Saturday, April 16, 2022

The Art of Living


The Art of Living

    In the evening he was there.
    In the early morning likely not.
    Seven aces his last call? That's a lot.
    My God, does he really have them?

    "Honor among thieves," he would say.
    "Hey, keep an eye out for that golden light."
    It's not slipping away swiftly, tonight.
    Whose call is it anyway?

    That's some first light you'll command.
    Cuts a finer horizon line than a West Coast day.
    Say, has anybody challenged yet?
    The Count has eight, he croons, operatic style.
    He might actually win this bet.
    When you play a heavenly hand, 
    You get to lie with impunity about the digits
    On your stack of greenback bills, and laugh and play,
    And tease a little too, smiling all the while. 

We, here holding mortal bills, 
can only do our best to muster one more round.
Oh that we could once again recline
with fresh bills from your proud and mighty pile,
always near at hand wherever you would go.
Make that ten aces! What's that from up on cloud nine?
I know, you're right Tom, we don' t have them,
but perhaps this one time, wishing would make it so.

   Until then, 
   Goodnight Mr. Golden Light. 
   Goodnight and God's Speed.

  (Psst-psst. Four more aces, that's all I need)

 (c) 1999 Poem and Page by Roger Bodo in memory of co-creative artists and art director,
Tom Rickey,1999. The memory is of days we broke the days of work stress
playing Liars Poker along with other colleagues including Len Kotowski.

PS: Tom,
Say hi to John VanDagen, Sheldon Moyer, Ken Manual, 
Stella and Jim Gentile, and all the other D. P. Brother folks
you happen to bump into



A poem dedicated to our friend and guide, Walter S. Taylor

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 Bodo 1-23-99

Sunday, January 22, 2017


   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

Saturday, July 9, 2016

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

Friday, May 27, 2016

Dear America

Having grown up in the days when air raid drills had us crawl under school desks, having witnessed missiles in Cuba, having watched the terrible Vietnam war and its long-lasting life-damaging legacy, and seeing the blunders in Iraq and Afghanistan, I have never been as fearful for our future as I am now.  It is not whether many lean left or right, it is how many of us are leaning wrong. Hateful speech, hateful actions, anti-everything is tearing us apart. How can one look to a better future when we tear down past and present people, our past glories, our brand as a caring and accepting people offering opportunity for all who make the effort to achieve and to pursue happiness and peace, not just for ourselves, but for all. 

There is a term in computereze that is used to explain why a computer program (APP) goes bad: GIGO.  It means Garbage in-Garbage out. If you write bad code you get bad results. With what is being written and broadcast these days, with what we are taking in, how can we hope to be empowering, positive and productive people? 

Dear media and public figures: Write us some good code. Please?

Wednesday, October 23, 2013


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

Sunday, October 13, 2013

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