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


Can we stop the onslaught of History,
Or even slow it?
Can we be what we want to be,
Or even know it?
Can we see that the path of life,
As it winds before us,
Is filled with strife?

Do we meander aimlessly?
Is there a script that points our way.
A pattern in DNA?
Are we formed by our time,
Or is ours but the curse to be free?
Is there a play in which we have a line?
Is there an exit, stage left or stage right?

Not on this stage.
Not in this life.
Not in this time.

We but turn the page.

© 2009 Roger W. Bodo

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 to 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

You Are Another Me

You are another me,
One spirit eternally,
Conceived uniquely free,
To each reach our destiny.

You are another me.
I’m another you.
We are one, it is true.
There’s nothing we can’t do,
Or we can’t achieve,
If we pull each other through,
One earth family,
Finding joy in unity.

You are just another me,
You are not alone,
In stream of time and in space,
Not in another place,
Neither high nor low,
Just me with a different face.

Since you are another me,
I will turn to you,
Assuming that you will see,
We will be as one hue,
The perfecting art,
Whose full pattern shuttles through,
As pure diversity.
Shining threads, a part,
Of one divine tapestry.

No matter who you are,
Your core is a shining star,
That asks us each to see,
The truth that I am really we.

(c) 2008-13 Roger W. Bodo, All rights reserved

Poetry (by Pablo Neruda)

In thinking about poetry and how it happens with me, how I write, Neruda seems to have best said what I feel in my soul and the way I write. Form for me follows the function. I hear the spirit and write the words. Then and only then do I tailor the form that it seems to need. There is no place for games or confusion in poetry. It is to be as simple and yet as complex as a well composed image. I would only hope that my works are as simply complex as Neruda’s.

And it was at that age … Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don’t know, I don’t know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don’t know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
and open,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
likeness, image of
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.
Pablo Neruda

There They Stand

There They Stand
There upon the planked boards
underneath ancient flowery vine,
exchanging thoughts and words,
sipping a cup of coffee, a glass of wine.

Between those sets of hands,
with writer’s pen and artist’s form,
they exchange aspirations and plans,
not higher thoughts beyond the norm.
but to dress some quaint new way,
find some room to let, some habitation,
that has no more style, no more life,
than the sweet surroundings of vine and wood,
of the simple terrace upon which they stood.
before they sat in sublime repose,
to sip frothed and sweetened coffee

and thinking sweet thoughts.

Force to Fore

What sacrifice this lust?
Not of the flood of opposing forces of distrust,
Leveling peace against destruction,
That in no small way
Concerns itself with salvation bending strength,
Preserving rather than war,


By quiet, glacial pond
stands a solitary tree.
Its roots upon the banks
hold taut the loose earth.
And there proud it stands,
not as a tree among trees,
but one of noble girth,
to shed upon the liquid face
of the nearby companion,
a colorful profusion of leaves.
In reply, the viscous surface speaks,
sending perfect ringlet waves
toward yonder bank, where,
the tree now nearly bare,
laps them up but cannot share.
Then, as skin transforms to ice,
as tawny bark becomes slate gray,
connections halt between the pair,
until spring thaws ice away,
and with it, renewed attempts
at communion.

(c) 2013 by Roger W. Bodo – All rights Reserved

Ham Biscuit Bobby

There among the rustic smells of the trading post,
Lined up at the counter are the workers of the day,
Ordering coffee, biscuits and smokes for company along the way.

Down the aisle from the pop cooler,
Around the counters made of old doors and pine wood bric-a-brac,
Stacked tight with Gillette, sundries, candies and tobbac,
Swaggers one of the young ones,
Waiting for the bus, skipping class perhaps,
Thin and jaunty, somehow fitting the scene among,
Older patrons chewing and spitting in a pot,
By the pinball and poker machine, some waiting some not,
For the vittles grilling in back … then, coming up hot,
White paper bags of food, with names markered on,
Slide across the counter one after another,
And Ham Biscuit Bobby, school bag slung over his shoulder,
Grabs his daily fare, and shuffles outside to open,
His bag on the winder sill, and drink in the smells of satisfaction.
Yep, it’s another good day.

© 2013 by Roger W. Bodo. All rights reserved

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

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