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.
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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Consignment-Shop Owner

You heard I’m not old money

but shrewdly investigate

skimming beehive pockets.

 

No Louisa May Alcott of an aeroplane

or purple-winged

motorcycle

revving in trendy lavender

on raked sand

fits me.

 

The porpoise motion, though, skirts another matter

imploring me to reevaluate my standards.

 

Hard times are good times, if you know what I mean.

There’s no need for me to sing a silky Hosanna.

 

No matter what, I’d procrastinate

snapping those cocoa garters

between needlepoint window dressings.

 

Though you don’t look denim destitute

you’d be wise to pick up your check

before I find a new clique where I click

rather than play mocha horsy.

 

In the meantime, I’ll leave you hanging.

I’m really just a beer-and-pretzels kind of gal.

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

1692 Kimball Tavern, Haverhill, Massachusetts.

House Guests

1.

Made love, and made love.

Sweet wine, candlelight twilight.

Mattress on the floor.

2.

“Don’t you have any games? Even a deck of cards?”

This time, I carry my own.

 

“You’re getting upset!” To him.

“You’re changing the rules!” He replies.

 

Look, all my Middle Eastern friends

cheat at cards, expecting everyone else

to venture the same – it’s just part of their game.

Cheating, eh? Maybe.

 

Wow! You’ve really read all these books?

I said, hoping to open his secret pages.

 

“So I’m going to a baby shower

you’ll never guess who for.”

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

Mountain laurel.