Majorette as a Dancing Pear

I was wearing all my dental braces

fully embroidered

when Jack O’Diamonds saw at a glance

I wasn’t always objective.

 

You called me a delicate alloy chain

not blinded by anger

but in Wonderland disquiet

crying for help – yet

helplessly

 

ever so timeless

as the swift kick of a daydream

at the fringe of the downpour

you saw approaching.

Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
To read more, simply click here.

Deerfield, Massachusetts.
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Taste on the tongue

world ordered by touch, aromas,

(those blues in my mouth

smelling how opulent, too) –

 

the muted chords shifting through minor keys

fingers brushing each other, blindly

reacting to a circular room filled with Rothkos

Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
For more, click here.

Merchant of Canterbury

Suppose Chaucer had looked at his neighbors

instead of his band of wayfarers. Their Halloween costumes

or masked ball or Mardi Gras or the prom.

 

The identities we donned from our closets. The artist

with his tie-dyed underwear or gaudy shirt and beret.

The banker in a Jos. Banks pressed wool three-piece suit.

 

The women and children, especially, or laborers.

How much did he observe himself  when investigating

these pilgrims? The masks they sport prove telling.

 

The bright Hawaiian shirt worn with Jimmy Buffett

or Warren, on the weekend. Their choice of wine in the bag.

Their heroes and villains. Their lists of people they hate.

 

The stories they repeat for generations.

Some are just mean. Or fearful. Irritable. Restless.

Their style. Their lie and denials. All ticking unevenly.

 

No matter what he wouldn’t write was that I

was a free-gospel minister who rehashed showering

outdoors naked while the deer watched.

Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
To read more, simply click here.

Deerfield, Massachusetts.

Kindred Spirit

Kilroy enjoys eavesdropping in a bar or diner.

Bragging, especially, proves instructive.

Pays attention to what they claim they are not

and you’ll find half the time, it’s true.

 

When he observes people at the mall

or on the street, they become

cartoon figures. Sometimes he starts

seeing himself, too, fishing in a rock-dry stream.

 

Even though he said I was ugly

I never ignored the arrival of spring.

The truth is, I was beautiful beyond words

thrown from that bronco called devotion.

Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
To read more, simply click here.

Deerfield, Massachusetts.

Academy Headmistress

When I was black-shutter agitated, my students said

I wasn’t their only calming influence.

 

Yes, my faculty became Surf City discouraged

each time I was confined to a dusty crate of crab shells.

 

The trustees knew, at least when I walked the Scottie

I wasn’t spinning a sleepless dime.

 

My mother recalled even when I’d been stone green,

I wouldn’t join yonder aviator forces

without an escape hatch.

 

I crammed self-imposed obligations and

unfinished tasks into my house and office.

 

When I fell asleep, a thousand books

and seven hundred albums

would watch me. And you wonder why I drank?

 

There was no flight once we entered

except up those stairs, to start working.

 

Still, I knew how to manage the phone or a room

on behalf of my mission and avoided my aunt’s inevitable

coffee blot when I entertained or redecorated.

 

Now what did I do with the mail?

Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
To read more, simply click here.

Deerfield, Massachusetts.

A Voyeur Confesses He Was No Peeping Tom

Without the social strata, you told me to just listen

to what people said and then match it against their actions.

 

You found similarities in daily worries, their self-denials,

their aspirations. Their love lives, especially.

 

You insisted we’re all alike, once we got past

the job descriptions or ethnic and religious distinctions.

 

That’s what you said in this hamlet, but I saw otherwise.

One woman left every light on since childhood.

 

Another was adept at covering up shame.

With one newly met couple at the bistro bar,

 

his hands roamed all over her with wealth and ease

while telling her he’d be away, working, all the next

 

Saturday, so they must move with all speed

all the while her smile grew ever more welcoming

in the available glow.

 

Our wounds and reactions make us different.

Our clothing and bandages. Our secrets, especially.

 

Just look, discreetly. With or without the field guide.

Or the rooster in my dreams that disturbs me.

Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
To read more, simply click here.

Deerfield, Massachusetts.