How to make a big mess

When you suppress,
When you repress,
You make a MESS

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: http://moneywatch.bnet.com/economic-news/article/is-there-gold-in-fort-knox/385523/#ixzz1UCI7KoLO

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 

How Old Was I

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

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 the Religious Right and Tea Party rationalists.  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 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.

My blog is also a place you will find my writings and poetry, mostly which comprise a social commentary.

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

Onslaught

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