You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
If spring arrives without rain,
would the root and leaf open?
Seed that has not rotted
or satisfied hunger,
become buried too deep
or fallen on stone,
may reply, in its own season. And so,
in your own way, rise up and walk.
Keeping your heart tender,
within reason.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
we move. like the water, like the wind
– across rock, across soil –
until people speaking of common activities
and customs will completely baffle
sometimes the growing season’s quite short
compared to our place of origin
even so, she wants tropics
where everything in the closet
will mildew before sunrise
and there’s no worry of frost
we’ve gone underground, ourselves
after trusting too much in human love
emerged not on rock or air wholly
but collected from scattered places
and pieced back, as best anyone can
with blueberry-stained hands
so what’s the name of your divinity?
your desires? your natures?
the apple of your eye?
even the forest seeks climax
she’ll say, quartering a winesap
its burgundy ringing
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
Within the range of distinctives
of nasty red, the Capitol black
the ethereal albino instead
he aligns with the eastern gray
and the western gray.
Yet who would be saint of the squirrel?
Not Lord Rama, who caresses one
as a pet. Nor the cultivating Hermes.
The Blackfoot know him as Old Man.
As he was becoming.
* * *
of course squirrels have faith
of a practical sort
in running the wire, in leaping from a branch
and landing a full eight feet between trees
with such airy jurisdiction
* * *
in a flash such as music
or the tail as a sail
just leap
and grab hold somewhere
* * *
the question, at heart, what was in his blood?
as well as what was it becoming?
not the patriarch, then free from bondage
* * *
overhead, the years overlap
underfoot, the roots tangle
to be light, then lighter than pigeons
or laughter and tears
become gray pussy-willow at the end of winter
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
what happened to all the nuts
planted back there
acorns with their hearts ripped out
all his transports in this cosmic trap
in the breach the yard could as easily be jammed
with half-buried books
waiting to be devoured
all the same, he darts into hidden pages,
spitefully aware his plot was unfolding
more than ever expected
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
Just what more do we need
in addition to the beginnings of two panels of ferns
behind the lilacs – my woodland mirror
or a blooming tepee with gourds and climbing beans
surrounded by zinnias for my Lady of Sunday Comics
in the heart of the exposed swamp
and the race to implant the kitchen-door garden …
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
he could hole up
with long-suppressed luminous temperaments
if only he could scale every surface except glass
shimmy up the black steel pole and raid the bird feeder
hang upside down from a sunflower
moving toward transition
an untested dream
from the stockpile admits to darling insecurity
in the hole the tree the ground
faint implausible rhythms chirps more lasting
if not so lucrative
* * *
every tree branches, so you choose in a flash
and keep running in the desert he had wondered
about squirrels so far from the nearest tree
the ones who live in burrows
whether somewhere they’d made a wrong turn
a deer makes a bigger target
than foraging for dynamite
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
Ever seen a squirrel caught in a bramble?
A seeming escape leading nowhere?
He could tell you.
* * *
He could tell you
he’s lucky to still be alive.
* * *
There are those who insist love is nothing more
than a seasonal disorder, an allergy or a virus.
Makes sense when you’re speaking of Sick With Love.
But how do you cope dealing with females
happier with thorns than leaves and berries?
Or when confronted by some dog?
* * *
Running along a phone line, a squirrel
never falls over. To hell with gravity.
It’s the strength of those long, skinny toes
can reach around a stick. Hold tight.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
Ants swarm over a sugar maple’s
spigot and sap bucket.
In earth and in air, green spirals
uncoil.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
“They already were like gods
made in Yahweh’s own image
and didn’t even know it.”
“I could see the Woman would be easier
to convince. She appreciated color and
the bouquet, where the Man noticed
only the fruit’s heft and taste.”
Every snake has its own hole.
Sometimes a snake is just as snake,
Doctor Freud.
And the Serpent went on to make a fortune
developing shopping malls lined with retailers
promising to cover everyone’s nakedness.
* * *
God creates a Helper for the Man
and she helps him, all right:
helps him get into trouble,
helps him to the forbidden fruit,
helps him get ejected from Paradise.
Not only that, but I’d venture
she believed she was doing something
beneficial for him all along,
something for his own good.
(And it was very good)
* * *
Where has Eden gone? Maybe
it’s now ahead of us, down
the road, rather than behind
with its gates shut tight.
As for Original Sin,
life’s not fair.
Some parents gamble
away the mortgage,
their children’s
college tuition.
Others get to be boss
through the injustice
of genetic roulette.
But that’s not really
part of this story.
* * *
Where do the other people come from?
Maybe the question becomes, for us,
where do other people COME FROM?
You! My neighbors! My antagonist,
my friend, my spouse, my children?
Perhaps they come from that other couple
God created, in the first creation story,
just before Eden. Perhaps they, too,
are ejected from their own Eden.
Perhaps there were other gardens
that were also released –
the ones whose stories we’ve forgotten.
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
Each seed, each root, each bud
unfurls on schedule. Melting
and rain come together.
In the daylight you open
so slowly you do not hear
their snap. Between pale tendril
and miniature leaves, we will gaze,
then, no longer doubting
our own inward spiraling galaxy.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
Jnana's Red Barn 