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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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.

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.

Caterer from Midway

My father was a man of the sea

who always felt confined ashore

and so he chose to retire to an island

between sailings.

 

My mother soon left for the plains.

 

The therapy started as a mansion of rooms

of my interests and it now appears

I’ve unlocked the central chamber,

the one that kept all the others disconnected.

 

I’ve found bodies not quite dead

but definitely decomposing

or not exactly human in their suffering.

 

We were moving into another Greek Revival house

needing repair, after leakage on our sleeping bags.

A group of four, my sister was one, on the floor.

 

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” Lala purred,

meaning us, as I nuzzled an earlobe.

Someone we knew, a friend of her father,

or mother, was getting married.

 

“They’re so close, the other couple

won’t even get them a present”

– much less help with the cake.

 

The flowers on our street side

stood to impress the public.

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

Somersworth, New Hampshire.

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.

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.

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.

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.