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Transport Tube Hiding Place

the portal to another space
a worm-hole transport tube escape
enclosed in a foam rubber wrestling mat
to pass through to the isolated place
between the periods ghosting in
to the gymnasium storage room
the wrapped up mat in long blue tube
with a doorway hole in the center ring
and i don't know why i crawled there
inside that little doorway commune cave
in the black hole sucking me inside
addictive to hide in that capsuled space
the smell of new rubber and gym shoes combined
untouchable inside and only my kind
the vanishing student by the transport tube
a worm-hole transport tube escape







iambic pentameter, sonnet form
3.6 7/5
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
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Posted by on May 21, 2022 in Poetry

 

Feeding the Fish

the lapping on the hull
the harbored ship in dock
the rope around the wooden post
the wake of ships to lap
the passing boats in wash
to push the rills ashore
in cadence beat against the side
combining high the tide
the anchored boy in berth
below the deck in rack
to hear the distant boaters pass
the water rocks his head
his dinner knocks to "up"
the leaning over rail
with fishing food to chuck








2.7 9/7
iambic trimeter, subtle rondeau rhyme, the meter like a wave 
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
2 Comments

Posted by on May 21, 2022 in Poetry

 

Insomniac with Birdsong

forgo the blunders with the missing sleep
so far bequeathed by the dismissed critique
of olden, seamless, unencumbered keep
the genius resting, morning bird-songs peep
around his rookery bed, the window sill
loud noises of perennial squawk and shrill
and float today into the snuffing night,
from many a dreamless snort and armpit smell
Unslumbered and grumptuous, red-faced day
window with nestling birds the bumbling screen
there have they lain the chickies, and will lay
rattling upon their windows to the sheep
until the later ogre shall punch the cheek
then dunce by hand and cudgels to be screamed
In raging he shall spin and on the carpet sleep












4.2 9/7
having fun with iambic pentameter, rima rhyme scheme 
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    rhyme 
 
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Posted by on May 20, 2022 in Poetry

 

The Surfers

they catch the waves with shining boards
under the spray in curling tubes
riding the water swirl, through whorls

the lifting waves beneath their hurls
to focus with the climbing walls
gun like a lightning bolt their shores




2.4 9/6
iambic tetrameter, limerick rhyme
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson
 
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Posted by on May 20, 2022 in Poetry

 

Here It Comes

today the bluebird sky cavorted with leaves
the sun-green treetops dotted with pink
a steady wind providing shaking heaves
to bring down billions of whirligig seeds

when spinning down look like locust wings
them coming down in clouds to sweep up
a pink winged mist from the sky descends
the eye follows after pinpointing one out

the whole way spinning to touch spinning the ground






1.9 7/4
having fun with iambic pentameter, rondeau rhyme 
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
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Posted by on May 19, 2022 in Poetry

 

The Neo

the poet-bard lost their language amid the drama of night
of which, still flashes the words to fizzle from sight

until the pink agent is stalled, stilted dumb
this poet-bard who once sang of everything 

when now, perplexed by the singing sung
again, may find the urge to kindle the fire of his tongue

the cloven flame vibrating above his dome
to yet sing the celestial hymn, its radiance intone

of the intricate creation of all
to query, to unmask everything to what is now

too minimal, she ridiculed his Dodge Colt life 
with her BMW Z series sports car strife

to the poet, plainness is a wealth
and ponderousness, often their ill-health

he kept subtracting --letting go of more 
and even dumped offering the critiquing score

Is the poet bereft of words a poet or bard?
this writing rad thinker once sight-marred

the neo spotted blind the dying coal
then fanning orange, a tiny spark relit the core

a new breathtaking wonder inflamed
the neo-poet prophetic bard unchained







*all in iambic pentameter, blank verse, alternate rhyme
2.1 8/5
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
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Posted by on May 19, 2022 in Poetry

 

The Casqued Hornbill Laughing

with joe, out of doors this dazzled morn
the sunlight pours down through the branches
in kenya at zero latitude
i sit on the step viewing my life
the doby dog wet nuzzles my hand
to scratch the black fur he looks at me
the doberman pincer with stubby tail
the muscles bulging from his hind legs
on overhead branch a hornbill sits
with gutteral call taunting the day
the kakamega forest is near
of birds and monkeys all visit here
the children were given a large cat
some norwegian friends that went back home
this cat called merlay is daughter's cat
an angry cat that fights with doby
the cat climbs the tree waits for the dog
then leaps the dog's back claws digging deep
dog yelping cat riding like a horse
the hornbill still coughing loud guffaws







4.9 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
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Posted by on May 17, 2022 in Poetry

 

No Fan of Ham

it looked like a big desert kitty box
the military base twenty-nine palms
in the seventies i was stationed there
a member of the u.s marine corps

but there were no palms, we called it the stumps
if we were done with daily duties then
the joshua tree monument close by
a cactus looking like long scary arms

the party there on cheap wine and warm beer
a strange dark night met there a man-like gnome
when we balanced sitting on canyon stair
of this i'm quite sure we were drunk and stoned

his old hippie label was pisces tom
this lonely cat was living off the grid
the hidden life of a wild hermit guy
surviving in a bamboo forest shed

he raised a huge hog he wanted to sell
to catch the pig but he needed some help
said he would pay us what he could afford
some other drunks and i agreed to schlep

directed us to a wide bamboo grove
the path cut an oasis of green poles
a clearing opened up a center place
arriving we saw the hippie's hut house

the fenced-off pig sty with a giant hog
and even though we still a whole lot sloshed
this job was much much more than we could cog
the old hippie had a stalled junker car

this nut wanted to tie the hog woozy
however refused to get in the door
the high-pitched squealing fight was a doozie
it was lashed to the old car's trunk seat floor

the broken down junk heap didn't run too well
the stalled engine forced tom to coast downhill
the market was fifty long miles away
a dollar per pound pisces got his pay

reviving his pocket with bit of ham
his helpers, tom cobb and i, got our spam
the sobering factoid with my twitches
a fierce grunt for measly spam sandwiches






3.9 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
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Posted by on May 17, 2022 in Poetry

 

Fly the Friendly Skies

i flew on lots of airplanes
with many airlines
klm (royal dutch)
sabena (brussels)
lufthansa
british
air france
gulf
kenya airways
pakistan
delta
saudi arabian
just to mention a few

pages were pasted in my passport
about five feet long when unfolded
me the world traveler

at first, i was motion-sick of flying
the takeoff and landings
once dutch-air belly-smacked so hard coming down
we bounced back into the air
chest in my throat

and no fan of turbulence
bouncing off of pressure-pockets
like a billiard ball
off the table bumpers
me white-knuckling

but something not to hear
in midair - "we're having technical difficulties"
and that happen going to mombasa
we were rerouted to entebbe uganda
delayed overnight, but safe

once i was in line to board
a plane
the line was moving
slow
in fact,
not moving

the ticket taker was red-faced
when people asked
what's the holdup

hours passed
people grumpy
antsy
i was worn out too

finally an airline rep announced
the flight canceled because of technical
matters
the people in line almost rioted with
airline-rage

but me
cool as a cucumber
i was happy
--glad not get on a flight
with technical difficulties
to find out too late
in the air

same with relationships
if the wheels come off in the preliminary phase
--the siesta honeymoon phase
be grateful you weren't up in the air
with the ring on








3.7 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
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Posted by on May 16, 2022 in Poetry

 

Black Dog and Me

we that are playing on the beach of the sea
on mountains of yellow sun-baked sand
the run with the dog on this blue sky day
the skittering crabs crane claws digging in
wet feet are splashing the waves climbing land
a floating white sea bird tilts toward fish
sand dollars are drying, conch shells shining glass
the black dog and me pad a lightning bolt dash






3.3 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
 
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Posted by on May 16, 2022 in Poetry