All My Life

All my life I tried to make things work.
But, now, no more.
Sometimes things just don’t work.
Forget the score.

What of things that were for naught?
Is that here? Is that there?
A glimpse, a passing forgot?
A start and end.  A place.  A spot.
A hundred opportunities, a hundred tries,
Mostly failed, some with surprise.
At the end of it all, only the struggle remains.
You stand alone, as life wanes,
Clinging onto vanishing memories.

(c) 2012 by Roger W. Bodo
All rights reserved

At Last

In life, reticent to enjoy,
Not ever fully taking part,
I drew the veil of shadow as a boy,
Darkening the enchantment of heart,
Inserting guilt into my every move.

Stumbling into adulthood uncharted,
I carried my need for permission.
And, finding none from parents long departed,
The relentless work of obedient self-submission,
I retained, refined, and continued eternal.

Only now, in twilight, do I see the chance to play,
Loosening chains of self repression,
Locked by malignant, fearful days,
Banished in the end, ‘though not by my ways,
But by the wisdom of my children,
Who, in my twilight, held up a candle,
To light the playful path of my salvation.

(c) 1997-2012 by Roger W. Bodo
All rights reserved

A Poet’s Thoughts

Poetry is like tumbling down the stairs toward an inevitable but unknown landing.

Poetry is the fine art of those who have no eye-hand coordination.

Poetry is a struggle with concepts and a wrestling match with the muses.
No one wins.  No one loses.

Poetry is a futile attempt at painting a picture that only the inner eye sees.

Poetry is the gracefulness of thought, expressed in pleading ways that some will grasp and some will question but, hopefully, all will find lyrical and persistent in some way that leads them to question and think and perhaps solve. Or, if nothing else, be pleased and refreshed.

(c) 2012 by Roger W. Bodo
All rights reserved

Losing Our Grip

What castles we build on this cloistered ship:
Monuments to ego, grand plans and dreams,
Objects of delusion, of personal gain.
We hold on tightly with determined, stubborn grip,
Refusing to pause, to see,

How incompetent is our vision of reality,
That what is seen is an echo of shockwaved creation,
Impulses of thought bringing deluding vibration,
To outer and inner eye, to belief in the mortal scheme,
That we can hold onto anything that is or has been,
Forgetting to seek that for which we came into being.

© 2011 Roger W. Bodo
All rights reserved

How Old Was I?

How old was I,
when the steam engine ceased to be a steam engine?
When did the valves and rods and hissing
give way to engines with something missing?
No riveted tank, no clanging bell,
the sound of steam I knew so well,
pressing the track in deliberate churning,
massive cast iron wheels turning,
What night was it that I awoke to a droning roar,
of aircraft plunging from the sky toward my door?
I feared, running out and looking up, sure to see
a ball of flame dropping down upon me.
No, this roar was a land based sounder,
not up there, but over yonder,
toward the tracks I explored by day,
for adventures that lie along the way.
But where was the shrill warning cry
of a steam whistle tugged by engineer?
No valves expiring hot breath to ply,
the wheels to the dark ribbon adhere.
Now I see the sloping cycloptic face
beaming toward the turn,
no smoke stack belching, no coal to burn.
Just small unseemly wheels, gentle on the track,
humming motor without squeals
diminished by the click and clack.
This single eye staring down on me,
was a new creature breaking through,
my vanishing childhood taking flee,
a security blanket steadfast and true,
fixed in my heart, my friendly local choo-choo.
Was I eight or ten?  Perhaps earlier, then?
No matter. Steam will not this way come again.
© 2010 Roger w. Bodo

How Much Gold in Fort Knox?

While no one will officially confirm the #s, supposedly there is as follows:  …. the gold there (at Fort Knox) and at U.S. Mint facilities adds up to one of the world’s largest bullion holdings. Still, it’s a tiny part of the nation’s total assets. In a $13.8 trillion GDP economy, 147.3 million troy ounces of gold barely registers.

I multiplied that by the current $1,600 an ounce and it comes to $229 Billion. I think the government just blew that in its FAA faux pas.

Read more:

The Days of Lonesome Bear

The Days of Lonesome Bear

The wind blew true then,
As sure as north was from south,
Rivers flowed endless, gaping bend to bend,
Sweetness from end to mouth.

Snow hares and bobcats conniving,
Scouts and furs exchanged,
One the other as barges arriving,
Left provisions for those estranged.

Dark nights descending,
Fed starry mantles of care,
As Lonesome bear sat mending,
Gear and cloth worn threadbare.

Bear’s gaze held all it scanned.
The loving heart had no bound.
The spirit lived within the land,
And all that lived was what was found.

The days of Lonesome Bear,
Were filled with all he sought.
But, that was then and that was there,
Before all was sold and all was bought.

The sun has set, the stars have dimmed,
The path is rent and waters spent,
And nothing that was is yet there,
Not earth, not sky, nor Lonesome Bear.

© 2010 all rights reserved – Roger W. Bodo

The Age of Unenlightenment

The dark ages are not a time in past history, but cycles of history – times when reason loses ground to superstition and radical beliefs that displace reason and logic.  If the ages of Aristotle and Seneca can give way to Attila and Genghis Khan then the writings of Jefferson, Franklin, Payne and Lincoln can give way to extremists and irrationalists.  Appealing to the uninformed and ignorant, to those who need a savior and who grasp at simulated straws, the dark shadows or real motives win over the thoughts of those who know that all people are linked in history no matter their social and financial standing. In it all, it becomes too late to realize that the price paid for superiority and domination destroys not only people but a nation.

Turn Around

Turn around and look.
Look upon the source,
Of your wealth.
It is you, of course.
Given each person, truly,
Is the ability to succeed,
If one but tames the unruly,
And strives to serve a need.
Focused on another for a solution,
This is not your call.
Ignorance is no absolution.
Dependence builds a wall.
Keeping what you earn,
Is good to a measure,
But what you must learn,
It’s not for your pleasure.
What can you give?
How can you serve?
Your purpose to live,
Is to share and conserve.
Look no further than home ground.
Expect not satisfaction.
A life turned around,
Starts with your first and every action.
(C) 2011 R.W. Bodo All Rights Reserved