Only At The Beach

Rainbows inside
A waning glass
of pale golden wine,
perspiring inside a casual grip –
Like little islands or skeleton hands,
patterned white fingertips press
the drink against thirsty lips.
Stress wound around
the rim tighter than a spool,
Remembering to let go
of the uncertainties and
watch prisms of light
cast shadows on the ground,
enjoying strums of
pleasant guitar sounds
floating out to sea;
Only at the beach.

Poetry and Photography by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2010

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Sunset in Zanzibar (Tanzania)

Photography by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Tanzania 2

Tanzania 11

Tanzania .5

Tanzania 9

Tanzania 4

Tanzania 7

Tanzania 3

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

My Backyard

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

I’m sitting above some soil,
Is this my backyard?
No, my neighborhood is
Many miles from here.
Scores of sounds
Jump down
At different decibels
To my excited ears.
A Mexican Sun bronzes arms,
And the sky continues to stay clear.

Am I grateful for the sky?
I am grateful for the sky.

Trees plus breeze
Equals a faint whisper
Amid muggy heat.
I wish I could translate each leaf,
For the forest keeps
A language of her own.

I would like to leave my mark on this earth –
More lastingly than the Red River Maple tree,
Who leaves only a passing shadow on the ground.
And as some twisted Acacias talk about how
Long they’ve been around, I’m not so naïve,
So their noise dies down.

Just long enough
To hear my thoughts
Echo, and echo,
And stop somewhere.

Sweat beads drip down
Onto a parched porch.
Soon, the moisture is gone,
And a taciturn timber terrace
Smiles as if to say;
“I am the Sahara. I am dry.”

Shifting my gaze
Back to nature,
I center my senses,
On these different woods,
Which breathe without fences.
A gray catbird picks away at the ground,
Searching for some nourishment.

An Inca Dove flaps by noisily,
For stealth has never been his game.
A cardinal flits across the landscape,
Not staying long enough for me
To fully appreciate his crimson splendor.

A motor car rumbles by,
But soon the forest’s natural
Symphony drowns that sound.
A strand of a spider’s web
Drifts by, stealing my eyes,
For moments.

Signs of spring, of summer, of September,
Live in this place. I wonder if
My yard is blooming, too.

70’s Bar

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Motown mojo hops down
Through speakers,
While neon lights
Flash smiles.
A cool, green liquid sits,
Untouched in a lean glass.

Mellow lights give
The place a quiet class.
Amid the pulse of an
After-midnight entourage,
The clamor of
Celebratory laughs.

What’s going on?

Two birds fly by
On the way down South,
Where dancing tunes
Can be heard,
If you listen just right.

Down there, it’s a maze.
I’d rather stay up here,
And park myself
In a trouble-free simplicity,
Letting my mind wander…
Off the beat.

A shift.

Gazing out the window,
And past a yawn,
The fuel of the night
Is far from gone,
Because I can dig
Marvin anywhere.

My attention predictably
Short-lived, I become engrossed
By a bead of dark whiskey,
Which lies upon a neighboring seat
(An elegantly tall bar stool,
Probably made from a cherry tree).
And it’s there I am reminded,
It’s always been the night I seek.

La Joya

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Two weeks in the sweltering heat of El Salvador
Sweating out the familiarities of home
A windswept airport parking lot
Speckled with miniature palm trees.

Open your eyes,
Dust off your ears,
And let worries evaporate
Into the atmosphere.

Embarking down a little dirt path,
Where years of civil war
Unleashed their wrath.
Subtly, a foundation shifts
From the Miquon woods
Towards a smaller rural community
In the altitudes.

A laid-back game of soccer
In the oppressive 115-degree weather.
Against the firmness of dried brown dirt
Frantic feet are light like feathers
A history is present here
A common ground
We both hold dear
It’s clear,
The passion is sincere
Above all
A Spalding ball
Replacing Plymouth Meeting Mall
I, them, we, thaw
Once feeling cold
Now living raw.

A flash of colors
Mirrors a Macaw
The blend of people
A game will draw
With warm legs kicking
One draws upon
More natural law
A hand exchanged
For faster paw
Metamorphosis leaves
Humans in awe.
Who’s watching us?
The Eye of Ra

I feel awake
I think I’ve heard the bugle call.

Niagra

Poetry by Ted Boughter-Dornfeld Copyright © 2009

Bundled up, and stomping through
arctic white snow, listening
to the Love Below. I look
out on the Maid of the Mist,
the air surrounds my cold cheeks,
numbs them like an icy kiss.

Who could truly be so dumb,
brave those falls in a barrel
run? Ripley’s has me unnerved
believe it or not, the same
nervous rush I feel, before
the prick from a booster shot.

After awhile, we are off
to dine in neon towers,
where we spend hours, soaking
in the bath of a night-time
sky. The glint of flush colors
reflecting against buildings.

The sound of water raging,
amidst mouthfuls of moonlight,
it looks like the world’s been staged.
But back to rest in a spiral
hotel, it’s been a lively day;
Where we pull up the covers,
and that’s where we will remain.

Niagra Falls Night Winter

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