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.



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.

If I were 19 again

I’d look for an older woman

out in a plateau or broad valley or

snap of a typeface, whatever that figure

at least 23, somebody of perspective and intelligence

at least a clearing, quieting arrangement of lines

(recently I came across what’s supposed to be

an ancient Greek outlook of marriages

between either older women/younger men

or younger women/older men an arrangement that, in the end,

kept everything in balance and overcame problems of inexperience

most run into, one way or another


for now I could be confined to a small island

just a bum of a half-assed, fully-engaged recluse

with little interest in going about

under a holy covering or quarantine

even talking to other humans seems alien these days

me, always one to thrive on maximum stimulation

now in a curious reverse just getting down to the existing backlog


still, in this solitude i’m finding difficulty

maintaining an equilibrium day after day

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

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


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.