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Monthly Archives: March 2021

Sylvan Hope

tones of wooded sprouting leaves
sing the measure of the trees

they festive lift, and rustle, clap,
or silent sway, filled with sap

gorged and sated, a jewel they glow
the color of the sign to go

full of chlorophyll, the grass
screams of life as through stained-glass

filling up with greenhouse gas
while oxygen to us they pass

surrounding us with vital health
vegetation is earth’s wealth

the soil, water, Sun they take
so, a spicy incense make

reach us with a soothing shade
a sylvan hope, our thoughts pervade

so simplify, adjust to Earth
as from its soil was our birth

.

 

 

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) Limericist 2007/2021

 
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Posted by on March 31, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Folly Roger

a cutter came a crawling
in from a sailing day
and this heavy bark a bawling 
up the fine palatial bay

a laddy sees a lady
as she jumps down from the stay
she were hollering and a hooting
she were a sight to see

Her voice could tame a tomcat 
and her back a tigger too, 
for she cut a fine figure 
which struck the boys too blue

Yet this lad would not digress her,
though the boys were thick as fleas
he pressed in to embrace her,
but she only wants to tease

that boy's heart was all broken
for he knew her affections gone
from that moment chose to jump off
as his hope was folly done

 

 

 

 

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) –Limericist 2007/2021

 
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Posted by on March 31, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Fly the Skies

the psyches living in the presence shine
shine with fires of deep compassion
that flashing, pulse, like a strobe
to transport hearts about the globe

their secret is not hard to find
but every novice must commence blind
until an occupant descales their eyes
their boredom hides angelic skies

 

 

 

 

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) –Limericist 2007/2021

 
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Posted by on March 30, 2021 in Poetry

 

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This Tree

a tree is my healer
wholesomeness attends me
it gladdens me to lounge under its canopy
it shields me from the blazing sun
it whispers rustling leaves soothing me
aiding me to come to balance and perspective

my earthly sojourn is headed for decline
but you, without fail, stand stalwart for me
your roots, trunk, and branches brace me
despite the reverses I face
you are constantly prepared to help me
with medicinal leaves, flowers,
and delicious crisp fruit
overwhelming my focus

There are not many things I can be sure of
but come what may, 
this tree has proven to be my link to life
and my constant health
now and forever


 

 

 

 

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) –Limericist 2007/2021

 
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Posted by on March 29, 2021 in Poetry, Spirituality

 

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Wild Child

Me and Maj – circa 1960
a wild little elf
with wide-eyed wonderment
I was magically alive and frolicked

owner of a child's idyllic home 
named Cherrybrook

all by himself,
dad constructed a house 
in the late 1950s
from a dilapidated 1800s barn
 
our spread was situated on
eight acres of untamed sugar-bush forests
with old wagon trails crisscrossing the woods 
hung with grapevines
 
dad also made a lake with a dock 
to dive and fish from

filled with bluegill, catfish, and frogs
turtles, ducks, snakes, muskrat, and heron
(I loved the wildlife in my back yard)

here, nature's drama was constantly unfolding
and I ran as untamed as the land

I was possessed 
of an ancient wood-lore spirit
swiftly hopping rocks down gurgling ravines

catching crayfish and salamander barehanded

climbing trees and shaving my own spears
making my own sling from leather bootlaces

lord of my enchanted world

with my tawny German Shepherd, Major

he looked like the famous Rin-Tin-Tin
and loved a little boy half his size

lolling his slobbery tongue with a smile
he loved to chase sticks and chew them
into bits, until his gums would bleed

next to me, Maj ran, grinning at me
in our wild outdoor freedom, 
but protective as a mother bear

we were easy 

whether I pretended 
to be an Indian or cowboy or spaceman

I could be anything I fancied, and shapeshifted
while leaping along in the forest

for I was a scrubby little wood creature






© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) –Limericist 2007/2021

 
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Posted by on March 29, 2021 in Memoir, Poetry

 

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Arachn Idvasion

once upon a time
thought I would like to watch
a diligent spider
fabricate its nest to completion
but now, I had little choice
oh, the offensive beastie
climbed right into my ear

commenced wrapping its sticky
cobwebs around my unguarded mind
yes, this nightmare of all
my waking frights ambled about
rolling and knotting my thoughts in its
pinching, chop-stick, weaving fingers

old eight-eyes drug its octopus body
up and down through the dank corridors
of my cracking cerebrum
and could, now and then, peer with malice
out my eyeballs

the sly earwig came in
as I was listening to the daily news
one fascinating story after another
and it squeezed its fat body right in
and I let it, in fact,
inadvertently, welcomed it
and it didn’t need
an invite

it thrust itself in,
thrumming waxy ear-canals
with its propagandizing drippings
filling my thick-boned cranium
damn thing came busy too
yes, from the web
spinning, and re-spinning
an elaborate net
in the head

 

 

 

 

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) –Limericist 2007/2021

 
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Posted by on March 27, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Anyone?

an African girl searches for her mother
she’s five– tied on her back, her brother
wanders the smoky streets, hungry
hides when rowdy black-booted men pass
they carry machetes and Russian AK-47s
amid wailing cries and sniping chatter
limbless bodies stare from bloated death
fishy-smelling sewage in pothole puddles
she stops to drink the rainbow-slicked water
giving a little to her fever-sick passenger
not far, the soldiers hold a shirtless man
smirking, they necklace him with a tire
crying on his knees, imploring for his life
they douse him with kerosene and lighter flicks
fiery screeches pierce the air
and they just laugh and laugh and laugh
from hiding, the girl watches in horror,
wondering, why?–
does anyone care?

.

.

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) Limericist 2007

 
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Posted by on March 27, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Living on the Wire

The famous funambulist,
Karl Wallenda said,
‘The only place I feel alive is on the wire,’

in 1977, at age 72, he walked
a 720-foot cable
(about 2 football fields) from the
Miami Fountainebleau to the Eden Roc Hotel,
170 feet above the ground
while crowds of people ogled
at his marvelous feat of balance,
he called this walk, ‘the toughest stunt
of his life.’

but in Puerto Rico, only a year later,
at 73, he fell
not from age, or a misstep,
but from a gust of wind
coming off of the Caribbean combined
with a poorly connected guy-wire

on live TV,
he fell 120 feet,
hit his head on a parked taxi,
and five minutes later
pronounced dead,

it shouldn’t shock anyone to think
that he would want to die
in the same way as
he only wanted
to live

for ‘The Flying Wallenda,’
risking was savoring life

.

© Brian Hodgkinson Jr (aka) Limericist 2007

 
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Posted by on March 26, 2021 in Poetry, Short Story

 

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Caned


Remember the 60's?
the 20-year cold-war fatigue
and Lennon sang, 'back in the...' where?
and everyone grew their hair
and everyone else was 'square,'
and Woodstock was the right to 'bare,'

that was 50 years in the past
their teachings didn't last,
the world is going insane
trying to make everyone the same
& now the hippies sport a cane

soon, the net gets everyone typecast
tracked with stereotypical abstracts
compliance is demanded
sameness is heavy-handed
indoctrinating their conclusions
self-righteous in their exclusions

No chance for ideological reconciling
because with hate, they're unsmiling
but have they known themself?
trying to force everyone else
on the shelf?

traveling through countless changes
all falls apart --then rearranges
we reevaluate our positions,
testing our assumptions
producing green adoptions,
accommodating to conditions
no one knows
how expansive the range is

 

 



© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) Limericist 2021
 
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Posted by on March 26, 2021 in Poetry

 

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The Ablation

On a cart, paraded and wheeled
stripped naked and bared unconcealed
bystanders all want to stare,
heads turn to see a freak in a fair

to the shamanic altar is where
priest and priestess begin to prepare
the oblation is shaved of all hair 
with declarations and with dark prayer

Self-respect takes a hit, isolation sure
blood will be let, the conjectured cure.
ceremonial knives meant to impale
the drums begin to pulsate the tale

Serpents drill, pierce into a vein,
tunneling torture shocks the brain
their fiery fangs, biting inside the victim
drinking the pulse - possessing the rhythm

Howling now, flailing like a fighter
agonizing, they bind all the tighter.
incantations are chanted but to no avail
Apollo solicited, but the spells all fail

Drugging potions, by arteries, injected
into a magical world projected
awaking, breathe fire in the chest
cannot tell if blighted or blessed

they said the fiend evaporated,
but may return at a later date.



© Brian Hodgkinson Jr. (aka) Limericist 2007

 
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Posted by on March 26, 2021 in Poetry

 

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