CANDLE-LIT KAREN
--Living room, on our 56th Anniversary
Your quilts surround us
On walls, on chairs, body-wrapped
embers, color threads
Jim Bodeen
23 November 2024
A BEATITUDE FOR THURSDAY
A BEATITUDE FOR THURSDAY, 21 NOVEMBER 2024
Blessed are those who hunger and thirst,
for they shall be filled.
Matthew 5: 6
I don’t know a thing
about righteousness, who’s filled
I took that part out
You know about my walking--
about the hunger, the thirst--
Jim Bodeen
21 November 2024
HE SERVED SENTENCES
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
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
