Quick Quip #3

And in the spirit of giving, here’s one more. . .

03_shorts

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Bedtime Story

 

Her name was Jane

Her time was once.

Her bedtime wish

Was a splendid garment

Mother made.

Its value surpassing a shawl

For this was a full body wrap

Adorned with a hood.

Commodious cloak forever in red

Protective influence of wool

Pseudonym to guard this girlishness,

Exhilarate child with basket

Bountifully laden with food,

To leave home straight-pathed

But unguarded.

Her grandmother adored

Generational force to draw to her bedside

Irreversible appointment

The parents too trifle, not daring.

But what of this walk through

The woods – this conceit of innocence

Immaculate and good

Transfixed with unblemished soul

Her world like Mirandas

Concealing its Calibans

The emergence of evil in time.

 

Grandmother, loneliness leaves us,

Even our temperamental children

Remember us,

And the risk of a bedtime story

Plagues us

‘Til the forest vanquishes

The eternal wolf.

Ted Goodell

1968

 

Doors

 

Through doors that open

On my mother’s socks

I see a crumpled Kleenex

Certainly one of many used

In the patient act of

Blowing or wiping.

A stray now,

Displaced from the plastic pail

Which holds the residue of

Surplus tossings through a

Stalactite of socks.

 

Our mornings arise

From a myth of

Pancakes and perfumes.

 

We halt our impressions

By the side of the sink.

How easy it is

To flush and forget.

 

Ted Goodell

1975

 

BARF

(Belching Acidic Regurgitated Food)

 

I parked by a puddle of barf

It was alarmingly brutal to see

But then I thought of its

Lush evacuation

From the distraught intestine of its

Caged owner

Its outline beginning to seep in the rain

The contents now and then

A mixture of sausage and milk

Or yet some frothing sauce

With cream around the edge

A slice or two of cole slaw

Clinging to a bit of pear

Still floating in a sagging

Ring of broth

An optical horror

Its last drops

Waiting for the purification

Of the sun

 

Ted Goodell

March 20, 2011

The Thumb

(to Lianne)

 

The thumb rules a quartet of fingers

Unique yet different

Present but apart

Smaller than its four companions

But for strength reveals a necessary compensation

Especially when noting how the fingers

While branching from the palm

Can wiggle and expand

And often they are musically inclined

And delicate when tapping out a tune

At once the stalwart thumb

Resists such anatomical temptations

Trusting to its job of isolating power

When shoveling trenches

In the earth

Or hoisting rocks

Or raising flags

For then the thumb prevails in fame

And lends the hand

A second brain

 

Ted Goodell

July 27, 2014