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.

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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.

Squeaking, with Bass Notes

The throaty laughter of a thousand birds

having summered in the Arctic

resounded in play beside golden beech foliage.

 

Their loud squeaking amid flight

was good-humored, joyful, especially

confident in spanning vast distance.

 

The boisterous har-har-har of a great kingly goose

walking to his seat on stilling water

bounced back from the hillsides.

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

With a Mill Street Matchmaker

When DeKooning demonstrates the hunger

of stony endurance, Lily says I’m still not damselfly wings

under a magnifying glass in the sunlight.

 

Miz Hepburn says her industrial methods are unnatural

but refuses to be turned into any super-secret case study.

 

Ambrosia says when J.P.’s playfully dangerous

you shouldn’t wear goggles.

 

When they finally recommend

I light a bank of candles, I’ll anticipate

pipe organ chords from the firehouse.

 

If we get that far, Heidi will claim victory,

a red hot smoked Serengeti.

 

In their portfolio of seduction, we’ll find reasons

to be angry with one side or another.

 

I’m still baffled when Woody gets bored as a crow.

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

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

Dover, New Hampshire.

In the Slick Slack Sea Motion

When curtains of sea-fog

part with calm certainty

over wave-motion furrows

Porpoise, Dolphin

Minke, Humpback

Finback or Right

When the water is cerulean

When the water is dove

When the water’s no color at all

Beluga, Orca,

Gray, Pilot

or gigantean Blue

Rove so far, so fathomless

they mystify

even naval science

 Baird’s Beaked, Hubb’s Beaked

Goose-beaked, Sei

Little Pike and Sperm

All arise from the depths

to the light, so briefly

in the rhythm of air

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

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.

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.