Football Sunday


Even the ref

Seems to grow peeved

Annoyed at the inert ball

He must heave

And the whistle sounds

Shrill in our ears.

We reach down into our coats

For warmth.


Ted Goodell






Is Daddy in a cage?

Booted and perfumed

Like grasshoppers

And other delicate

Instruments of

Instantaneous absorption;

Between handshakes

Let trail a trace

Of a silent sweet perfume

On palms and fingers

So slightly held

That essence

Clings and bears

No resemblance to that

Hand of his which

Had it not been held

Would still be said

To smell of sand


Ted Goodell


Saint Counselor


Saint Counselor

Crammed down in his boots

Like a bomber

Vigilant tank target

Of the crooked night,

The endless end over

Gambled boys and their pain

So verbal that one out,

So verbal that the night

Finds thin habit shame


Ted Goodell





In time the image

Is less like me

And more like you

Pencil legs long boned

And thin

The vestibule of the groin

A web of shadows

Above the knees

Much less like weight

And more like wind

Blown by the head

That once had hair

A prong called nose

Between the

Planets of my eyes

That once saw sound

But now see nothing

But the noise


Ted Goodell

March 16, 2010

Little Renegade


Little renegade, object of my awe,

Preening your golden fur

In the mystery of my cozy garden,

Crouching in a ray of sunlight,

What brings you to this tender feast of home?


Your feline pride as pompous

As a courtier before a King,

Your throne embedded where you think

I can not see, and yet-

How scandalous it is

For both of us to be so shy

When nothing but my glance

And your reply

Would bind us to a single life

That neither man or cat

Can live without their common bond of time.


Ted Goodell

October 8, 2009

Still When the Wooded Fox is Born


Still when the wooded fox is born

Almost forgotten now

Brute nature

Rude in her green power,

Curious seasons

Clean as milk

And tangled

When the wind blows,

Oh timeless vanity

Give nothing back

But your hot fury

When the sun

Is a stiletto of steam

And all your dark flowers

Bend as the deep sediment dreams


Ted Goodell

February 6, 2008

The Hummingbird


Suddenly, within the transparency

Of early dawn

The hummingbird arrived

With the swift concentric beating

Of its flashing wings

Aloft and then around

With barely noticeable

Torque of speed

It fired forth its aim upon

My simple feeder

Sipping the sweetness from this artifact of glass

A momentary hover

And then a burst of speed

As swiftly as it came

Its destination still sublime

And then one flower singled out

One garden filled with joy

Will soon betroth

This power, this force

That whispers its presence but does not destroy


Ted Goodell

November 16, 2009