Blessed are the dreamers



Blessed are the dreamers, Rev. Kerry Kesey says, in Yakima, the day that DACA died. Blessed are the dreamers, 5 September 2017, for they shall be citizens of the world.

Harvesting Water



Box Canyon to Longmire, Wonderland Trail on Mt. Rainier. Two brothers on the wonder trail. After record snowfalls, after losses, water washing. 13-mile leg of trail. August, 2017

FROM BOX CANYON TO LONGMIRE
A LEG ON THE WONDERLAND TRAIL

Shutter speed priority
on the stone
deciding to stay, falling,
not falling,
the water. Finishing
something in each of us

Aware/un-aware
as we change into boots
in a parking lot
before heading into
wonderland,
into wonder space.

After five hours
of elevation gain,
the trail levels off
at Reflection Lakes.

Fields of wild flowers,
Queen Anne's Lace, Daisy,
Blue Bells, and Paint Brush,
all flush with bees,
and blueberries!

My brother says,
I'm kind of goofy.
I'm fine with that.
That's me.

Jim Bodeen
August, 2017


COMET FALLS HIKE, MOUNT RAINIER

My brother only slows
for Salmon Berries, ripe and orange,
mid week, mid August, he knows
this mountain where we bring
what we've lost, feet on the ground,
paradise with switchbacks
and elevation gain, only
a couple of miles off road,
and after a record snowfall
we arrive in time
harvesting water and light.

So much light inside the light.
Milton talked about this
and we remember, this light
interpenetrating light.
He was talking about angels
and how they make love
without elbows and knees.
Water over us and on us,
my brother surrounded,
light-soaked, takes one step
towards the vision
receiving him. He wobbles
once, unbalanced,
trekking poles
holding him to stone.

Jim Bodeen
15-18 August 2017

I'm Right Here, reading and poem by Barry Grimes




Barry Grimes reading his outlaw translation exchange broadside, part homage to Burton Watson, honoring Watson's Four Huts, and part elegy/requiem, this poem and reading is one-of-a-kind moment. One-of-a-kind poem. 30 August 2017

BECOMING 4-LEGGED

HARVESTING WATER,
BECOMING ONE OF THE 4-LEGGEDS


These trails have always been trails.

I try and talk
something else comes out
where I've never been
and where I don't know
where it is. Here is here.
Every time.
That's where we went.
So much fast water
falling over itself tumbling
off rocks bigger than men
ever tried to look at, take in.

All that speed over what won't move
over an aging body.

Why is the spoken sound better
than the written word?

Water washing water harvest sound
what we had with spilling light
coming out all sides like fire.
Maybe that's what is was, fire--
and fire-light flaring--

                                    Stormed.
            Water-stormed.

After a morning going up,
            ascending.
picking a tread way up over stone,
going down. Before trekking poles
this was hard work. Man work.

Water-stormed in wonder space.

Trekking poles, now, there's something
beyond water worth considering.

A man talking to a man
harvesting water.

Going mountain down after five/six hours
of climbing, mind already free
of what it knows and what it thought it knew.
It's changed, altered, endorphins, new-mind,
synapses, dopamine, everything spent
and mind falls out of itself, no-mind.

And the poles--poles adjusting the body.
                       
                                    Shortened,
and man body bent low, trekking
poles turn one as close
as one can become,
into one of the four-leggeds.
                       
Man-drawn body,
body tight. Drawn in and four-legged
The man-elbows
act as knees--act--that's what they are--
knees. Front legs shorter
than man-legs trailing Muscle-work,
not touch and fly work Those knees
walking/jumping around rock and root,
fast--animal reflex fast. Those trekking poles
even look like antelope legs--
not as fast or quick, but the mountain rhythm
dance-hop reaches towards that kind of grace
in the descent-dance.
                         Keep it until you're changed.
It travels time-corners, connecting to other,
earlier times, trace element beyond time
splashes of awareness, pre-cognitive, connect time.
Precognitive. Animal dream
worth striving for--dreaming about--
those short front legs,--
those elbows turned goat-knee
surefooted off rock, goat-knees
            jumping rock
hoof-turned into plastic basket.

Just what is that, walking sidewalk in the city?

Jim Bodeen
25 August 2017--1 September 2017

I owe you a letter, James Jones:

MEDITATION ON RE-READING
FROM HERE TO ETERNITY, JAMES JONES,
AFTER 52 YEARS, 49 YEARS AFTER MUSTERING OUT

Fuckleberry. How could you not love
a young man given that name? Fuckleberry,
and his friends who named him. Damned,
James, what to say? Yesterday, 60 pages to go,
on Highway 12 with Karen, driving to White Pass
for garden rocks with stops on the Tieton River,
trying to tell it straight up and soft.

How the book came into my hands. I was 20,
EM in Panama. Damned from here to there.
With Kipling's Barrack Room Ballads
in my duffle bag. Going like this:
Robert E Lee Prewitt, boxer to bugle--
Arlington, enlisted, to remain one
at a cost: to Treatment, Break him,

to the whorehouse, American loneliness,
scraping dead skin to blood cells--
The Re-enlistment Blues, collaboration
before the bust. Busting justice, busting
what gets protected, busting what's phony
in pride, busting all the way to the Stockade,
Stockade itself, a halfway house for trustees,

a test to get to Barracks II and Jack Malloy.
Dropping down the anchor rung by rung.
Anchor to Chancre. Honest Injun.
To citizenship. This far. Citizen.
To John the Baptist and Jesus.
And further. To Fuckleberry's,
I'll do it. Sure. I'm game.

Fuckleberry's Blues. America's
Game and Gone. 'Muricun.
Enlisted man blues. That song
written out. Sitting around. Scraps of paper.
The 10 cent notebook. Let it go
and come back to it. Soljur
carrying the confederate name

written out for the first time, GI.
And Top. I tell Karen in the car
about loving and hating, this Catullus,
tearing up his commission,
Fuck this shit. Prewitt's final
moment in the sand trap, Top returning
to the squad car, reaching between seats

for a dead man's only treasure,
a single poem in a cheap notebook,
The Re-enlistment Blues.
Catch 22 written here first.
Drink your Castor Oil.
This is some kind of Army.
Books to read in a GI's shirt pocket.

Jim Bodeen
1967 Panama--2017 Yakima




Falls, Butterflies, Children and Politics
















COMET FALLS HIKE, MOUNT RAINIER

My brother only slows
for Salmon Berries, ripe and orange,
mid week, mid August, he knows
this mountain where we bring
what we've lost, feet on the ground,
paradise with switchbacks
and elevation gain, only
a couple of miles off road,
and after a record snowfall
we arrive in time
harvesting water and light.

So much light inside the light.
Milton talked about this
and we remember, this light
interpenetrating light.
He was talking about angels
and how they make love
without elbows and knees.
Water over us and on us,
my brother surrounded,
light-soaked, takes one step
towards the vision
receiving him. He wobbles
once, unbalanced,
trekking poles
holding him to stone.

Jim Bodeen
15-18 August 2017



















COMET FALLS PHOTOGRAPHER

Her tripod set between trees
after the last switchback
looking into the falls
in her early 20s.
My brother and I
stop for a last look
from where we stepped
behind the fallen world.

I'd love to take your picture
she says. I have uncles
with your same names.
In the last year
I lost 95 pounds.
I'm still learning how to see.

Jim Bodeen
18 August 2017


















BRINGING GRAND DAUGHTERS
TO PARADISE ON MT. RAINIER

Roots and their surfacing network
make steps for children
and hiding places for chipmunks.
They know trail mix
in their packs can't be shared.
They walk the trail
the week caterpillars arrive
in wild flowers. It becomes
their trail mission to keep each one
from being stepped on.
Walking with pastoral ears, prophetic voices,
they hear rumors.
How many senators again?
They're ten.
What's real and what's fake
is sharp, nothing blurred,
Their selfless acts of witness
bring butterflies into our politics.

Jim Bodeen
August, 2017






THE LONGEST DAY

SATURDAY IS THE LONGEST DAY

Thoreau, lost in Mt. Katahdin fog
caresses us all in the wildest moment
of his life--and this is recorded,
news lovers. The dream

I wake from prompts me, Don't laugh.
Jesus man meets me at the Railroad Station
that sells five dollar coffees. He promises
passing rain showers, Don't miss the chance

to be re-freshed. This is the Gospel Hour.
From the back yard garden I hear
train whistles, feel the stress of bonsai
trees during the record heat wave.

Jim Bodeen
12 August 2017