THE PORCH POEMS

COMBINING THE LOVE POEM

AND THE INTIMACY THAT COMES WITH LETTERS

ON THE RETIREMENT OF TERRY MARTIN:

A PORCH POEM

Nothing about what its now

Nothing about

Nothing about about or either

Nothing about more or and

Nothing about the

Or

Nothing

Nothing about is

Nothing around even

Jim Bodeen

13 June 2016

AT THE BONSAI BENCH

WITH THE JAPANESE BLACK PINE

REMEMBERING THE TEACHER

It's better to pull

the needle

rather than

crush it under the wire

Trunk moves upward

branches move down

Peanut butter

takes the pitch

from fingers and hands

Jim Bodeen

4--10 June 2016

READING ON THE FRONT PORCH

These poems again and again.

They begin to sound lie my mother talking,

and I know this isn't the case.

Mom didn't know about these things--

galaxies and stars, sitting on the edge

of an unfinished bridge over the ocean,

feet dangling. Mom talked baseball

and grandkids. She did talk

an awful lot about North Dakota.

An awful lot.

I guess Harrison's Upper Peninsula

might be the something.

The two of them, poet and mother,

both with tenacious voices,

voices of the justice wail,

and great capacities

for denial and pain,

great, great singers,

great singers, both.

Jim Bodeen

29 April-7 June 2016

THE SITTING PORCH OUT FRONT

The size of most writing rooms,

10’ by 12’, enclosed on three sides,

the fourth open to rock garden

screened by trees, allowing warmth

from morning sun. A set of wicker

furniture Karen found at a yard sale,

spray painted white, one a love seat,

two small stands with lower shelf

and a small white table

large enough for tea and scones.

Karen has placed one long yellow pillow

on the loveseat that sits on the inside wall

facing the sun, and two smaller ones

on each end covered with flowers.

Perpendicular to the sofa,

two blue semi-rocking lawn chairs

covered in blue cushions

face opposite each other

with a blue covered hassock in between.

Blue and yellow primary colors

receive morning sunlight.

The Front Porch Room is partially covered.

The blue lawn chairs, facing each other,

writing chairs or reading chairs,

chairs facing each other

elbow to elbow, knee to knee, deep

talk placement. Chairs can be moved

under cover or under sky light, depending.

The Front Porch Room

is the first of the Sanctuary Rooms

surrounding the house.

Flowered pots of different size and height

surround the room, and are visible

from the street,  include two large

hand-painted traditional clay pots

brought from Cuernavaca,

over-flowing with million dollar blossoms.

An antique wooden chair with a copper-plated sign

reads “Ladies Room” has a moss-covered seat

surrounded with a pot, a five-pointed star

and wrath made from grape vines, painted white.

Shade and privacy are provided by four trees,

Little Cherry Twist with an eight inch trunk,

globular and about nine feet in height,

it grows in the middle with two Japanese Lace Maples

in front, and just a bit to the north of it.

Harry Lauder’s Walking Stick Tree,

an ambivalent choice, quirky

with its suggestion of old men and canes.

Twisted and arthritic.

Green leaves, lush, and then sun-burnt

turned to brown paper. Vinelike.

A questionable choice for an entrance,

better perhaps for leaving?

Other specimen trees making the Beauty Screen

between Porch Room and Yard:

slow-growing Lion’s Mane Maple,

and a 4-petaled mature white-blossomed

Dogwood, on point.

Beneath the trees, the river stones,

ragged and rough from the summits

tumble toward town. Stones from

home rivers—American, Tieton,

Naches, Little Naches, and Yakima.

California Rivers—Klamath and Eel,

famous Suiseki stone rivers, to the small

Washington State Rivers like the Queets,

with stones found by fishermen friends

like Vance. Water rocks, scholar rocks,

and stones from special hikes with friends,

placed and misplaced, moved around

by chance and design. Stones on carved

daizas made especially for each stone,

all in a dry riverbed beneath and beside

the trees and visible from the Porch Room

Jim Bodeen

22-25 May 2016

BEING HERE

Porch poems.

After rain, birdsong,

hawk over head.

Rocks full of color

in their wetness, grateful,

and perhaps nostalgic

for their rivers.

Trees, energized fresh,

already in their leaf-making

and fat robins in the grass.

I sit with coffee and notebook

listening to bird-squabble

and open the book

on the wicker stand

beside me, sun-warming

eastern thread searching out

just memory,

Nothing Ever Dies,

by Viet Thanh Nguyen

Jim Bodeen

21 May 2016