Old Post Block Cobbler

No matter what, I ignore the conference call

from Tokyo

you race to answer

bullied into a different kind of masculine.

 

The natural fragrance of fine leather

is too staggering for birds

in my handcrafted garden. Take my time

in these racks without doors.

 

I restitch a sadness buried in the lumbar curve,

retrace the adolescent sacred pathway

to the top of the elms or a hayloft –

 

ritually, I’m twisted and incapable of rebellion

except if you don’t have your ticket.

 

I restore your sole

if it’s worthy.

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

Dover, New Hampshire.
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From a Mysterious Heart

Admire my tail:

squirrel, peacock, alligator, or skink.

 

My traveling stronghold:

armadillo, porcupine, turtle, or snail.

 

My nose, if you will:

anteater or elephant.

 

My coat or my feathers,

my scales or my claws

safekeeping some center.

 

All the color of mating songs and dances

in their ritual orbs and ranging.

~*~

From an opening

a flickering tongue

chirping and bleating

a cloud of cold breath

a scat

an egg or egg sack

or a baby appears.

 

Into a hole,

the hole in the water,

the hole in the sky,

in the ground,

in each other.

 

All going,

ongoing,

go grinning.

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

Lincoln Boulevard Elementary Teacher

So you say I’m clumsy?

Listen, when I’ve been forgetful,

I’m still not an algebra problem.

 

There are reasons to wonder where Chapman went

and reasons I’ve been ready to quit

with this rusty pantry tile.

 

Since I’m not independently wealthy,

I glue feathers to my own wingspan

after entertaining myself.

 

Webster returns to mind I’m not tenured.

No matter what, I’ve been braced for locusts

even when I hear the police channel name her.

 

I’m not dowdy and already it’s 10:30.

Besides I’m nobody’s mommy drumming away

with once upon a time, maybe in the future

 

rather than reveal

what’s kept me awake nights

since gaining so much weight.

 

Gin makes me mean.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

Particular Balance

To community,

at last, I extend my regard:

 

a swarm of bees,

a school of fish,

a flock of cormorants,

a herd of deer,

a pod of whales,

a nest of ants,

a pride of lions.

 

The rabbit, licking my brow.

 

All of this world, I’ve roved

and come home

in a new place.

 

Still, it’s the loners I nod toward:

porcupine,

skunk,

owl,

moose,

eagle.

 

A walrus or seal

lolling in the surf.

~*~

It’s an honor to remember

when to keep a respectful

and safe distance.

 

And when to draw near.

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

Rainbow Awning Maker

Even as a 350-horsepower opera fanatic

I’m no pillar of rectitude she summons

but a raging dragon queen you call

immature so let’s ask why we don’t hear

more marching bands on the air to assist

planning the day’s footprints? Left, right, left

you know the score demands appropriate fabrics

for theatrical staging or a military encampment

or even a statement atop the country-club entry

just tell me if you’re thinking of the second act

oh, honey, I’m still not one of the clowns

tumbling through dusty psychotherapy

no matter how much resolution I’ve applied

but doing whatever I can one stitch at a time

despite all appearances, it’s not a three-ring circus

until I’ve contemplated the solar plexus overhead

as a chain saw.

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

Haverhill, Massachusetts.

Figure Behind the Window

Lee understands I’ve been fenced in.

I’m not entering a comfort glazed earthenware zone.

No matter what, I dial a dishwasher-safe radio.

 

It’s a domestic scene you see repeated

throughout the undergrowth

beginning with immediate family.

 

I’m not grounded in Victorian aesthetic, and so

I might listen to Christopher’s Cello Concerto.

My older sister decrees I’ve been regally off-key

 

missing Charles,

I’m wounded by the wild-onion laced bow Allison Krauss wields

and am rarely content confined to double-breasted clothing.

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

Haverhill, Massachusetts.

Basic Drama

– for Steve Abbott

Two wingspans, as though cleaved

on a strip of exposed bedrock:

russet bands, a kestrel, perhaps.

 

No flesh, no bone, a few tufts nearby.

 

A clean attack, turned awry?

Prey turned into prey?

A weasel emerges as a prime suspect.

 

All the same, everyone’s

gotta eat, sometime.

5:X:2005
Mount Agamenticus, Maine

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

Regular Mechanic

The Ace O’Spades says I’m shackled

to Black & Decker perfection.

Even though I’m finally engaged again

I’m zippered in fine-toothed doubt.

 

I’m not overly dripping cautious.

No matter what, I’m still not ready

to plant the damn tulips.

So what if I’ve been fired from a cannon

in Betty Boop’s bed?

 

I don’t demand special attention

unless I’ve been overworked oil.

See, I’m just cowboy-hat middle-age bitter.

 

Teri quibbles when I sort out coyote motions

but Ace discloses I’ve jitterbugged into

this compression regression transmission,

 

that I’m known for crooning “Doona Loona”

over joints and valves

and downing gallons of lemonade estrangement.

 

Yet when I build a bonfire, sweetheart,

I’m not cool tunes made in the U.S.A.

Sometimes, in fact, it’s been dotted-

snake-stripe wallpaper torn from the trailer.

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

Haverhill, Massachusetts.

Pawtuckaway Solstice

– for Jesse Metzler

Woodchuck bristled

hopping to safety

beneath a bright-

red pickup

at the trailhead

while woodpecker

beat time for the wind.

 

A great blue heron at shoreline

surveyed granite boulders.

 

Toads, tortoise,

garter snake,

and a beaver lodge

gleamed within evergreen

and beech detritus.

 

In the pause of mutual regard.

 

21.VI.88

Flowing and howling. A cackle. A bray.

 

Crawling, oh belly to the earth or branch,

the slow-paced reply to hunger.

 

Fiddling, the friction of smoldering night

that summons sunrise.

The movement of limbs,

even snaking around a tree or

snail, scrolling back into its kernel.

 

Or flirting. The dance in its many degrees of shading.

 

Running – a trot, a stride, a gallop, a lope.

Verily, a mouse scurries

– the race of prey –

 

Mole, worm, cockroach, cave bat, crocodile,

a beetle from some underworld

and back.

 

Winging, clear veining or bright feathers

– even mottled dun –

darting, skimming,

fluttering – sometimes flustered,

sometimes fully free.

 

Hardly a weather vane.

Ram, cock, eagle, cod –

 

Swimming.

 

Who will be first?

With or without a jockey.

 

 

Bounding / Rolling / Worming / Snaking / Floating

Falling

 

All in this kingdom of motion.

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