Monthly Archives: June 2021

It is what it is with me affirming right now
I am who I am - none can disallow.
The audience is fickle - I don't seek their praise.
It's not worth a nickel. I'll live my own days.

It is what it is - though it's never the same,
I am who I am - I make my own game.
The moments are changing, perpetually new.
Thoughts rearranging - artistically view.

I am who I am - all according to me.
It is what it is - so I'll let it breathe
Alone, I determine whatever I see.
It is what it is. Whatever--, I'm free.

I choose my identity - Don't you agree?
The world is determined, but only by me--
It is what it is and I am who I am,
The root & the branch, and also the stem.







iambic pentameter, couplets
© 2 minutes ago, Brian Peter Hodgkinson    rhyme 

Our meet-cute was just poetry
you followed mine - and I, yours
we swapped numbers on MySpace
you texted me with an attachment,
a video of you in a black dress creating 
to Dido's "White Flag,"
your winsome playfulness
captivated mine.
Though you left this shuttle in 2016
but I am forever encountering you.

we should not allow,
or so *they* say
because an infernal law
prevents difference

and yet to rebel
with a screeching yell
is just the same
it's not a recent game

do we peculiarly fit(?)
the used mold awaits
unquestioning agreement
but what if we refuse
to falsely say the same rhyme
that *they* recite in line?

reject us they must
because the format is
foreign
our feather unclassified
causes repulsion

type and kind
we quickly find,
without investigating
without patient adjudicating

but this old earth is full
of extraordinary variety and shift
without which we cannot lift
to our appointed form

the demand to belong
to another's plan
reduced me once
to a minus-man

but wisely, let me please
God, I beg
be content to be
a misshapen peg

A poem of draining life
was Dickinson's delight.
She once wrote,
A poem is a poem if
hearing it
makes all strength to leave;
& puts our nature in a freeze,
like removing the cranial cap
with an emotional thunderclap.

One day I heard such a poem,
like nothing heard before,
chilling my blood and bone.
Sliced to the very core.

Silenced to a statue,
I had to pull off the road,
it suggested Emily's test
how she loved death's ode
the best.
No contrivance at our last
just a grim theme--
a gurgling scream..........

1.4

Until
the jack-in-the-box thunder-clap
ever pops at the inappropriate time.
Unfair, the searing pain, the shrill scream of abject terror,
dreams disintegrate in a relentless rain of tinkling glass.

Each shard becomes a razor-edged missile, surgical
in the violent hands of butchering circumstances.
There are no familiar words for this overwhelming fear.

Gulping for air as the official countdown begins,
Brutally crushed by the tyranny of urgent need.
Impossible solutions are desperate, all needed yesterday.

And finally, when the excessive bleeding staunches,
the clap sounds again louder & more demanding;
and for those who neglect to pray, terror

is their terrible food. Yet, for those who do, and
cry out, a dread reminder that we always
imagine that we're equipped.

Falsely, we suppose --guess, --think,
--we feel --presume,
until ------- the clown pops.

We are all tired of the same clap-trap 
therefore, believe clouds 
are the cheeks of cherubs
bending over a moon, 
And want to see
between 
the 
verbs.
 
or just
another 
fishnetted legs tied 
round-the-ears crock, 
and I'll hawk synonyms into
the cheesy stretched-out whole
of that presumptuous verse.
 
Such "poetry" is electrodes
jabbed under a Vader cap;
a rigor-mortis jump
then limp crash.

A composition should not be
full of tedious, trite, tired, modifiers,
 
but a wrecking-crew 
of lateral cruelty. 

And remember: 
Bull-patty 
adjectives 
are all
liars.

"A poem should not mean," 
but be the quantum space 
between two bent clouds
igniting all substance
crazed.

I poem, therefore, I am.  		  
I believe in magical thinking
because I am a poetic vibration.
 
All I perceive and all I am were spoken 
a part of the poetry of the One 

Creation is the poem of the Creator--
whose workmanship we call math or science.
 
Still, everything is poetry - 
in symmetry or asymmetry, 
and it doesn't matter to poetic matter. 

I am-- because the One is the I AM. 
--now, the One-Presence is- 
we are crafted into the One NOW. 
(you are reading this presently), 

and it's immediately yours, mine, 
ours with Creator: 
the deep spell of the One--

who spoke its flow into lions, tigers, and bears 
people, plants, and planets 
galaxies dancing their milky time with Pegasus -

Orion said to himself, 'Draw my sword.' 
in meter with the One, 
the speaking Person: 
the Poem.

1.7

Not accepting your absence
I can virtually recognize you

The vision builds, peaks, signs a complete revolution
awake awake

we were off the vine,
the home where we built together
beside our mused current, a cherished place

some times were better than others
but I am always halfway to you
pursuing after our mirrored shadows
living with a revenant

seeking trails of endless day
these cannot destroy us
but can almost realize a face

if only you grasped what the lost ring did--

the rivers do flow beyond this crescendo
to find more sunrise, contemplating aloud
on the last person, the fountain

Will you ever love the one behind your eye?
Promote your own voice? 
Decide to restrain imitation?

Write the drops of the day, 
Recall your trashed diaries.

Drifting in every direction
we flower, the ranges call-- permit the beach,
the earth, the islands.

Find the nature of sunshine, 
not its reverberation--
for we evaporate like the morning

While dreaming the faraway road.
Do you feel blighted?

Tailgaters in a slow-motion hunt
Wander in a fog --time-bombs

Starry lamps light a lifetime or more
petty people of the cheesy moon
their flaw is a shelter

Wishing into the sky again
a necessary fact of life