How blond must the portrait

of a man be

As blond as an Aryan Emperor

must be

Conspicuously blond radiantly blond

Shimmering blond bleached

Like a statuesque Sun God

With sparkling hair

A metallic veneer gloriously lit

With a color so blond

That only the first rays

Of the morning sun

Dare mirror the glory

Of a man made sun


Ted Goodell

February 6, 2019

The Missionary

She carries the

Paraphernalia of her faith

Sheltered near her heart

Her judicious smile

Conveys an aptitude

To missionize her faith

In parks or playgrounds

Where her congregation of casual strollers

Politely pause to receive the word

And be blessed by a sun

Heralding a Kingdom yet to come


Ted Goodell

August 2017

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 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




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






(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