: to experience the glory of Creation with all your senses-
	to learn to love like agape- an eternal constant knife
        that cuts what separates and tears down all fences.

The agents of 'separation' are manifested thoughts
        and actions of humans who fall into despair.
 Despair leaves little room for love- so love transmutes 
	into compassion, flows towards you unnoticed through the air. 
She absorbs the slings and arrows of despair; 
a well that when drawn from, overflows and waters your roots.

The 'weak force' is more powerful than the 'strong.'
Through a matrix, "singlets" are born from pure energy-
        born of an imbalance between Creation and Annihilation; 
everything seen and unseen in nature has won the quantum battle 
to exist for a while, but not for long.
Yet, the 'weak force' is often defined in terms 
        of  destructive radioactive decay- that mirrors 
processes observable on Earth. May we redefine
ourselves and each other backwards, from death to birth?
When the Magi presented their gifts to the Christ-
most precious and beloved, worthy gifts to a prince or a pauper.
And when He was grown, He said, "All gifts are equally beloved 
        and all men are princes and paupers."
There is no direct correlation: 
      Between what we sow and what we reap-
is everything under the sun. That which unites and that 
which separates to rule are the transient game. 
"Be not proud, for all your gifts and faults are tools, to help
you quantify the gifted and the poor the same."

Rewritten on 11/28/13.

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

A gracious comment on Cassandra

I wrote some words today and showed them to a stranger.
They guided me in terms of semantics, definition, and faith:
	Saying: 'Pride is freedom."
I listened intently for the constructive criticism of my ideas:
	My poetry is not a subjective flow of concepts, unorganized and free!
I am bound and constrained to 'real conditions and real claims,'
	and tethered to... being an amateur.
I heard, I was analyzing philosophy and fell 
	short of the correct interpretation, according to. . .
Someone that knows better than I. 
Let me take this constructive, enlightening criticism to heart;
May it guide me around the corners of a tight box, structured and pre-defined.
Hold me fast to a metric leash, familiar to the ear and approved by literary critics.	
Thank you for shutting the door of my cage when I tried to sing;
I will be more quiet in the future, mimicking the style of dead poets.

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

Blooms in

I met someone once, who showed me why the flowers bloom;
And why it is so easy for buds to break through the early spring snow.

I was afraid, and said nothing.  Yet I am there, whenever I want to be, in that moment. 
My hand touches the cold snow and I can feel the earth is warm, underneath.

 I sweep the old grapevine leaves away, and feel with my hands for life renewing. The crocus and tulip bulbs gently break the surface of the soil and meet my hand. And I think, who were these people? Did they have dreams like me?

Time slows down for the longest moment, and I am captured in the truth of that moment. Crystalized forever, the imprint remains.

A Brief Unforgettable Moment Contest
Contest date 12/2013

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem

My friend, Brigit

In me there is a tried and true reflection of the Green
the black, the forest, the damp leaves and the rain in winter.
Everyday in the evening, when the dawn breaks-
 I walk the animal trails to see who came at night,
 in the dark to eat the corn, the moss, the grass.

A stag and three does come every Thursday.
I leave carrots, and bones, and roots, and acorns-
at dusk- in the morning, forage the wild boars
mother and her newborns, with large bullish horns-
under the old oaks, abundant in thorn, and ash.

I had a dream I sat beneath the moon-tide at noon
and Brigit, my bright friend, again was near and dear-
We grew up like sisters and parted as such too soon.
I see her now once a week; Aye, see and hear how to

Know if one's weak know and if one's strong
and now how to write one's wronged wrong.
Send her a message: Ev re:one needs a better,
	 half recalled.
A friend in deed, she comes to console:
A shoulder to laugh on, a story already told.

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2014

Details | Daisy Goodman Poem


My Teacher said I must learn to defend my left side;
my weak side is soft and generous, bruises easily with pride.
My right arm is strong, ulna and radius reinforced with
titanium plates and screws, bonding bone to bone.

My fist forms in defense and flashes up to cover my eyes.
In response, a quick round-kick to my left elbow stuns
me to the ground, transfixed by acute pain in guise.
I have become soft to a sharp kick, a reflex delayed.

In the dullness of training, the soreness of practice
the Master said, "This is an exhibition. Trust me."
In the moment of trial, I forgot this instruction and
stood not still, reacting to an impulse of fear.

The coming blow puts in the path of my Master 
my weak elbow, now black and blue. His hand
reaches to pull me up, my right arm strong in his.
Helps me to my feet, he says, "Next time trust me."

Copyright © Daisy Goodman | Year Posted 2013