*
Bowls full of incense
Are the prayers of the Saints
Keep your own notebook
Jim Bodeen
31 May 2020
SUNDAY LINES FOR MY DAUGHTER
SUNDAY LINES FOR MY DAUGHTER
The love you carry
is more than enough
for this morning
Love, Dad
17 May 2020
Repaso en el Cuaderno Reflexivo
REPASO EN EL CUADERNO REFLEXIVO
¿Capitulo por capitulo? No.
Gold-breasted finches descend
to fresh water poured into stones
Close to where I sit tucked in shade
behind Ed Wood Half Moon Maple.
The forest floor.
Forastero.
Stranger in my own back yard.
Gozo y gracia, mi hermanos.
Jim Bodeen
9 May 2020
SOURCING STONES
SOURCING STONES
for Elise
Stones from the Hebrew Bible
track patterns in sand. Eavan Boland,
dead in Ireland. I read her poems
after a bicycle ride. She writes in
Quarantine about a
man and woman
living and dying in the year 1847.
How they lived together
in the worst year. The worst year
for all, she reminds us, can be proved
in darkness. And so it happens
again in our time, a dark season.
We didn't know who was in the room
when the stars came out, young
immigrants telling stories.
Twenty years later we find
out each of us was present.
We were telling the same story.
Jim Bodeen
4 May 2020
Lines for the Geologist on his Mother's Passing
LINES FOR THE GEOLOGIST
ON HIS MOTHER'S PASSING
for Don
Coberly
What does it mean, geologist,
one who studies attachment to the earth,
when his mother dies? How does one
pick up the mother, and holding her in his hands,
asking for revelation, bring the word down?
Insight may be it, but it doesn't serve.
(Does every word sink like a stone?)
If you could ask her for one thing.
Even then, she'll tell you
she told you that, and more than once.
She doesn't have to tell you
she's in your hands, how your love
at once surrounds the world.
Jim
May Day, 2020
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