You never know what we'll churn up in cleaning a stall
– dyes, ornamentation
black-and-white is focused defiance.
let’s be honest – these are weedy gardens
even with the black plastic film protection
or the arbor with ferns now
I have a woman without freckles
she doesn’t preen
she’s all business
she’s sexy as all hell
there are no wild boars here
“let’s go bag a deer”
“and then what?”
“we’ll make candles”
* * *
parables?
you’ll never understand
without practice
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
A half-moon hangs in my cupboard
like the letter D.
Askew in silvery desire,
it becomes an amber barley draught,
bowl of orange tea,
solitary untouched breast
or ancestral skull
while an old yellow watchdog prowls
its nocturnal trail to the rooster.
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full Green Repose collection, click here.
already the goldfinches are losing their bright yellow,
shifting over to their “traveling clothes” …
cardinal flower still scarlet … the sunflowers nearly past …
will we have any pumpkins in this crazy year?
blue jays as monkey birds squawking
a stream of crows, maybe a hundred, all headed south
(the ten thousand roosting together in a cemetery, how spooky)
admiring the white gull against blue sky
and the black band on its wing
four white droplets fall away and vanish
never seen that before!
today, two large hawks, soaring
now-dun finches at the feeder
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
when the snake that would have entered the burrow
had become a clothes line, pinned with nursing pups
nonetheless, when it came to his own yapping brood,
he was as territorial as any other male
running the risk of trying to span too much
when it came down to choosing sides,
he found no compassion for the frenzy
leaping from the bay window and
scurrying on the arm of his astonished roofer
no warmth, either, for overnight gnawing
through pristine crown molding
confronted by his rivals’ succeeding wave
weaned every three or four months,
who did he think he was, trying to command
shipshape precision in this collision?
it was only natural, then, his attempts
to shield his own from foul heavens
should invoke clownish tragedy or cannibalistic humor
just why would he assume in this life or that
anything was holding above their heads?
the roof is a bridge
between trees
* * *
squirrels would be snipers
rather than muster in any militia
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
not by intent, exactly, when repairing rotten sill
and ripping away needless wires
strung overhead, but under the floor
at times, a two-man job, with banter
still, keep an eye open for the unanticipated byproduct
in this case, a jest
envisioning a beer and wine cellar under the kitchen
nothing fancy, but acknowledging
the homebrew art
and gratitude for a place to age bottles decently
as for the wine, a house rule price limit
imposed by a glutted market
in season, the bulkhead would open its wings
on the shaded grilling garden, to the north,
or its cavern of contemplation within
a place of solitude and spiders
Squirrel would frequent
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
To see the full set of Home Maintenance poems, click here.
slugs thrive, and I’m back in Seattle, except
that here, broccoli, cucumbers, zucchini, and peppers
arrive in waves
and our woodworker-electrician and I tackle the barn renovation
in earnest
still, in a few breaks, I cross the line into Maine
sometimes with my Lady of Children’s Television
leaping rapturously in big surf
and sometimes with the afternoon all to myself
and once with the whole family
only to discover I’ve packed No 4 sunscreen
rather than No 15
(as a serious burns will demonstrate)
in all of this matter of burrows and burrowing
in the earth, in the foliage, at the beach
while fully resolving to keep the wedding simple
my Lady of Parsley and Sage delves deep into planning
what has already become too complicated for my taste
(“what do you mean, you don’t want a potluck?”)
and we meet with an Oversight Committee
in Portsmouth Harbor the family tours a Viking ship
on its way from Iceland to Manhattan
and the following week, a full-size Theodore Tugboat
with rolling eyes and all, as any kid watching PBS could explain
all the while, life itself feels submerged in Limbo
as absconded as our plumbers
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
a squirrel sees a landscape
varying at multiple levels
look up to a branch
it’s there
* * *
would he go?
would she come?
he’s been there
before and any good squirrel is wary
let’s be sensible
invoking
misadventures
* * *
to be lying flat against
the opposite side of a tree
such a useful skill
he could use at the office
* * *
the vampire
or witch
versus
a squirrel
and crossbones
in the exquisite
extrapolation
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
Resting on the park bench, she complained
she couldn’t keep pace with her children.
When the seven-year-old pest returned,
demanding, “Ma, give me money”
for a cola, she complied,
thinking it love.
~*~
She couldn’t touch her toes.
~*~
Her legs pushed away from each other, yet
in her cotton dress, unexpectedly
as she swatted a fly, she began to float
and meticulously shrank from sight,
bouncing along the horizon.
To continue, click here.
Copyright 2015
each springtime and summer
we go our rounds, grubbing out
pervasive maple sprouts, glistening slugs
the evil elegance of bindweed
to open way
for what flowers or what bears would harvest
each repetition its own mixture
of success and disappointment
* * *
as my Lady of the Fabric Bins explains
the palette of the tongue
its savory and sweet
variations of wine tannin or bite
torches in our smoking garden twilight
with charcoal, glowing and ready
Poem copyright 2016 by Jnana Hodson
For more, click here.
their house and yard
lined a three-block street
that wasn’t straight but
bent, twice, away from due north
or an east-west axis
the squirrels there knew nothing of the next
state or globe their world of endless
branching comprehends no sphere
each time he leaped, he’d forget who I am
all the same, gravity fashions
a turn toward chaos or quietude
expecting a center-point
it’s a pattern, yes,
the interlocking repetition
say of old wallpaper
shaping a marriage
of course they like flowers
rolls and glue, page after page,
all through the years
yellowing into decades
whatever turns
you on
makes you sorry
rubs nerves
pulling stuff
like that
live and learn
sweet revenge
isn’t you anyway
flaying those arms in Beulah Land
* * *
of course it was us versus them
* * *
he could hear masons warning new roofing shingles
were needed, pronto, and even he knew what damage a leak
could inflict all before their Great Plumber Shortage
he switched off This Old House episodes where workmen
arrive in time to preclude disaster his was now nothing
or all kinds of superstition so his reserves dwindled
even approaching the sump pump what music, then?
ring around, pocket full of worry
they had a cache of cash
* * *
a true adversary
you soon come to resemble
of course he was furious
returning
to the newly replaced crown molding
they’d gnawed through in an hour
while they nested in the wall
his library reeked
* * *
“Calm? When are you ever calm?”
Poem copyright 2015 by Jnana Hodson
To read the full set of squirrelly poems, click here.
