HE SERVED SENTENCES
Me, in my life, this--
drove my brother to airport
Came back, went to work
Your work, what is it you do?
Like Dude, you write in notebooks!
Jim Bodeen
14 November 2024
VETERAN'S DAY, 2024
VETERAN’S DAY, 2024
Walk the neighborhood, wave
hello to kids on bicycles, catch
a basketball from two boys
shooting hoops in the street.
The taller one mad at me
for months after I told his
Dad how he drove his go-cart
in the street. Walking
with hearing aids, listening
to a lectture about Bonhoeffer.
He was so young in 1933.
1934. 27 when he wrote
Cost of Discipleship--
Jimi’s age. Janis’ too.*
Taking notes on a church
bulletin stuck in my pocket.
Writing over Mark’s gospel:
Beware of scribes
who like to walk around
in robes. My people implode
after the election
six days ago. I didn’t even
know what day it was.
Ones come back
come back different.
Returning, Karen’s
curled up on couch
with a blanket. Immigrants
day and night
with other thoughts.
Jim Bodeen
11 November 2024
*Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin
WHEN ASKED ABOUT A DRAWING
WHEN ASKED ABOUT A DRAWING
OF MY BROTHER CUT OUT IN CLOTH
A poem for public school teachers
That teacher in 8th grade,
in the city school in Seattle--
She said,
Take your wrist from the paper,
only the pencil touches, don’t
look at the paper, take your eyes
off it now. Look at what’s in front
of your eyes. Draw what you see,
don’t peek. When we were painting
trees, she showed me to make brush strokes
below what I thought were branches
telling me, Now, Brown paint.
Now you’re painting what you see.
This is color. You’ll need lots
of brown paint. She gave us large
envelopes big enough to slip
our paintings into. We carried
them under our arms and they went
all the way up to my arm pit, and
it had a string attached
to the large flap that wound
around the small cylinder
on the bottom securing our art.
When drawing portraits the first thing
she pointed out is where I drew the eyes.
Look at where you put them!
You put his eyes at the top of his head!
Look at the face! Eyes are in the middle.
And where does the nose go? Is
your wrist tired? Is that why it rests
on your drawing? I was most proud
of my forest, newly awakened
to the douglas fir. I was from the prairie,
country. My teacher, from the city, she
shows me how to paint what is visible
underneath green needles. She
showed me the mountains.
I returned again and again to the horse,
drawing the head from the side,
the eye its own universe, all-seeing,
and its single breathing nostril. That
brown envelope carried all of my work.
It was large, more cumbersome
than my trombone case
that was bigger than my body.
Nearly 80, now, I draw her face,
not knowing my teacher’s name.
Jim Bodeen
15 October-9 November 2024
GONE FAR ENOUGH
GONE FAR ENOUGH
for G.
Mom used to say to me,
Jimmy, this time
you’ve gone too far,
and I’d say,
under my breath,
Maybe,
Maybe not.
One time
I thought I had
and found out
later
I hadn’t
Jim Bodeen
30 October 2024
0220 HOURS
0220 HOURS
Opening Monday Morning
When I get up to pee,
dark, dark, dark
when I get up to pee
Dark, dark, dark
when I come back to bed
Dark, dark, dark
in the notebook
when it opens
Jim Bodeen
29 October 2024
(BUT, BUT) (NOT SAID) (DON'T READ OUT LOUD)
(BUT. BUT) (NOT SAID) (DON’T READ OUT LOUD)
If I am quiet enough
I can hear
everything that is said
I don’t even have to be quiet
So many languages
Karen speaks to me in color
in fabric
After she listens
She wraps me in squares of cotton
Jim Bodeen
25 October 2024
THE NEW NOTE CARDS
THE NEW NOTE CARDS
He puts an envelope
into the margin of the book
where he wants to begin. To hold it.
He’s written title and author’s name
on a slip of paper, cut to fit,
and he puts that below the passage.
He learned to make note cards
in junior high school 65 years ago.
A scrap of paper has room
for the page number.
He will take his Iphone
and photograph this portion
of the page. He can make
postcards from the image.
He may write something,
a poem, a prayer,
or, simply send it
as it was made, in an email.
Jim Bodeen
23 October 2024
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