I want them to shake you-
not to break you,
but to stir something deep.
To rattle you, gently,
from places I’ve let fall asleep.

To spring anger—yes—
but only where healing begins.
To draw tears,
like cleansing rain,
and decorate the silence
with something real again.

I want them to leave you wondering,
just quietly wanting more.
Not confused,
but curious—
like standing before an unopened door.

I want my words to shake you,
not to harm—
but to hold.
To bring you to the floor,
only so you rise
even more bold.

My words should empower you,
Implore you to want more—
more peace,
more light,
more truth than ever before.

To leave you hanging—
not lost,
but suspended—
in a breath,
where something new is just about
to begin.

Because words can move—
and I hope mine move you,
like kindness in full bloom,
like quiet strength
in a still room.

I asked myself daily—
What would Jesus do?

Did you read the Word of God?
Preach it amongst the followers?
Find comfort in your parish?
Fellowship in the church?

Do you walk the walk?
Or just talk the talk?

Do you follow the teachings of Jesus?
Do you help others?
Give of yourself—
The shoes off your feet,
The clothes off your back?

If so,
You walk the walk.

But—
Do you tell them of your good deeds?
Read from the Word?
Practice what you preach?
Or do you talk the talk
But don’t wanna walk?

Do you follow in His path of righteousness—
Or are you just righteous?

Do you practice your religion,
Or parade it?
Do you heed the words you read,
Or twist them when it’s convenient?

Do you show kindness to the less fortunate?
Do you care for the poor?
The marginalized?
Do you teach them the ways of God?

“Blessed are the poor in spirit…”
“Sell your possessions and give to the poor.”
“Love your neighbor as yourself.”
“The Kingdom of God is for the poor.”

Jesus Himself showed compassion to the poor.
Healing the sick,
Feeding the hungry,
Speaking out against injustice.

So remember His words—
Before you use them as your own.

Walk the walk.
Don’t just talk the talk.

“Whatever you did to one of these brothers and sisters of mine…
You did to Me.”

So different,
But so much the same.
We don’t walk the same path,
But we came from the same name.

We find strength in numbers,
Power in presence,
Comfort when we gather—
A sacred kind of essence.

The wisdom of our fathers,
The stories they told,
Passed down like treasures,
More valuable than gold.

We’ve stood in different places,
Lived in different lands,
But still—
We carry the same name
With the same proud hands.

The miles may stretch,
But they can’t erase
The blood we share,
The bond we face.

One name.
One line.
One heart.
One flame.
Different faces—
But the fire’s the same.

Yes, we are family.
We wear it like a crown.
The Goodrich name—
We hold it down.

Our roots run deep,
Our love runs wide.
Whatever may come,
We stand with pride.

So here’s to the name,
And all it became—
Different, yes…
But built the same.

In the town of York, Maine,
on these two acres,
stood the house my grandfather built
for my grandmother—
the MicMac.

As a child, I played with my sister and brother,
while my mother and grandmother bustled about:
rooms to clean, linens to wash,
the clothesline filled with sheets
drying in the summer breeze.

Grampy’s lawn tractor out back,
the Cadillac parked in front.
Family came together here—
we always knew the door was open.

This family business helped so many,
more than we will ever know.
Friends, aunts, uncles, cousins—
Grampy and Nanny Beagan.

A late-night knock on the door
delivered a message
we would never forget:
the loss of my Uncle Murray.
His memory stays
in my heart—
and on my chin.

Mary Ellen is there
as Nanny makes me an ice cream shake.
Grampy in his chair,
sipping a highball,
watching the evening news.

In Murray’s dresser,
I find his music albums—
and a pair of pants
with Magoo
embroidered on the back pocket.

A picture of Murray,
in a knit hat,
sitting with friends.

Mom and Dad are on their way to Florida.
Christine, Shannon, and I
are going to the MicMac.
Nanny always made me feel better
when I was sad without my parents.

When Mom was in the hospital,
Nanny and Grampy held us tight,
keeping our minds
from how much we missed her.

One October,
we moved into the MicMac.
Mom would run the motel
while Dad went off to work each day.

Those were good times—
with the Chick boys,
and Jeffrey next door.
There was always something to do,
a new world to explore.

We all grew up so fast,
as time passed us by.
Graduations, weddings, funerals—
we returned
to the MicMac.

Through the years,
it’s become hard
to live the life
the MicMac requires.
The days are long.
The bell will ring.
The grass will grow.

But I always hoped this day would come:
so Mom and Dad could walk away
with the pennies they earned,
and the time
to enjoy the life they deserve.

This place—
this MicMac—
has made us rich with love,
filled us with joy,
and given our family a home
only we can understand.

I will miss her.

But I am full—
with the love
that we all know
as MicMac.

Thank you, Gramps.
Thank you, Nanny.
Thank you, Mom and Dad.
Through your hard work and love,
you gave me
the riches of a lifetime.

I will never forget the MicMac.
Nor will I give back my key.

May I Be the Last Thing on Your Mind
As you end this day and slip into sleep?
May I be the calm that softly finds
Your resting thoughts, where silence runs deep?

May I be the peace where your dreaming starts,
The hush that lingers, warm and kind—
A whisper held in your quiet heart,
The very last thing on your mind tonight.

I gave you my love—forever.
But forever was mine to give.
Now loneliness is my forever,
And alone is mine to live.

I gave you my heart—forever.
My heart was mine to give.
Now broken-hearted is my forever,
And heartbreak is mine to live.

Love sent me searching, longing for more,
The kind that don’t knock—it kicks down the door.
The love that you showed me was twisted, confined,
Not trinkets or words stitched frozen in time.

Love is a feeling, it crawls down your spine,
Fills up your heart, takes hold of your mind.
It’s not always gentle, not always kind—
Sometimes it hurts, leaves pieces behind.

Love sends you reeling, hoping to find
A flicker of joy from someone in time.
But love made you angry, it tore you apart,
And the love that you gave me—
It bruised my heart.

Not of my kind, not born from the same—
I’ve learned that now, it’s not all a game.
But it’s hard to show love when you think you know how,
When your past plants a flag and won’t let you bow.

I learned from my father, my mother was kind—
Their love carved a space that lives in my mind.
So the love that I carry, the love that is mine,
Is gentler, is deeper,
It’s not of your kind.