there was something cozy
in Isabel’s phrase
dark roasted coffee
after dinner
~*~
North Amigo
South Amigo
– not Americans, but Amigos!
the United States of Amigos!
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Copyright 2015
You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
there was something cozy
in Isabel’s phrase
dark roasted coffee
after dinner
~*~
North Amigo
South Amigo
– not Americans, but Amigos!
the United States of Amigos!
To continue, click here.
Copyright 2015
In the congregation of pleasure:
Some are fat; some, skinny.
Some cute; a few, beautiful.
They smile, frown, dimple, blink.
Hair short, curled, long and free.
They come from anywhere.
~*~
“Roger was in my room again till five
telling me he didn’t want to sleep alone again,”
she said, glancing at her lover
while he simply smiled, facing away.
~*~
One votive burns
twice as fast
as the other.
Both, invoking
departed honeybees.
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Copyright 2015
“Those aren’t bulls, they’re steers”
she corrected from the passenger seat.
Now a waitress at the country club.
“I bet you get some pretty far-out passes.”
“More than that!” She giggled.
Here she was living with a man
in a hotel in town. He was a Mohawk
who raised horses and died
two days after landing a paying job.
“I guess I’ll never go back”
– to the farm, to the city –
it didn’t matter.
~*~
Sometimes it’s the Baptist upbringing.
~*~
She couldn’t understand why her parents
were still together. Thought her mother
once had a lover. She’d hear kissing
after being sent to bed, after her father’s
best friend had come over. Now
he couldn’t stand him.
There was a big waterfall on their farm
which they had to sell.
And she told me
she had laryngitis the previous week,
making me wonder
if I should have kissed her good-night
so much.
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Copyright 2015
The old swami was only fifty-one, I see now.
He thought Helene and I both were way too skinny.
The cookies my mother, an inept cook, shipped
went to class anyway. The break, after a workout.
“You moved away from this? You’re nuts!”
“Breathe as if you’re a sponge,” Loretta encouraged.
Life is different when the mind controls the breath.
“You are the most interesting person you’ll ever meet,”
Guru-dev insisted. “Stand in your own Light,
not others’.”
Or stand on your own head, before falling over.
“People leave us alone,” the young bride radiated.
“We pacifists are no fun to fight with.”
An exchange of floral garlands
made a wedding.
When the husband chanted,
he sounded like a puppy
first thing in the morning.
This would be as close as I would get to India
from Ohio.
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Copyright 2015
Steel rings in a stone wall
remained to tie up horses
back when.
Just in case.
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Copyright 2015
“Jim’s one of our young flashes,”
a production chief told his wife
when all three paths crossed in the grocery.
To which, you might add, “in the pan.”
~*~
“I wish I could have gone to college.
I wanted to be an engineer.”
said the unshaved man in a Salvation Army pullover.
There are a lot of older people in college classes,
his nephew tried coaxing.
“I have no money,” came closing in like a curtain.
~*~
An elderly mother and middle-aged daughter
argument escalated in the sedan
in the doughnut shop parking lot.
They’d no doubt discussed this before.
At last, opening her door, the daughter repeated:
“Let’s go in and drop the subject.”
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Copyright 2015
As I said at the time …
Paradoxically, to meditate on death and dying is to consider life itself in its manifold opportunities. The blessings of teachers and mentors, guides and ancestors, family and friends all spring forth.
~*~
six blue ridges:
five valleys in between
a procession of black carriages
to white tombstones
in a coal-dust haze
scarlet, purple, and gold
fade into rusty wheat and gray
wind in birches:
water falling on rock
Poem copyright 2017 by Jnana Hodson
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Curiously, growing up in Ohio, I was nonetheless somehow fascinated by mountains. They arose in my early drawings. On family trips, it didn’t take much for a wooded hill to become a mountain in my mind. An astrologer might argue it has something to do with all the air signs in my chart. Whatever the reasons, a ridge line or summit calls to me.
There were a few tantalizing early encounters in childhood trips to the Great Smokies and eastern Kentucky. My true initiation, however, came at age eleven with a week of backpacking on the Appalachian Trail in Tennessee and North Carolina. It was miserable and magical, and left lessons for a lifetime.
Still, it wasn’t until after my college graduation that I came to fully appreciate mountains – living, by turns, in the Southern Tier of Upstate New York, the Poconos of Pennsylvania, the Cascades and Olympics of the Pacific Northwest, as well as Maryland (with its Catoctins and access to the Shenandoah Valley) and finally New Hampshire.
Many of my poems arise in some of those experiences over the years.
We could collect them as “By Gully,” playing off Louis Ulrich’s vow to climb Ulrich Couloir to the summit of Mount Stuart (9,415-foot elevation) one final time – “my gully,” as he referred to the trajectory more than four decades after he and two partners established the now basic mountaineering route in July 1933. A climber explores a slope, recognizes the avalanche chutes along the higher crests, approaches summits themselves via passes, gaps, or notches, usually following a streambed. The connection of gullies and mountains is established. By Gully.
Yet that is only half of the equation. Mysticism, as I’ve known it, keeps a foot to the ground, and often a hand or the butt, too. The spiritual journey leads to the mountaintop and back – if you don’t run ahead of your Guide.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.
As I said at the time …
So you’re moving out – congratulations! For one thing, it puts you on much firmer ground when you do commit to a live-in relationship – rather than jumping from your parents’ care into the care of another. Yes, your parents are much more liberal than mine were, but I too was forced to spend my first year-and-a-half of college at a local commuter school (fortunately, it had an excellent English department) and to live at home – something that deeply stunted my emotional growth. Getting away to Bloomington was a lifesaver, even if I wound up in political science and urban studies instead.
Well, I have another reading coming up Tuesday, same venue. This time, plan to read one poem – a longpoem in thirty-seven sections. Should take just under an hour. A piece that was nearly published by a highly regarded press twenty years ago – and was withdrawn because of deep cutbacks in federal funding for the arts. When I began to submit sections to journals a couple of years back, acceptances quickly followed. Now, to get the full piece out!
So here I am, wishing you could be with me in that smoke-filled room – have you on as the next reader, in fact, unless I gallantly step aside to let you wow them with an extended reading of your own. Or, more intriguing yet, share the stage, alternating pieces. Yes, I like that!
Oh, yes, you start to apologize about talking so much about him and that love poison. But I wonder, unless we are blessed enough to have a fulfilling life with our initial childhood sweetheart, whether a great deal about any current affair is actually an attempt to work out the failings of the previous hot fling. For one thing, we really do become attuned to the other person’s touch, timing, interests, movement – everything that makes him or her distinct. Nicolas Mosley, an English novelist, has argued that every coupling is actually a triangle – or more accurately, two triangles, with each partner having a side affair, a past, a demanding career, or whatever attached here. I’d agree.
Now, if you decide to hop on that bus and head off to some escape, what can I do to lure you here? (Just phone ahead, to make sure I’m not seriously involved with a very jealous girlfriend by then.) As I was saying, how do you like your coffee? Ever gone contradancing or English country dancing? And you wouldn’t be the only person in this neck of the woods dressed in black and stainless steel or exhibiting striking jewelry piercings, unlike New Orleans. In fact, a number of years ago, Donald Hall once wrote that there’s something Gothic about New England. I was living in the desert of Washington State when I read that, and it intrigued. Even more so, now that I’m living here. But that’s another conversation.
Well, it’s my turn to be up way too late – and to write disjointed stuff. Hope it makes sense. Now, for me, off to engage in, hopefully, some sensual and sensational dreams of my own. Care to bet if you’re starring?
Keep sizzling!
~*~
For a free copy of the complete American Olympus, click here.
The land was often golden in the bright sunlight. Not green, but a permanent range of yellowish brown only flecked with green in a few weeks of spring passing.
Once I adjusted to its palette and air, I hoped we’d live there forever.
~*~
It’s the background for some of my novels and poetry now appearing at Thistle/Flinch editions. To read more, click here.