For The Nice Girl (I Understand)

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

The bottom line: You’ve sold.
Not because you’re not
with me, more because
you’ve settled, low.

No more soliloquies on jerks;
either accept that type,
or leave them alone.
For the record, these are just my thoughts,
letting my dome roam, like Tony Romo
on a fly pattern to T.O.

I would say this –
If you want to talk about Man,
and his naturally DOGmatic nature;
collectively, women might take
some of that responsibility.
Because there are scores
of nice guys out there,
playing the scene.

There are just as many
men who can’t see past
The tip of their own sh*t,
And plenty of girls
Who enable it.

So nice guys take the rap, all the time,
for another brother’s crimes!
I’ve been there before,
trying to play heartbreaker
when I was only playing myself,
so I guess that I can’t play
the part of Pious Theophilus.
I’ve come to find out, even
Augustine of Hippo had dirt
(I guess we all do).

Just feel me on this one:
It’s a learning process, and
if he doesn’t treat you right;
give you everything
that you’re worthy of,
then you’re the fool
for sticking around.

That being said, I’m not hitting you
with a completely unsympathetic frown.
Ultimately, the point will stand,
that where his soul lies down
is the beauty of a man;
and all that stuff on the exterior –
Well, let’s just say things
aren’t always as they appear.

It’s a cycle, Juliet – and Romeo has been frustrated.
Right now, I’m speaking with grown-up sincerity;
and I know, sometimes the little boy manages
to creep his way back into the picture, but
believe me when I say that I am trying,
it’s a complex mixture.

So when I whisper sweet something’s up
to your moonlit balcony from below;
tell you that when I’m with you,
I can feel myself grow;
or shower you with the
praises that you deserve,
and try to make you glow –
All I ask is that you hear me,
and believe me.

And believe me, I see –
Other cats are going to keep
jacking authentic styles and flows,
keep a strut in their walk,
and talk low over the phone.
Remember though; he can only
quote Shakespeare so long –
before you and he realize,
he’s just singing
another man’s song.

More importantly,
I want you to be happy.
Because I adore
the way you smile,
how you push
the long strands
of hair behind your ears
when you laugh.

And I know that
a lot of the time,
if you get drunk,
or decide to get high
(for the first time),
that you come to me,
reach out to me.

Sad part of this story –
I won’t be.
I’m not your knight
in shining armor,
or your Cinderella plan.

You have to love yourself
Before you can share
with someone else.



Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Restless nights.
Shuffle my deck,
I don’t like my hand.
Where is my queen of hearts?
This game is lonesome,
And I’m tired of
Playing by myself.


Dancing With Dawn

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

No sleep leaves
Him sleep deprived,
He hides beneath
His drooping eyes,
And comes home to dwell
Within the silence of the night.

Before spreading across the bed,
He places his patched jacket
Above the ground, on a hook,
To hang, suspended for the flipside.
A glance at the clock tells him it’s three,
Plus a quarter turn to the right.

It’s always before dreams, it seems,
That he feels the need to pull
Out pen and paper, to write.
Very soon, he knows,
It will be bright.
And lights will shine in,
To wake him up, again.

Sometimes, though,
He likes to pretend,
That there isn’t an end,
To this nocturne world.

So while he…
His, mind dances along the moon,
With a little more wandering,
His thoughts seem in tune,

To a jazzy
Twilight atmosphere,
And he hears –
The quiet orchestra
Of his thoughts,
Amidst the dark.

For a short time,
He’s moaning with Mingus, absorbing Etta.
At last, his sleep has come along,
As he dips into the Milky Way
Until his thoughts are gone.

Winton's Coat

Winton's Coat


Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Promise, promises!
More broken than Cupid’s arrow
Shattered against a frozen heart and
Hardened by slowly-solidifying
Molten words.

With a veterinarian’s precision,
Her honeyed hands
Would trace his
Hard-bitten skin,
Heal the wounded
Animal within.

Yes, he knew her well.
He remembered the ways she
Would hold his hands in hers,
Perfect his cuticles, and kiss him.
Her presence was intoxicating,
A Cape Town sun, coming down.
Bound to soothe the eyes
And the mind,
In no particular order.

She had his loyalty,
Like a hunter
With her hound
In the woods
At dusk.

Hunter with Dog

7:00 AM Transfer From Houston

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

First some dots,
Then some roads
That form a knot.
I watch above
A lush green spot,
A modest farmer’s plot.

When seatbelts click,
I feel the drop.
My stomach sinks,
Completely fraught,
From the futile battle
With luke-warm Fresca,
My bursting bladder
Is quite distraught.

We go down,
Then there’s a stop,
Through a gust of air
That is hot, we walk.
With movements like, a robot.
We take wing again,
And turn back the clock.
My headache is gone,
But my ears have popped,

This is a red-eye plane.

Flying Over Houston

For The Time Being

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Since representation
Is often labeled
Ungodly, pardon me
For my sins.

At the worst times,
Spiced thoughts accompany
My empty, double twin bed,
My crowded head.

Her aroma is
Rolled up inside my covers,
Like the smell of earth
After hard rainfall.

She has a way of
Tangling my dreams,
A citrus flavor of tangerines
So subtle, and present.

The tart sweetness that
Won’t leave your mouth,
Even if you taste
Something else.

How lovely is a full-blown crush?

Like hot cider
On a chilled December day,
It can be so delicious,
And scold your mouth.

I watch the warm,
Vaporous breath become visible
In the frosty air of the holiday season,
And walk from place to place.

I feel the cold of my belt buckle,
Hear the crunch of frigid under feet,
And know that
Winter is now.

I try thinking my way into happiness,
And out of loneliness,
But it’s not quite for me,
And I find myself listening to Chet, again.

Of all the places
To lose myself in contemplation,
It’s not so bad here,
Under the pull of this crescent moon.

Tangled Dream

The Fez

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Anticipation tiptoes from table to table.

My Jelly Roll Soul
Sets sail for Alice’s rabbit hole.

In front of a hushed, hip crowd,
The music condenses into a scarlet cloud,
And originality speaks aloud.

A trumpet sounds,
A subway car rumbles underground,
Signaling all the cool cats
That it’s time to get down.

A virtuoso teases black and white keys,
Shaping notes with subtle expertise.
The closest I’ve ever seen, Man come to mastering Machine.
Slowing the frenzied, fractured step of the East Village above,
To E’s. Legato ease.

Optional Z’s
Leave many without sleep,
For who could snooze
At times like these?
The alto-sax
Is bending C’s!

Just listen in, on the wailing bassoon,
Who howls to the moon.
It might be noon,
Up there.
But that’s up a flight of stairs,
And I’m enjoying my jazzy state of affairs.

There will always be time for Nostalgia in Times Square.

Charles Mingus Big Band

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