Storyteller as a Pennywhistle Piper

My best friend accuses me of intensity

and idealism to the point

I can’t stand masks or surface clutter.

 

I hate it when she calls me scattered and spacey

having overlooked the betrayal of an ideal

or the muddy villain. Or even lost

my new eyeglasses again.

 

How can once upon a time ever be impractical

or economically frustrating or entrapping?

The children you follow are always the prettiest

or most handsome.

 

It’s the adults who are high-strung, emotional,

with buried anger, hurts, and resentments

in a troubled kingdom or forest.

 

If it weren’t for a band, I’d be arranging wildflowers

or pouring tea into fine porcelain

alone in my home garden.

 

But listen, now, to all that comes forth

on a cheap penny-whistle in my hands.

The way these old dance tunes tell a story.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.
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Unlike that old Basque up on the ridge

I never expected to find any happiness

in celibacy, years later (in another hand

I find: “someone needs therapy

and it’s not you”) here, I thought myself alone

 

highly compressed

quicksilver

music boxes

lathe crystals

 

to the rhythm of a gallop or a gait

while popularity went shopping for marriage

such a contrast to steadiness, even with this crisis du jour

the embroidery became reliability versus delusion

 

behold the teeth in her mouth! such hunger

the gunslinger flees through the auction house

phases of loving, moon seasons – the infatuated

transformation bordering lewd cannibalism

come away with nuggets, for the assay office

titration and filtration who says the dead are bitter?

 

Holsteins congregate in a spring meadow

the four colors of the lakota streamer

yellow red black white

colors of human races

 

the rabbit’s getting a double-chin

with the shimmering, then, with children

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

Temple Monkey as a Third-Grader

We went on a boat.

We went on a plane.

We took a train to Chicago

where I saw a man cut up into a thousand pieces.

 

I’m going to be an astronaut or rock star

if I grow up. Did I say I like big roller coasters.

‘cause I like to scream, but I’m no ninny?

 

My daddy, my mommy, my sister, my brother,

my grandpa and grandma

are all scarier than Halloweening.

 

Can anyone tell me why bird poop is white?

My teacher put me in a corner.

 

Tina is fat.

 

I’m hungry.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

Maybe he’s been

a bronco rider of improbable love

more times than she might imagine

 

maybe to have a goddess of the day,

a temple prostitute

a virgin, perhaps, a movie star

or opera diva,

hot stony incest

or Venus-flytrap deception

spurred his side of the story

 

maybe she remembers barren rooms

before moving in

rather than departure

the unobstructed expanses

of waving grasses

in the sunrise

 

maybe he still hopes to raise rafters wary

of the brazen stroke

that would torch her design

 

he, who would round up

beautiful things

may see the bonfire

and the branding iron, already glowing

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

Medieval Cage Lantern Receptionist

With all these gimcracks and geegaws

no relentless cinder

chants mantras in primary colors.

 

Before secretly practicing zazen

Boone clean forgot my rattling stainless steel pans

with the great heart of a grizzly bear.

 

No matter what, I’m no orbiting tapeworm

wrapped in orange troubles ahead

of some Lichtenstein nudes.

 

When I’m dizzy, I’m not a double-door

much less shatterproof cursing

when you finally shout I’m no dangerous rat fuck.

 

That’s not just no, it’s fuck no.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

Winging

Two geese, rising from a pond beside a freeway

on an autumn morning

 

I matched my car to their speed

and clocked fifty-five miles an hour.

 

In a day, they could make it

to the Carolinas or Canadian Maritimes, easily.

~*~

As I stepped into my garden

a flash of bullet-straight velocity

 

nearly hit me – not a bumblebee

as I first thought, but slightly larger.

 

Later, we saw resting at the feeder

an iridescent green, more like scales than feathers

 

followed by a sharp flash of ruby-throat.

Reminding, smaller notes deserve attention.

~*~

Goldfinches, flitting

within sunflowers:

the differing yellows.

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

Bronze-Framed Swimmer

Bedazzled by some wild boar beauty

when the starting gun sounds,

Dolley conceded I’m not heartbreak deaf.

 

I’m not a speckled blue washing machine

abandoned on a front porch

between plus-size mounds of tires.

 

What I really want is a sexy and funky

tarantula splash

somewhere other than cartoon whitener.

 

Still, when you hear the crowd cheering louder

the self-expulsion takes place

so that everything emerges as boiling rocketry.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

Union Jack Custodian

No matter how my first-baseman’s cloud of action

is dwarfed by sunflowers strung with banners

in my own best cause, you still find me

 

oil-slicked hard to label in those places
where we’ve been conjoined on those high seas

where I’m not yet a weekend sailor.

 

See, I’m not locked outside some boredom

but have been igniting wicks of bantam melodies

that will sweep bell-ringers harum-scarum

 

through my nomadic hallways where she’ll imprint

me not just as the innermost janitor

reading a neon compass or duct-taping

 

spark plug wiring under a disagreeable keyboard

she plays with hands full of drop-dead baloney.

What it all comes down to is I’m not skunked

 

or an endless blue stripe, no matter what

she claims, it’s always “teacher, teacher”

I hear as chanting behind fish and chips.

 

You want me to tell our Queen O’Studs
I’m no longer four years old and seem

not all that ordinary with a smoking cigar.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.