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Monthly Archives: February 2021

Streaming Relief

Saw him crying,
a friend’s father died today,
what can anyone say?
–the emptiness of trying

in that, this passage
of advancing age
we all are departing,
puzzled by the parting

filled with fears,
and pent-up tears
trying to make sense,
of a tangled past-tense

memories stab
the inner core like
clawing a scab
scratched bloody,
grief
an unwanted buddy
the only relief

trying to erase
skeletons off the list,
but see their face
no matter how we resist
recollections persist
crying, from the guts,
openly crying.

.

.

Limericist 2007

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2021 in Poetry

 

The Man in the Mirror

Woke this morning
with fuzzy words coming into focus and replaying,
the leftovers of an unfinished dream.

I heard this phrase whisper,
“business-like relationships from
business-like communication…”

Often, the strange thought-flashes
upon waking are only a jumble of junk
that fizzle away into nothingness.
But, this time, I fixated on the idea.

Right then, it occurred to me
that most connections
have unspoken expectations
woven into their fabric:
They start with: “I love you.”
But end with: “You owe me. I did this
and this for you,” as if it were
a business proposition all along.
 
One party wants the other
to take care of them in some way.
They exchange benefits
and use the pretext of “love,”
as an excuse.
Then they jerk each other around
by turning themselves into power-play puppets
like Punch and Judy.

Isn’t this a sick kind of ownership?
A dungeon of bondage?
A melodramatic marketplace?
Teetering back and forth
with our perceived weights and balances,
looking for leverage,
a means to manipulate,
using the tender of guilt, fear, obligation, duty–
and we become suckers for these
proprietary relationships.
But what about a friend for the sake of
a friend? What about love that seeks
the good of the other without thought
of payback? Relationships for the sake
of one another?

I got up out of bed, brushed my teeth,
and said to the man in the mirror, “I guess
I’m quite naive.”

.

.

 
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Posted by on February 20, 2021 in Poetry

 

Floaters

Isn’t it easy how other things
can begin to define us?

Boiling in this infernal informational
depot of screens
rot seeping creeps in and forms us
if we let it,
and even if
we think we didn’t.

A curious youth
took a peek through a dark taboo portal:
“I wish I didn’t see that.
I can’t get it out of my head.”

I don’t want your damned reformation,
whoever you are.
However–

I remember walking across tree-lined Solon road
to River-Run park,
where the overhang is.

A tree
with a unique crook in its trunk
invited me to climb
overlooking
the Chagrin which flowed below.

From my royal perch, I watched
the river.

Did you ever really watch a river?

All the other stuff falls away like the debris
I witnessed flow down it.

Those extras,

vestigial, artificial crap I saw going by,
then, bye-bye–

An old doll, what is that? Human waste?

Leaving only me
in the tree.

.

Limericist 2021

 
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Posted by on February 19, 2021 in Poetry

 

Unlimited Mercy

It looked and smelled like the excrement
of a giant bull, a pile of you-know-what.
Then it moved.

A giant snapping turtle went to explore
after its customary swamping-grounds
were submerged from torrential rains.
Without intervention, it was stepping to
its destruction in search of another
mudhole.

It had ruled the same sewage
runoff swamp for several decades.
But now, it was dragging its bulky
weight to its final judgment. –and
deservedly so–

After all, it was a murderous old thing,
many a duck, goose, and heron found
their watery graves in its putrid bowels.
However, it was spotted by two good
Samaritans who took it, while it protested
vigorously, back to its original swampland
that it might carry on
with its snapping autocratic cruelty.
Mercy
knows no limits.

.

.

Limericist 2021

 
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Posted by on February 18, 2021 in Poetry

 

VR

I don’t wanna watch that
because it already happened,
and happens inside me when I do.
Our culture is enamored with
the psychology of observing life
rather than living it.

Why do we love to watch evil?
Why do we love bloodshed and pain?

We think,
as long as it’s happening to someone else;
as long as we’re not the one–
if we just watch and feel,
what we witness isn’t real,
but then find out the hard way
that we cannot escape
the realities we construct
from virtual feelings.

,

,

Limericist 2008

 
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Posted by on February 18, 2021 in Poetry

 

Fig Newton

*

The intelligence briefings are already in.
There was a plan—a grand scheme.
It all began on this wise.
Mathematicians can never capture a point.
A point is a postulate. Unseen but counted.
A plane must have three to be.
A line has two. Absolutes rule, linear.
The sweep of existence is a sleight of hand.
Those who say there are no absolutes use them,
yet claim there are no absolutes, none.
So intelligence came out of chaos. Is that right?
The purpose came out of an accident. Correct?
Well, we can’t see it. We can’t count on it–
they reason. Therefore–
Bu-bye physics.
Experts say that eighty percent of matter is dark.
Let us use our gray.
Newton thought so too.
He used his model of the solar system to show.
Another expert asked, who made this?
Newton said, no one.
He was making a funny.

*

 
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Posted by on February 16, 2021 in Poetry

 

Rhyme & Reason

*

Right here, right now
is how & what, & where,
to be–
for nowhere else
has the key;
could it ever be?

This is it,
of a timeless Rhyme
set in space–
atomic time.

Anomaly or intention?
Accident or invention?
Stop– and check-in,
since this is the occasion
to lose–or to find,
a flowing mind.

*

 
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Posted by on February 15, 2021 in Poetry

 

Double Take

*

A nightmare occurred.
…but not quite.

For years, I suffered
from arrhythmia,
which caused my heart to stop
for short intervals.
I would just blank out.

I went to the ER with one
of these events and was admitted.
They wanted to do an EKG.
Dizzy, I called for a nurse,
but flat-lined and blacked out.
Because I had no detectable brain activity,
the advance order was made
to let me go without further defibrillation,
the sheet was lifted over my face,
pronounced dead,
and wheeled to the morgue.

I observed this hovering above myself
with a thin umbilical cord
of blue light still attached
to my covered body.

I lay in the clammy cold and heard
voices:
they said, “in about an hour,
they’ll be here
to pick up the body.”

Two men in black arrived.
Unceremoniously, I was trundled
into a long raven-black hearse,
I tried to scream:
“I’m here!
I’m not dead yet!”
But no sound
would come out.

They wheeled me
naked into a formaldehyde scented
room with that faint dead-fish smell,
where a smiling mortician poked
a 6-inch needle into my heart,
then put it in his ashtray and left.

Two sinister fellows entered, different
from those that picked me up.
One said to the other,
…this guy’ll do.
He’s a dead ringer,
and can take his place.

They dressed me up,
put me in a casket, and I heard
them giving orders to someone:
“We can’t show this galloots body because
make-up won’t cover his rigor mortis.
This must be a closed affair.”
 
There was a longish pause… then,
those liturgical words:
“Ashes to ashes, and dust to dust.”
An elevator sound, I was descending,
down–down– then, thud…Silence…
…but right then, my consciousness
was resurfacing, awake, my heart
found its rhythm. I was vigilant,
but why so dark?
Where was I? The stuffy air smelled
like a new car, hospital-like, earthy,
thick, and warm.

Sick to my stomach, I realized
that with my nails
I would write my last words
on the ceiling of this confined space.
Shrieking defiantly, I scratched into
the pearly satin with my bloody fingers:

“I have reached a place where
few living souls have come.
In this claustrophobic space,
to death i’ll succumb.
The worms cannot have me
until I’ve written once more,
I’ll scream in futility,
express my last horror
as entombed I pass
through Grim Reaper’s door.”

Suddenly, I awoke and realized
it was all a dream, how relieved I felt.
I had goosebumps and chucked to myself.
“What an absurd horrible nightmare!
I must’ve eaten some cheese
too close to bedtime.”

But wait… wait a gosh-darn minute!

Why is it pitch black this morning?
Why are silky satin walls surrounding
my face on all sides?

*

Copyright – Brian Hodgkinson Jr., 2007

 
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Posted by on February 15, 2021 in Poetry

 

I Had This Dream…

*

flood tides were rising, but no one minded
sheets of ice cascaded down, melting
glaciers were decreasing, the water rose
bloated, the ocean knew not what to do
it climbed on top of itself; the earth shook
the inhabitants snubbed the warnings,
and scurried about buying and selling,
but where do you run when it comes?
can you buy it off to go away from you?
I turned, looked into the beast’s maw
imminent, and it almost engulfed me
but I emerged in time to warn them
but was punished for my presumption,
they laughed me to scorn; nevertheless
the breakwall is crumbing, the levee too low,
the sea will have a gruesome supper
swallow coasts, cities, cultures
of those who didn’t bother.

*

 
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Posted by on February 12, 2021 in Poetry

 

Senryu #5 2021

*

A new alliance:
Politics and science meld–
it’s a brave new world.

*

 
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Posted by on February 11, 2021 in Poetry