Nothing Back

 

Whenever someone turns

The covers back

Remember times hidden hand

Turns nothing back

Not even dawn

With its crescent

Spectacle of light

Can steal a single feather

Lost in flight

Release it to the wind

Or give it freedom

For another night

 

Ted Goodell

April 30, 2007

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Ode to a Crumb

 

A crumb is such a crumbly thing

A fragile tiny flake

It waits so patiently upon a plate

Or rests upon a table top

Never knowing where or when

Dark destiny will sweep it to a pail

Or often by a well aimed hand

To shoot it spiraling to the sand

Concealed or cursed it never knows

Exactly when its innocence will close

Too late to learn indifference rules

It flutters helplessly beneath a stool

No prayers or cleric sacraments to bless

How pitiful to be abbreviated into nothingness

 

Ted Goodell

October 18, 2014

 

Slick

 

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

1975

Amentia

 

To form what flames and burns

And embers still,

That still lights,

Lingers with outstretched fingers

The elbow bends and bends

And arms reach yonder,

Around what circle or pit,

For each abyss,

We who convey each step,

Pause and nod

Wordless as we ponder this

Strange presence of what remains child,

Yet vows to unfold what can

Never be child,

Can never beyond what touches

Those nerves

And touches the eyes and the mouth

Into shapes that descend

With the dread years

Of stubbornness,

That laughs at the thick

Fabric blurring the sun.

 

Ted Goodell

1966

 

 

 

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