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Monthly Archives: February 2021

Do Not Forget To Flush

By Brian Hodgkinson Jr.

Imagine one could dump
the “what-ifs” into the toilet,
then flush all of it
to swirling oblivion.

The evening news,
the internet,
the persistent messages,
bombard the mind with enough explosive
impact to cause shell-shock.

We hunker down,
wait for one ugly thing
to resolve,
then the news flashes again,
“What if the next is worse?”

What if
those in charge of dealing out the”what-ifs,”
want to grip us in suspense
for their ratings?
What if they are not honest players?

What if something
nefarious is afoot
by those who deem themselves
the information brokers of the world?
Nevertheless, we do not know.
We cannot know for sure.

Do we need to know?
Yes, and no.

A good measure of it
may need
to be flushed.


*

 
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Posted by on February 22, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Today

By Brian Hodgkinson Jr.

“Good Morning, Daddy God
Help me focus on this new day.
Brush aside the cobwebs of confusion.
The world news is dismal as usual.
I am sure glad we humans are not in control.
We certainly know how to botch it all up.
Bring the inner focus back to what matters,
which is only YOU in the here and now.
Thank you for your unconditional love.
Thank you for your mercy.
I need YOU, and so does everyone else.
YOU are the only hope for this dying world.
YOU are my fortress and shield.
Happy are all those who put their trust in YOU.
AMEN”

 
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Posted by on February 22, 2021 in Poetry, Spirituality

 

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Extinct Possibility

Like angels pinhead dancing,
we have truly lost our way,
to live the fat anointed life
for fossils, we will pay,
radiation will not go away,
as oceans flood the bay.

Thus, the Machiavellians
enjoy their little rants,
and the paid-off scientists
are bribed with oil grants,
pretending they cannot decide
if CO 2 will raise the tide,
boost the climate worldwide.

For political advantage
vultures tout alarmist gore,
they polarize the debate
with another showbiz bore.

The truth is out there, in the sky
which no one, rational, can deny;
we combust the earth to overheat,
slicked up with a lie.

.

.

Limericist 2007

 
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Posted by on February 22, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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

 

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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

 

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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

 

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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

 

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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

 

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College Contemporary Ethics Class

Shuffle in lugging, Go to the back
In this damn room again – so drab
The decor is frontal-lobotomies
Yellow painted cinder-block, Walls
Conduct the outdoor chill into me
1950’s rowed desks contort to fit
Instruments of cruel endurance
Under quarter inch vinyl pads,
riveted steel – a cold path up
Some nostriled grunge drips out –
Smear it, paint back of index finger
Human sounds, as she lectures
Throats clear, snorts, “CHOO, ackChoo!!!”
Pause, and chorused “Bless you.”
prof drones, OMMMM, blah blah blah, White-
Sound, face melts into -hand, fluttering
5:20 PM , 50 minutes – – – – –
Twitching, rocking, side to side –
Left cheek, right cheek, numb fire
Bladder whines. Urine-color wall reminds
Wall-littered, like dead leaves, old papers
Maps, Play-Doh green chalkboard -Smudges
Tiled students, droop-eyed faces face front
Stare mesmerized, dead-fish puckered looks
Droolers, bobbers, pretenders, raise -hands
I lounge deeper. Low flatus begun
Squeeze a slow-release, “preeep.”
Oops, petite, but frowned looks …chortles.
Have to play a mind game or fall down dumb
so, look around. “She’s hot, she’s not…”
Ew, that puke-green scarf in plaid…
While Buddha Dave behind me
Sits silent, cross-armed
Paragon of bored silence.

,

Limericist 2007

 
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Posted by on February 18, 2021 in Poetry

 

Lessons from Chess

The game of chess teaches us
not to corner ourselves
behind pawns or immovable pieces.
Therefore, it takes a cool head,
a cigar-smoking Spassky,
a Kasparov,
or a Magnus,
who is willing to take a chance
to move beyond themselves.
Johnny-one-notes who think
they can always get away with
some rendition of the fool’s-mate
only ever trap themselves
in a real game.
On the other hand, those play-by-the-book types
will be trounced on occasion
by the 8-move mate
or forced to resign
by the Polish opening.
The unconventional will sometimes surprise
the over-conventional.
The smart alecks who try
to get away with being constantly outre
will never amount to being
more than wackos.
Like any game, boundaries demand respect,
and yet, they are there
for the breaking.
Flouting the rules never made a good player.
However, lockstep adherence
to agreed-upon patterns
makes any game a bore.
Computers are boring,
and so are one-trick-ponies.

*

Limericist 2008/2021

 
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Posted by on February 17, 2021 in Blurbs, Essays, Poetry

 

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