Mary Jane's Shoes

Mary Jane's Shoes

Musings of one person among many. Not exceptional in any way, as with all, I have exceptional experiences and varied reactions to those events. Mine is one of many life stories and how I manage and cope with the events which make my life my own, I attempt to put forth by way of my writings.

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A Bracelet

January 13, 2016



Between the perfume bottle

and the bracelet resting on my dresser,

there is a story

of how I fell in love with you. 


Between the camera and the books, 

a stack of three,

there is a story of how you fell in love with me. 

Slipping on the bracelet, one of silver and engraved, 

my eyes read the title of one book.

Never Take For Granted Love, on the cover it did say.

On my wrist the scent I placed. 

Its aroma told of a moment when your arms they lifted me

and we spun circles on brick space.

Reflected in glass double doors,

this was a true love story’s start.

To have the moment photographed, I could visit it once more. 


On the silver band around my wrist,

my only love had inscribed,

“Never take for granted love.”

Nostalgic tears did fall, from my hazel eyes.




How Long

December 1, 2015


I will love you until streams run dry, until immersed are desert sands. ~ mary jane goodman



Come On In

November 15, 2015


Come on in.

Come on in.

I’ve got a story to tell.

Come on in.

Come on in, 

and sit a spell.


My mama put her hand on my shoulder 

said, Honey you have grown bolder.

That’s all well and good,

but please don’t expect your life to be like polished wood.”


Come on in.

Come on in.

I’ve got a story to tell.

Come on in.

Come on in,

and sit a spell.


Splinters come and give piercing pain. 

Daddy said, ” They themselves are not to blame.

Life gives us good reason

to appreciate all seasons,

those dark and cold, 

those with deeper souls.”


Come on in.

Come on in.

I’ve got a story to tell.

Come on in.

Come on in,

and sit a spell.


“When you were three,

living nearly took the best of me.

I closed the door to my room and on my pillow cried,

the most potent tears that ever left my eyes.”

“The tears left in my heart an empty space. 
I then thought of the love you gave. 

The pictures on the refrigerator door,

you were showing off the costume you wore. 

Warmness filled the empty space in my heart 

and I realized hurt in life is an important part.”


Come on in.

Come on in.

I’ve got a story to tell.

Come on in.

Come on in,

and sit a spell.

mary jane goodman

2015 November

While the Fire Burns

November 13, 2015

While the fire burns,

I will allow myself to learn

the rituals you keep.


On which side of bed do you sleep?

Do you flip your pillow often through the night,

to feel the cool cotton of the other side?


Do you pull on both socks before your shoes?

Or do you dress one foot at a time, 

before into the car you climb?


While the fire burns,

I will allow myself to learn

the rituals you keep.


Is it your desire to run,

while the morning sky is full of sun?

If not, is it your preference, 

to move in late afternoon air heaviness?


Does darkness fill the days with gloom?

Do you see life one with little room,

or are your days those of light, of space, and of grateful play. 


While the fire burns,

I will allow myself to learn

the rituals you keep.


Between the flicker of the flame

and the gray, smoldering ashes,

I learned to see in a picture frame

seemingly small moments as grand flashes. 


I see and feel your favorite coffee mug,

in my hand the curve of its white handle. 

In melded shadow we exist from a single candle.


On the stained wood mantle, in its spot it sits, 

next to the fan, yet not blown out it emits

what will be a memory. 

It will own a picture frame,

a grand small moment

in between ashes and flickering flame,


while the fire burns.


~ mary jane goodman

2015 November

A Parent Wants

November 11, 2015

A parent can want health and joy for their child, and work to that end.

A parent desires to see a child thrive. 

A parent can plan for their children, but only to the most basic degree. 

It most likely will bear moments of discomfort for the elder, but eventually a parent learns to provide the freedom and the opportunities a child needs to discover her stronger interests, abilities, and use her natural empathy. 

Love for a child is not planning their path. 

Love for a child is not a constant push. 

Love for a child is a gentleness married to guidance. 

Love for a child is a slow release. 

This is difficult for a parent, yet is a source of liberation and need for both parent and child. 


~ mary jane goodman

~ 2015, November 9

If I Am Unfortunate

October 29, 2015


If I am the unfortunate one 

and I live beyond your days,

not making the passage before you, 

surviving will be a contradiction to my desire. 


I cannot see that day 

without your breath in my ear, 

whispering words no one else can hear. 

I cannot fathom that first day

when I no longer know your arms 

wrapped around my shoulders 

sending strength to stand against any unforeseen harm. 


I will see your figure in scrubs walking

down the stairs off our deck. 

Rushed you will be, leaving for a day 

of stress. 

The car will start, and you will leave

for a workday that has no end. 

You will not come home. 

No engine sounds, there will be no footsteps on the ground. 


I do not want to face that time. 

I will fold into myself and wait for mine. 


Any solace could only come from visions,

hallucinations of your eyes looking into mine. 

They would lock upon each other, stay fixed. 

I would melt again into them 

and be forever gone. 

~ mj goodman


October 28, 2015



Drinking from the water glass

has not rid me of this embarrassing fun. 

Sitting I am at the table, long, 

so full in length my aging eyes cannot be sure

of the personalities seated at the opposite end of the unmarred inlaid wood plank. 

My tendency is to hope I am the only guest that heard my unintentionally formed lung pop.

Salad forks, dinner forks, knives serrated and not, and silver spoons of different cuts are placed around the largest plate’s circumference. 

The pattern displayed is perfectly monotonous. 

Impeccably advertised. 


Striking is the silver; 

vibrant is the light off crystal,

yet the setting lacks vivid life. 


The stillness is a striking vision of all that is not living. 


Perfectly spaced and arranged. 

In a life desired, and graced upon me, 

here now all is lifeless,

until my escaping hiccup breaks through the rigid meal.


Hiccups. I have the painful sort. 

While touching the white linen cloth

that carries the china, silver, crystal,

my chest expands;

it releases a second inappropriate sound, 

at a greater volume than the first. 

The figures beyond my clear vision,

at the far end of the table,

react uncomfortably to the sound.

I do see their life and movement. 

No more is this table stagnant. 

Chuckles of the humored,

and gasps of those not so tickled,

unveil awakened guests’ now disrupted attempts to be too civilized. 

Utensils are used and returned to a lazy spots. 

Wine sloshes in uncontrolled goblets. 

Guttural sounds and full belly laughs bring life to the strictly displayed scene.

Real humans now sit here, no facades. 

The uniform line no longer guides.

The reaction erases the calligraphy, the painstakingly written lines;

it eases restrictions,

and each person lives without a harness steering her or him in the proper direction. 


Hiccups break the stillness, 

the monotony, 

as does thunder. It, the noise of thunder claps

awakens the stillness in a scene. 

They are only two of the infinite sounds of life

vibrating the tiny bones in my ears. 

The deliberate dive of the fox in snow,

nature’s movement follows a regimen. 

The fox owns a GPS of sorts. 

Science is in control. 

Rules of nature reign. 

Manners of life guide. 

Yet movement, when left to be, 

does express and teach what is fullness of life. 

Our fox surprises his intended prey; 

a vibrant shock awakens. 

We do not know,

when surprise will stir the living. 


A break in dominant, pure, stirring monotony, 
the lowly hiccup awakens what is beneath the linen tablecloth of order. 

It does have order, the ordered actions of and on this world. 


of chemistry and physics,

are followed. 

Even still we find ourselves surprised. 

Though sound is part of a grand outline, 

it arrives without warning as does the pounce of the fox in white snow. 

Both are welcome interruptions to the still. 


If I cared not about nature’s rules, 

I would not see sense in life. 

I do care. 

I am not privy to the timing

of each action, sight, sound, touch, or smell;

I accept the surprise. 

I revel in the hiccup at my table

and the subsequent stirrings; 

the ordered chaos of living is a welcome hug. 

I too, with continued surprises and reveling in them, 

would find at death myself,

an even more vibrant human

armed with an overwhelmingly full existence,

owning a mess of organized chaos,

and hiccups at the table. 


To a Child

October 17, 2015

To a Child~

You are worthwhile. You are important. Your life means much to this earth even as you are small. You are loved. Play. Share your joy. Stay curious and daring, though certainly not at risk to your safety. Share any fear with those who give of themselves and give time to listen. Share your goodness. Speak of goodness. Others will learn from your words and behaviors. 


Extraordinary gifts you have. Release them. To do so, be truly yourself, and do not let self ridicule keep you from doing so. Though you might have the tendency to be timid at the start, feel the fear, then move to a different space. Accept it exists, then allow yourself to feel that which is oh so much more gravely real and pertinent. Sharing your uniqueness is a gift. Being unique is not only a gift to others, but as well to you. It only serves, when released, to better the lives of other peoples.   



Laugh. Share. Assist. Be Curious. Learn. Fall down. Teach. 

Love, give it freely. 

Show this world that you can change a part of what is bad, which sadly does exist, into strong goodness. Your mind and your hands both possess the strength to clutch the earth and create a better home.

~ mary jane goodman 

Castle of Stone

October 16, 2015


Music. When I hear notes glide into one another in a pattern soothing and mathematically sensible, there is no break for my mind to wander. Thoughts, other than those the tune itself brings, are not in need of permission to enter the four walled space enclosing me. Outer subject matter seems not to exist, and is not granted permission if it is seeked. If the patterns and notes flow seemlessly and with allure, permission is simply not allowed for interruption. Nothing disrupts the musical tome. If I am listening intensely, and more so if I am as well singing with lyrics, I am protected. The other four senses are shut down to a degree, as if I am alone on the shore, with no other, with no biting fish and broken shells to cut my feet. I am safe with the music of rhythmic wave crashes as my guardian, my castle of stone. 




October 16, 2015




I fell to the bottom of the sea.

Where on sand, 


extraordinary creatures swam 

and each whispered me to leave the cloaking darkness.

Surrender, I had, to the drop with only vague vision. 

It was a pull they whispered, taken I had been by my heart strings full with blood. 


My body floated on the surface,

my mind filled with pictures of unseen creatures,

 which might be found below. 

I was ready for the promise, a gift, 

the surrender. 

Salted water weighed heavy on my ankles, 

a peaceful drag took me. 

Skin wrinkled.

Breath taken.

Hair tangled in itself,

my body found the floor.


Surrounded by rawness,
the whispers began. 

I was not meant for this world beneath air,

in the darkness, 

without what I knew as light. 

I should climb to the sea surface 

as a sherpa to a mountain summit, they said. 

I am to live as others the same do, they said. 


My heart did not want to venture back
to stillness nor to sameness. 

I tethered my heart strings to ancient rocks resting, 

so as to plant my stance. 

I bathed in different waters. 

Deep sea cold on skin only warmed. 

I surrendered to the novel. 

The hidden no longer hid. 

I surrendered to this gift. 

I surrendered to my gospel. 



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