The Pot Holder

There is an anthropological story

Lost in the archives

Of mankind’s libraries and museums,

A little known fact,

That along with the invention

Of fire and the wheel

The great surge of human progress

Was the invention of the pot holder,

A powerful force

In the slow ascendance

Toward our towering heritage

Toward human modernity.

The pot holder stands

Alongside human inventiveness

For life dominance,

As much as fire and wheel

But barely mentioned,

Deliberately silenced,

Lest its singular force

Cast doubt on human ingenuity.

For after fire,

And long before the wheel,

The pot holder can no longer be concealed,

For the paleological evidence

Is now quite clear,

Without the pot holder

In whatever form it might appear,

The modern human

Would not be here.

 

Ted Goodell

August 2018

 

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June 5, 2010

The Sign Swinger

 

Like a rectangular arrow

The sign Leaps and loops

As shot to the air

From hands held high

Above his head

And to his back

Bent to receive

This cardboard missile

As traffic slows

To watch his dazzling force

This skill that swings

His pride in work

And leaves brigades

Of silent men to drive away

with envy of such youthful grace

An audience to see

This salesmanship

In air and space

 

Ted Goodell

October 1, 2015

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

The Journey to Elbrianne

 

The world through a moving train

Is a swift distortion

Of an outside world

A hastening blurr

Of recurring memories

Stretched where the eye

No longer sees

In patterns flattened

By the ever changing rush

Of sky and trees

 

Now startled

By the rising sun

The train leaps

With such elongated force

That speed alone

Can not turn motion back

Where motion leaves

Each passenger alone

 

Ted Goodell

October 3, 2006