Weightlifter, Conversing with a Computer Technician

I majored in philosophy

which hardly provides a living.

 

It’s a lot like pressing three hundred

or delivering drywall in the rain.

 

The first time I felt melancholy was adolescence

returning to my bedroom on a rainy night

 

after the family dined out in an old gristmill.

The new vinyl disk on the turntable was Chopin.

 

The pensive or wistful terror or blues has taken

many incarnations since, and I’ve learned to lift them.

 

“So how’s your social life?”

I bought a fishing boat. I enjoy the quiet.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.
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The philosopher among other characters

brings out a table of elements

where we might be going, admitting

almost everything in that chart falls above the horizon

 

friends and the subconscious with a danger

of self-undoing

simply trying to figure out how we fit

 

who has come close so strongly in the fog

perhaps it’s appropriate to hear distant bells

in that lofty side, a neck and a smile

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

Broadway Family Physician

It’s true, I’m not getting enough gleeful sleep.

The phone keeps ringing and I’m always on call.

 

I feel it in my thick columnar neck mostly,

the winged apparition that eludes my intellect

and volcanic growl. Garb me in a black cape

to dash asymmetrically into the ivy-covered night.

 

But I’m mercurial, with all of its brilliance

and barometric variation. Too often, in thought,

I’d say I’ve been glued to the Middle Ages.

 

Duke intends I’m not precisely money-savvy.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

Teen in a Shower

Moving at the speed of youth

means I’m cool

between explosions.

 

Never mind the steam bath for hours

unimpeded and with the door locked

the hot tongue caressing my skin, my hair,

my anticipations when the mirror defogs

who’s there with a gross blemish?

 

When it’s Saturday, and you know

what that means.

 

Given a wish to be anybody

I choose to be far from here.

 

I never read the instructions.

 

Rolling hard-boiled eggs and then shooting them

with a cue-stick to the opposite end of a billiards table,

I was brilliant, one after another regular pool balls

until one cracked open, oozing yolk on the green fabric.

 

It kind of says all you need to comprehend me.

 

How should I know just where we’re going

or what time I’ll be back?

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

Alzheimer’s Hostage Approaching the Terminal Stage

1.

Where am I? I want to go home.

 

Who’s paying for this meal? For this hotel?

What does my wife mean, she has the checkbook?

 

Why does she laugh when I tell her not to bother

visiting tomorrow, I won’t be here, no sir,

but on my way to the moon.

 

Where were you? I haven’t seen you for days.

“I was just here at lunch.” Oh, that’s all right, then.

2.

It’s the nightmare you can’t quite awaken from.

 

“God!” I’d cry, seemingly to no one.

 

As for me, I’d hoped to die before my mind quits.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

Young and freckled, a taste of possibility

usual stops before turning to reports

and preparations

she thought me compulsive? how complicated,

this retreat

sometimes I missed the old expense account

me, setting forth in an inconspicuous vessel

 

take what you want, leave the rest

down in those pirate shores where you lodge

nursing bluestockings or snot-nosed

models, Barbies, Ken dolls

with napkins or embarrassing rudeness

 

drop the rope away for weekends

it’s not Gunpowder Gorge, but

skiing up to posterity, the cracking wherever

you cast a critical damn (where some love the ambiguous

bargain in tux and spats, others

 

make the pitch run more smoothly

without the skull and crossbones

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

 

Pianist With Cottage Charm Drapes

A passerby told me of listening from the sidewalk.

Bach, Schumann, Debussy, usually,

so I throw in some Gottschalk and Beach.

 

What’s been lost is a sense of beauty

– or an orderly life in our era.

The war lust produces trash.

 

In my world, “greatness is simplicity”

and frugality can sharpen quality.

But I’ve been such a maniac hammering away

 

my husband accuses me of unhappiness

behind the perennial smile

as I play a pinball machine of particulars.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

At what came on so quickly

the beast of seventeen

clocked in the slow-motion night

of first love, complete yielding and flush

wherein tragedy the making would revert

throughout life if it continue, for whatever

reason why does maturing in this land

take so damned long and yet everywhere

as a finger of such pointed sadness or hollowness

however small, wistful, unthinkable

when you are the center of these aerial fireworks

named for flowers, come down, baby,

all so briefly

so dry, so restless, so eagerly explosive

petals or seeds scatter in the air

 

toward the back of applause

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