HAND-RUBBED

Hand-rubbed, hand-polished, discovered suiseki. Some see the the poem, some feel the stone. While sitting on a rock in a river. Years ago. Many hands have participated in the shining. The stone, of course, so much older than the poem, or is it the other way around. Both coming from the same source, different rivers. But what is the attraction? And calling.

 

MY TOOLS?

 

MY TOOLS?

The pruner, of course,

in its holster on my belt.

And what else?

Two screw drivers.

One a Phillips.

A hammer, for nails, with a claw.

Wood saw

and a mallet.

Two mallets,

one by mistake

Power tools, too?

Sander and drill.

I don’t plumb.

Oh. The tool box.

My parents gave it to me at Christma.

I must have been 20.

60 years ago.

Jim Bodeen

28 June 2025

SUMMER SOLSTICE PRAYER

 

SUMMER SOLSTICE PRAYER

        --for my granddaughter, S. A. M.

Didn’t bake the bread

but picked the strawberries and

preserved them in jam

Jim Bodeen

22 June 2025

JUNE JOY JOLT

 

JUNE JOY JOLT

All afternoon

delight swung right through despair

Jim Bodeen

15 June 2025

BEING THE DOMESTIC

 

BEING THE DOMESTIC

in this house, I can tell you

some things you’d never discover.

Grunge in the fridge

isn’t something talked about.

The gardener takes

his cue from me

without a clue

to coding priorities.

The people who live here

live outside all summer long.

harvesting only contorted

sticks from a man who created

this tree in a laboratory.

Not a one sold in five years

should tell you enough.

His compost, all perfume.

Jim

7 June 2025

A post card poem for Jim Hanlen

JUNE DAYS

JUNE DAYS

Four new born birds

learning to fly

sticking close

on Bloodgood Maple

next to feeder

full with thistles

making the leap

one at a time

the morning

my granddaughter

graduates

I’m picking strawberries

making jam porch sitting

Robins arriving

last week for Juneberries

already too fat

to fly spend

half their time

taking baths

in fountain

Nobody in any hurry to leave

Jim Bodeen

6 June 2025

LAST DAYS OF MAY

 LAST DAYS OF MAY

Rain last night,

disturbing roof taps

get me up

to bring cushions on porch

under cover, covert,

quiet, ever domestic

now, grace timing Karen

before her beauty moves

fabric and color. More sleep

while I write my cousin

the long letter for her

difficult story. Light moves

clouds from porch

and even Texas seems possible

to write into her story.

I bring Karen watermelon

spears sensuously sliced,

slender like fingers, show

her the letter to my cousin,

water her geraniums,

drizzling again, Karen goes

back inside while sky clears

and I strap on belt, holster,

pruners, moving to South Gate

with yard bin--Rose of Sharon

squeezed between old rose

and tree hydrangea. It’s muggy.

I break a sweat. It’s time

for Karen’s CT scan

on her throat. Time

to go. Will there be

lemonade for what parches?

Jim Bodeen

29 May-9 June 2025