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.

You sent them my way,
Put yourself in my path—
Smiled as you passed.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You brushed my arm,
Put your name in my head,
Smiled, gave me your card.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You cut my hair,
Put your hand on my head,
Smiled as you said that…
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You watched me waiting,
Put your hand in my hand,
Smiled as we discovered—
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You offered your love,
Put your ring on my hand,
Smiled, shared the moment.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You asked me to share,
Put us now, not me,
Smiling together.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You needed my help,
Put matters aside—
Smile fell from our face.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

You should have known
Put these issues aside—
Smiled, and remembered.
I missed your signals.
I missed your signs.

They speak in Scripture,
but they govern in greed.
They wear the Word like a badge,
but never bleed for it.

They promise morality,
but legislate division.
They quote the Sermon,
then sell the sword.

They say “God bless America”
but mean “God bless our base.”
They stir the faithful—
not to save,
but to sway.

And still,
the churches cheer.
Still, the crosses wave
on lawns and bumper stickers,
as if Christ Himself
endorsed a party line.

But Christ healed the stranger.
He fed the poor.
He turned over tables—
He didn’t sit at them
and bargain for votes.

They don’t walk with Him.
They walk ahead,
dragging His name
like a flag.

Do my politics matter to you?
What I say,
Who I stand for—
Red or blue?

You talk down to me
when I stand up for my right.
You call me stupid,
like what I believe has no place in the light.
Red or blue.

Every conversation—
a confrontation.
We don’t listen.
We just wait to speak.
We don’t hear each other.
We don’t see each other.
Red. Or blue.

But when I show up to work,
and you’re the one on the table—
heart exposed,
life hanging in the balance—
should I even stop to ask:
Red?
Or blue?

Because out here,
in the real world,
that line we draw in our minds—
it disappears.

When it’s life or death,
when it’s breath or no breath,
when it’s me and you—
I have to be red and blue
just to deal with you.

Not because I choose to,
but because I need to.

Because underneath the votes,
beneath the noise,
we are more than colors,
more than sides,
more than lines drawn to divide.

And maybe,
just maybe,
we could remember that—
before the next fight.

Red or Blue

When your child was born,
you laid her on a blanket on the floor.
You crouched low,
looked her in the eyes.
You goo-goo and gaga’d to draw her in—
you came down to her level.

As she toddled through your home,
you dropped to one knee,
met her where she was.
You spoke gently,
corrected softly,
always guiding her—
down to her level.

As she grew,
your words stayed kind,
you negotiated with patience,
nudged her with wisdom—
still
down to her level.

But now she’s grown.
A woman, yes—
but still your child.
And now, you talk to her as your equal.
You try to relate adult to adult.
But you forgot
to come down to her level.

Because even now,
she looks up to you.
She needs your words
not as a peer,
but as her parent—
measured, loving, grounded.
Down to her level.

I’m sorry your bond is broken.
Not because you changed,
but because you couldn’t find
that shared ground again—
that quiet space where love meets understanding.
Because you didn’t
come down to her level.

I left you
standing on the hill.
Not in anger,
not with hate—
but with the quiet ache
of knowing I could not stay.

I told you
it would never be my home.
Not because it lacked beauty,
but because it lacked foundation.
Still, you asked me to stay,
to shield you from the wind.

You wanted a protector,
a wall against the storm,
but I am not the wind’s master.
I am not the mountain.
I cannot hold back
what was always coming.

I watched as your hill
began to erode—
not from neglect,
but from the nature
of what it was made of.

I tried to build it up,
to shape it into safety,
to sculpt from sand
a fortress strong enough
to hold us both.

But you can’t build forever
on something that washes away.
And love,
as much as it longs to stay,
needs something solid
beneath its feet.

So I left you
standing on the hill,
not because I stopped caring—
but because I finally saw
I was sinking too.

I knew in a moment—
my heart fell fast.
In your eyes,
I was caught—
in a love
meant to last.

Your hand in mine,
like a thread through time.
And in that second?
The world
was mine.

You laughed
like a song
only I knew.
And I held
every word—
like it might not be true.

Each look
was a fire.
Each touch,
a flame.
And nothing we felt
ever once
felt like shame.

But your father—
he stood there
still.
With a wary stare
and a warning to ****
what we had
before it flew too far.
Said:

Love takes time, son.
Don’t chase a star.
It burns too bright.
It fades too fast.
Young love is fire—
but it never lasts.

He told me to walk away.
To spare you the pain.
To disappear
before we both go insane.

But I looked in his eyes
and I said quietly
If she’s gonna hurt,
Then let it be me.

Not the man she believes in.
Not the one she adores.
Not the first love she’s known
who then slams the door.

If I break her?
Time might heal the ache.
But if you do it…
it’s a different break.

You’ll teach her that love
isn’t worth the risk.
That it ends
in silence,
in rules,
in a fist.

Let her feel it.
Let her fall.
Let her rise,
even if she crawls.

Because love—
even young—
isn’t always a lie.
It can teach us to live
even when we say goodbye.

So if it must end…
then I’ll take the fall.

But don’t be the reason
she builds up a wall.

Let her believe
that her heart can be free.
And if it must break?
Then let it
be me.

Dear Mother,
I want to tell you how lucky I am to have such a wonderful friend in you.
You’ve shown me such strength, and I knew you would guide us down these difficult roads.
My heart goes out to you.
My loss seemed great—but insignificant compared to your loss.
I know how much you love Dad,
and I can only hope to find a love like yours.

I’m content to have known the love in our family—
the love that keeps my heart full as I move through this life.

You’ve held our hands
and guided us through our darkest times.

I keep thinking about how I will carry on
with this empty feeling of our loss.
Still, I hope you find peace, now that his pain has stopped.
His suffering is over.

He told us about the place that was prepared for him.
His faith empowers us all.
If there’s a heaven—he will be welcomed.

We must carry on.
Your strength is the power of love.

You told me:
The love we knew will never diminish.

You told me you didn’t dwell in the past,
but if you could go back,
you’d go back to have more time with Dad—
six years ago, before he was sick.
We were so happy.

I thought about this conversation
as I traveled back to California, brokenhearted,
with your words still in my head.

I was inspired by your love.
So please know—these words are from my heart.

Your loving son


Six Years Ago

Six years ago
I told you
I did not dwell in the past—
but now,
I want to travel back.

One life was good.
You chose to go.
Six years ago,
I would like to go—
for just one last
glance at you,
your shadow cast.

But now I’ve found
that time has passed.

I love you, Dad.
Maybe these memories last.

Such love you gave—
no effort shown,
with open hands,
the love you’down.    

Faithful without restraint
My loss—God’s gain.

So hold him close
where we once did.
His life, for you,
he did give.

Yes, I’m dining alone.
Thank you, fine sir—
This table I’ve known.

I take in the room,
Parties fill every chair.
Happy couples swoon;
I see their sad stare.

Yes, I’m dining alone,
Not by choice—but by fate.
The lonely diner atones,
Sits quiet, in place.

Christian nationalists have crowned Donald Trump
as their new Christ—
because he is everything the first one was not.

Jesus was poor.
Trump is rich.
Jesus was meek.
Trump is a bully.
Jesus lost.
Trump obsesses over winning.

If Donald Trump and J.D. Vance met Jesus today,
they’d ridicule him—
a single, childless hippie
preaching peace in sandals.

They’ve rejected the Sermon on the Mount.
Turn the other cheek?
They scoff—
“That got us nowhere.”

To them, love is weak.
Mercy is soft.
Kindness is woke.

They look down on Jesus
because he was poor,
because he forgave,
because he didn’t fight for power.

How did we get here—
where loving your enemy is weakness,
and loving your neighbor is radical?

They scorn the teachings of Christ—
not because they don’t understand,
but because they don’t serve them.

Christian nationalism isn’t about Jesus.
It’s about the pursuit of power.
And power is their only god.

You say—
You don’t agree with me.

My opinions are heard
Engage until enraged
I’m using my words

against you.
I’m  speaking the truth
Based on facts
and you’re not using facts.
You’re repeating false claims

I’m speaking truth.
Not to win—
but because it has to be said.
Because silence
lets the lie live longer.

And when I am in power—
if I’m wrong,
then use my words against me.
Hold me to them.

I hope you do.

Because I speak the truth,
and truth must be heard.
Even when it hurts.
Even when it turns on me.

Let the record show:
I stood on truth.
So use my words—
not to destroy me,
but to remind me
who I said I was.
hood

If today were my last, I’d live with no regret,
Embrace every sunrise, every sun that’s set.
Reflect on each step, each joy, each pain,
In the dance of life, sunshine and rain.

Each breath a treasure, each heartbeat dear,
I’d savor the moments, hold loved ones near.
With laughter and love, and tears that fell,
In the story I wrote, I’d find farewell.

For life is a journey, a winding road,
With burdens shared and kindness sowed.
So if today’s the last, my heart would say,
I’m grateful, I’ve lived well, come what may.