A Poem for a Painting

 

I recently came across a poetry competition called the Ekphrastic Poetry Contest. I know, I had to look it up too! It turns out that this refers to writing a poem that interprets a work of art. For example, Don McLean's song, Vincent - or, as we all think of it - Starry, Starry Night -  is essentially an ekphrastic interpretation of Vincent Van Gogh's painting, The Starry Night.

Well, despite the pretentious competition title, I liked the idea of this poetic challenge. Particularly so, because Dick's painting, Migration, has been sitting on his easel, greeting me each time I walk down the hallway. I have mentioned before that he felt a strong connection to Native American culture, and this painting came deeply from his soul. It was probably his favorite painting, and I used it for the invitations to his Celebration of Life.

The competition is over, and my poem didn't win, which means I can go ahead and publish it here on my blog - most competitions only want unpublished poems, which is a real pain. Sometimes when I enter a competition, I feel I have a chance. But with this one, and this publisher, I didn't really think that - my poems are never their cup of tea! The thing is, I really didn't write it for the competition, I wrote it for the challenge of the exercise. And, because I wanted to create my own little work of art to honor his. I did it for Dick, and I think he likes it. The poem is below the painting.

MIGRATION

PAINTING BY JR SECOR

MIGRATION

POEM BY MELISSA ANN GOODWIN

There you are!

In the heart of your tribe,

surrounded by your ancestors.

You, 

in the yellow robe,

safe among them now,

traveling to a new home.

After all the sorrow 

and all the pain,

After all the suffering

and the heartbreak,

After all the laughter

and all the love,

Walking!

Your body, 

that had forgotten

how it felt to stand,

or to place one foot

ahead of the other

as if it were

the most natural thing

in the world,

now gliding upright 

and at ease

across the land

Oh!

The joy of it!

To feel the ground

beneath your feet again,

each step,

a small

but not at all small

miracle

Your eyes

alive with wonder

at the richness 

of color -

the opal sky,

the vermillion cliffs

casting rainbow shadows

with the setting sun

Your heart,

unburdened now,

you are traveling light.

Far ahead,

you glimpse 

a shimmering New Land,

your new home,

Your mind ablaze

with wonder

that you never realized

how beautiful it all is - 

how beautiful it always was.

Poem: The Artist

 Your absence fills every inch of this space.

    It seeps between the floorboards,

    and crawls inside the cupboard

    where your favorite Rooster mug sits idle,

    and into the fridge, where a half-empty

    bottle of root beer patiently waits,

    and the drawer where we kept your pills,

    and the basket of socks on the closet shelf,

    and the wooden box on the dresser that holds

    your treasures - a class ring, an old watch, 

    a few foreign coins, and the bola tie you

    bought at Monument Valley.

    And especially, it hovers in the

    hallway cubby where you sat daily

    and silently shared your heart, 

    bringing beauty to life as if from nothing,

    your hand swirling smoothly 

    over canvas and paper.

    And where now, 

    morning sunlight crosses your easel 

    and the table with its clutter 

    of paint tubes, and brushes, and palette knives, 

    all poised and ready for your return,

    and I do not have the heart to tell them

    that they, like me, will never feel 

    the warmth of your hand again.    

Walking at Bourne Farm in Winter

Bourne Farm is one of my favorite places to walk in winter. I wrote the poem shared below after a January walk there two years ago. The stark beauty of the place made me think of Robert Frost poetry, and as I walked, the first lines of a poem began to form in my mind. Afterward, I challenged myself to write a poem in the Frost style, which meant rhyming and with a particular cadence. This is the poem that came out of that exercise, along with some photographs I took while walking at Bourne Farm today, another cold but beautiful January day.

Bourne Farm, Falmouth, Massachusetts

January 5, 2026

Walking at Bourne Farm in Winter

by Melissa Ann Goodwin

I'm not by far the first to tread

the Bourne Farm field this winter's day.

Footprints tattoo the snowy bed

as proof of those who passed this way.

In summer, green with happy vines,

this field now thatch beneath the snow.

In autumn, ripe with pumpkins fine,

but now, no traces does it show.

Where once an orchard bloomed in May

and bore its fruit in autumn's glow,

now just six twisted trees remain

to guard the murky pond below.

Their gnarled limbs tangle, curve, and bend,

against the clearest of blue skies.

They feel like old familiar friends:

steadfast, unflinching, stalwart, wise.

Such life these fields and trees have known!

Soil tilled, harvests reaped, seasons turned.

And those like me, who walk alone,

each one a life whose soul has yearned

to feel this sun upon their face,

to let the earth erase their fear,

to ask forgiveness and for grace,

to know it matters they were here.

Vacancy

Bourne Farm, Falmouth, Massachusetts

January 5, 2026

Bourne Farm, Falmouth, Massachusetts

January 5, 2026