Squeak


The small sounds, the soft sounds,
You speak them to no reply.
You cannot be heard. Where are you bound?
To you, they say, nice try.
You say there is power in repetition,
So perhaps, but ears ignore,
They wish you speak no more.
There is no thunder under your door.
They do not know the explosion therein,
Try once more.
You can win.
Ignoring, soft sounds brings downfall,
You must find a way, to strengthen the weak,
Before the silencing of all.
You were heard, but heed not taken,
Your efforts were forsaken.
Arise at last.
Show what happens when,
Together voices blast,
From a squeak once shunned,
The power in the sound,
While once soft not heeded, united,
Becomes abused power undone.
Squeak no more,
Those who now roar.

Roger Bodo © 1/2017

Unhinged

Here I sit watching the world becoming unhinged,
The glue of cooperation, in disintegration,
Oozes and slips away as a sly dog slinks,
And a world, once somewhat together, shrinks.
The pieces become more diverse,
With smaller parts and rigid stance,
Claiming their place in a universe,
Where there is no dominance,
Only difference.

© Roger Bodo-2016

You of Many Angles

I have seen you from many angles.
I have trod bravely on your paths.
I have stared into your stony eyes,
And scraped the flint of your bones across my thighs.

My hands and feet have plied,
And labored upon your lands,
Staining sweat upon your Hyde,
And clawed your armored body with feeble hands.

I have jabbed you with my staff,
Come at you from every direction,
For triumph over your bones I yearn.
In the end, while I may have won,
I will never know in my heart confirm;
I can only sit and ponder you,
Only come to you time and again
To challenge, to study and to learn.
© Roger W. Bodo- I 996

Whence Comes This Rage?

Whence comes this rage,
Its suctioning threads, reaching,
Yet daring not to touch this page,
Lest it loose upon it preaching?
Lurking, in the shadows does it wait,
Lingering, smoldering, incessantly feeding,
‘Till it receives the stoking fire of hate,
Bringing it ripe for breeding;
Evils. Fears. Loss. Tears. Death. Agony.
©1995 Roger W. Bodo

Time Lines

Leathered lines of experience,
Surrounding features etched by time,
Wrap over a tapestry of memories:
Emotions and angles rising up,
Rolling back as relentlessly
As the sea upon a shore,
Of lives too well lived,
To be bothered much more,
Except to recollect and smile,
Putting one more crease on the page,
Of the soul’s present pilgrimage.
© 2014 Roger W. Bodo – All rights Reserved

Walter S. T.

A poem dedicated to a departed friend and guide, Walter S. Taylor, artist, poet, and the founder, vineyardist, and vintner of Bully Hill Vineyards and Winery in Hammondsport, NY. As you will see here, (Bully Hill) his motto was and Bully Hill’s motto still is, that “A product is an extension of a person’s soul”.

Walter S. T.

We shall not let you go Walter S. T.,
not from this soil, nor from our hearts.
Nor shall our minds or resolve weaken,
for we have met you and heard your words:
Spoken, painted, written,
and are forever changed.

“They cannot cheat an honest man,” it is said.
They can try to silence, but they cannot hide.
They can dance with deception, cavort with conniving,
but never the worth of self can they sweep aside,
of one who stands as a light in the rain,
fighting wind surges and waters to remain,
glowing, even as a pilot flickering,
never out, ready as the match, energy sending,
out from the soul, spreading through magnificent rootstock,
upward though vine and leaf,
into the cups of kindness to be consumed,
by those who will carry on and keep the spirit,
alive forever on beloved Mother Earth,
the roots of honesty, integrity and self worth.

(C) Roger W. Bodo 1999, 2014 – All rights reserved

The Call

I know it is there, not by what it is, but by what it does.
I know it is there; its lilting voice calls to me at night.
It whispers softly in my waking ear. It remains
through my day in caressing breezes, always ready.
I do not see it yet I love it. It sets the world right.
It, like me, cannot be contained or restrained.
It comes and goes at will. Safe from sight.
Clouds reveal in swirls and eddies
That it is now as it always was,
Ready to lift me up.

And so I come to it, to play the captain’s role,
To launch upon it my desire, my craft, and me.
Once again yielding to the siren’s lyric soul, I sail,
A trusting voyager, upon an invisible sea.
(C) Roger w. Bodo 1998,2014

TheCall-1

Silver Ribbons

Silver ribbons ‘neath the clouds,
winding through the canyoned way,
snaking around the hindering blinds
of trees and scrub on narrow mounds.
Ridges of sand and clay
thrust defiantly upward,
but fall far short to sway
the silvered metal wings I sail.
And down there, in cutting creases,
fluttering sunned surfaces impale
verdant earthen tapestries,
to reach some far off destination
for those who trust and float upon
silver ribbons ‘neath the clouds.

© Roger Bodo 1998,2014 All rights reserved

Baby Thoughts

In the heart of every baby,
Lives a thought that cannot die.
Thought tells it where it’s going,
And shows the reasons why.
Thought calls in every gift,
And installs each, well defined,
With knowledge and the Spirit,
Fulfilling needs of every kind.

From conception to reception, into existential womb,
To remediation of the soul, opening exits from the tomb,
Thought, from the beginning, through spin of space and time,
Sprouts us seedlings unending, upward in heaven climb,
Showing that, once in being, all is not but strife,
Through this one thought born within;
Love is Life.

(c) 2014 by Roger w. Bodo – All rights reserved

People of Honor

Not on battlefields strewn red,
Not in exploration overhead,
Not in elected bodies august,
Not in corporate offices just,
Not in church pews or at alters,
Not in movements’ salters,
Not in institutions of learning,
Not in science labs churning,
But everywhere, the simple reality,
Lives within a human personality,
That treats all in clear same fashion,
Rich, smart or poor, there is one passion,
People of honor live lives in quest,
Of ways to serve the whole the best.
© 2014 by 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 straight upon me.
No, this roar was a land based sounder,
not up there, but over yonder,
toward the tracks I walked by day,
to adventures that lie along the way.
But where was the shrill warning cry
of whistle valve 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.
© 2001 Roger w. Bodo