You can take me out of the country, but …
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.
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.
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.
of rock-and-roll or
Saturday afternoon football or
what a cynic, true! would you guess
“OK, now what do I do?”
to mount your horse, go
where you asked, apprehensively
Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
For more, click here.
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.
so red
you’d wonder
why we weren’t going
anywhere, anyhow
Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
For more, click here.
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.
still, the blueprint of the text you hold
invites exploration and interpretation, to know
how much this narrow passage means to me
to find delights in it
when she dragged me around
down from
my overgrown castle
Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
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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.
blocking footpath entry to a Dalles-like gorge
that was greasy or grassy – two women
on a concrete-floored inner courtyard;
me, climbing the cherry wood rails
under the structure – to their rescue
Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson.
For more, click here.
