D A I Z A
80 COOKIES
80 COOKIES
There was music. Poetry. Books. Jewelry. There were assemblages and readings. A cobbler. There were stories and song and memorias y visiones. And friends getting older together. There was a kidnapping and baseball. Outrage. Stones polished and Stones cut. There was fishing, fish, and fish tales. There are candles. There is ceremonia. There is language and people from all over. The home team won.Karen. Friends appearing, and what performances. That bomb. There were some phone calls. A couple of invitaciones. Even so, All of the peach pie didn’t get eaten. From this end, buckets of gratefulness. Many thanks. And as Van sings: That ain’t all there is.
Jim Bodeen
9 August 2025
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
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