MAKING BLUEBERRY LEMON SCONES
WITH KAREN ON SUMMER SOLSTICE
BEFORE OUR 53D ANNIVERSARY
I don’t know if you’ve made love
to a woman, I say to Karen,
taking a single berry from the prepared
pan of scones and placing
it between her tongue
and the roof of her mouth,
but this is what it’s like
making love with you.
Jim
22 June 2021
JUST A CLOSER LOOK
precious Jesus, hear my
daily walking close
Inches from the paint, Rosie Lee Tompkins
is the medallion on canvas, central image
of the quilt from God surrounding
her, come from the hand of the painter,
Rex DeLoney. Light-filled in half-square
scarf. Yellow bandana. And if you look
closer, over-the tops of cut cloth. Look
how radiance emerges! Colors of peaches
from forehead to cheeks. Eyes
deepest blue pools filling, emptying,
Coltrane-like. Bluest brows. Full lips,
unmistakably Rosie’s, wizened-red--
but right here, on her right side--
(the viewer’s left), shadowed
cheekbone to chin, her face, dark,
breaks through squares of material
blocks of red and orange,
epiphany portrait come from
the artist-hand, illumination.
Just above this square
the cross in red and white stripes.
A printed sign at the crossroad
embellished in white jewel-like
lights, A Prayer For Magic.
This is the essence of prayer.
And now, vertical on the cross,
coming up from below, strips
of printed text, scissored, glued:
“In the still-unfolding field of African-
American quilt making, she has no
equal...granular expressions
of imagination and freedom.”
Below the words, still on the cross,
over red paint, two red buttons.
Returning one’s eyes to hers
on the painting, some from Rex,
some from Rosie, marked, unmarked,
her voice a hymn on the wall,
God permitted me to see this color.
A white thread from Rosie’s needle
falls out of the painting from the bottom.
Rex has glued it, border-breaking--
and this thread remains, subversive,
straightening, permitting eyes to follow.
Jim Bodeen
17 June 2021
MOUNTAIN GROWN, BROUGHT
TO TOWN ON THE FAST BOAT
--for Anne B. y las amigas
Fajitas, nopales, rhubarb pie, and flan.
All of it under Maple tree shade, on deck,
gone, fast as talk and the hummingbird’s
heart-beat. Green onions from Aurora.
Heavens descending like gold-finches
eating thistles at the feeder. Las amigas.
Mujeres, ancianas, como contadoras.
Women weavers song-savoring .
Children following cairns
from Mountain Copper Mine
turned re-treat, Rest and restore
again and again listener-absorber.
Treats as songbird trouble-joy
trebled. Gold-hearted minng.
Green onion jazz-bird rare,
and recorded. Notebook blue-
lined vision counting to two
billion—heartbeat
assurance.
Hay tiempo. Si, hay--
tiempo para contar la historia.
Sweetness of rhubarb in a butter crust.
Jim Bodeen
2 June 2021
From The Creekside Tales
--for Jim Hanlen
Proclaimed the time was neither wrong nor right
--Robert Frost
Zooming Chugach Range
Google Maps can’t locate
my friend Creek. Paramedics,
firemen, his old school principal
turn up nothing
but off-placed priests
hiding under moss-covered
succulent stones. Considering
themselves safe, but embarrassed,
underwater fingers thrill
before pubis-rich wonder.
Creek sees it all. Even
among the horrific here,
and off-balance, hand-cuffing
collared hands, himself unseen,
swift-moving Creek,
in great danger,
my friend, delivers oxygen
to oppressed beauty.
None of this will be told
because none of it is seen.
Commotion, and commotion’s
memory seats itself.
What happened told wrong.
Creek yields word to water.
Jim Bodeen
2 June 2021
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