The Work
What is "The Work"? It's an assembly of many, if not all, the physical, intellectual, artistic and creative artifacts, past, present and to come that the endeavors of Bodo (aka Bodoira) individuals offer for posterity.
Some are here on these pages and some are on our blog links. We hope you enjoy our verses and stories.The Bodo Blog
Works with a Story
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.
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. Special thanks to the ever gracious and kind Diane
Rickey for
sending this wandering copywriter her note and the above picture of
Tom and her.
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
A City Summer Night
It was a sticky summer night somewhere in
the late 1940s or maybe it was 1950. I, being a child,
remember that even in the urban landscape of concrete and tree-lined
sidewalks tat were uplifted here and there by aggressive roots,
frogs and crickets in the vacant lots grumbled at the moonrise. With
windows and doors open, the environment walked right in as we
listened, imagined, and dreamed. Then, a siren broke the pastoral
silence.
A box of speeding white roared down the
slate carpet, red lights bulging, white sides flashing between the
trees, and I hid then under the foyer cabinet, wishing the door
would close and make it go away.