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Author Archives: Brian Hodgkinson Jr.

About Brian Hodgkinson Jr.

I write.

Drama Kings and Queens and Everyone in Between

Jethro was a bull around bone china,
the racket of smashing followed him.
He never figured out how to move on,
clinging desperately to his broken experiments, 
trying to force the unfeasible to clank along.
At 35, he had had several aborted relationships
that permanently terminated with
emotional and physical mayhem.
He feared abandonment and couldn't
comprehend how his partners could so glibly
disconnect from him without
any necessary protracted drama; his addiction.
So, he felt the urge to harm them,
to pay them back for their ruthless rejection.
Like some dogs who will let you
into the house but snap at you
when you try to leave, be careful of
the Jethros and Jethrenes.



 
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Posted by on July 23, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Love Has a Name

The human condition clips on;
hubris dogs their every step,
everyone neglecting their source.

Love sees
involved invisibly in our regular suffering;
vivifying our very existence, and yet,
ignored by the masses.
No one, it seems, is paying attention,
going their own destructive ways.

When the fact remains;
One is tapping on our heart now, so willing to
recreate us from the inside out. Love
died, resurrected, and reigns. Let it in.


 
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Posted by on July 22, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Craven

Three hundred fifty years ago, Milton said, 
"Craving is never satisfied." 
Contemporary media perceives this
and leverages it to empty our bank accounts,
to commandeer our bodies,
set the agenda for our opinions,
to titillate our desires until
the appetites enslave us.
Our wills are molded by 2 of the 5 
gates, inundated with the flickering
of looking-glass screens flashing subliminal
messages to eat, eat, eat, or hate or lust 
We are their patsies-- 
reprogrammed every minute.





 
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Posted by on July 21, 2021 in Poetry

 

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What’s His Name

There is one who took the seven divine powers
and descended to the underworld. There is one
who abandoned the glory of humankind for the greater.
The carpenter was lacerated, bruised, 
crushed, and entombed,
whose aim was to descend to the underworld. 
One calls the people to come to behold the doorway,
to mourn our collective insensibility; 
to see the completed victory over
the netherworld. He bashed down
hell's gate; blasted the prison door--
though the underworld did its utmost
to incarcerate him, the door of life defeated 
the portal of death.
He pulverized the serpentine skull of the jailer.
He set the captives free and came up again
from the depths to become the life-giving vine,
the life-giving water - The one true life--
& the highest name above all--
enthroned.

 
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Posted by on July 21, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Now Is the Time

It's time to give credit to whom credit is due.

Humankind likes to praise itself as if
they could all take a breath
by their own choice - 

or resolutely keep 
the chest pumps pushing
oxygenated blood to the extremities
by an act of their own will.

The autonomic system begs an answer
of which our human science has negligibly
scratched the outer layer.

To deny that there is
a master author is to be deliberately dense
to the fundamental lesson of life on this earth:

To heartily give thanks for all things.



 
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Posted by on July 20, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Wellspring

Polls and projections serve as a waste of time.
Outcomes frequently happen outside of the ordained orbit. 
So, stop, simmer down, and settle into the real world.
It is whatever it is-- affirm the moment or flame out.
Today represents the total of opportunity.
Invite yourself in, take it to heart, strike for the gold.
Vitality is available now.
Internalize at the sacred well of the precious present.
To dig in for more agreeable days is the quest of fools.
Your heyday is here. -- Use it.


 
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Posted by on July 19, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Greybeard’s Rant

I’ve finally gotten to the point
where I don’t care what they say.
The so-called beneficial demands authorities make —
what I must do. When I was eighteen, said
I must go to war for my country. I was to be fodder
for the failed cause of someone else, which would
only serve to change me into a monster or back to dirt.
The invisible tyrant said we needed to cut all fats
then formulated margarine only to find later
that their creation was poisonous trans fats.
Then they replaced sugar with high fructose corn syrup
made in a laboratory for lab rats –but good for business
enhancing obesity much more–
Almost everything the experts tout is wrong–
over and over again, wrong. I have lived
through about ten presidents and have watched
the carnage and corruption of a selfish society.
Even our resistance movements are
destructive and wrong-headed. They exude
the negativity of knee-jerk reactions to the other
negatives only to blossom with more of the same.
History replicates itself by the law of attraction.

 
 

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Reseeding

Lockdowns provided a pause
for the spirit-mind-body person to reset.
Modernity's insanity is
putting us out of alignment. Centering 
one-pointedly reconnects the spirit-being
disoriented by multiple screens of artificiality.
Masks that equipped with private facial anonymity
may be more healthful than mere viral shields.
Trouble always holds the roots
of an equal but usually greater benefit.


 
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Posted by on July 17, 2021 in Poetry

 

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So Says the Preacher

Gandhi didn't advocate punitive resistance, nor
did King --or Mandela. But Che did, his clothes stained
with blood. Yet, celebrity t-shirts laud him. 
Their thinking is that the ends justify the means.
Wrong!

The bloody mass graves of Lenin and Stalin cry out.
A movement of media intolerance was
behind the Holocaust.

History repeats itself when
we stop paying attention. Mayhem triumphs
when good people look the other way. 

Can you imagine how dangerous it was
for Bonhoeffer to rail against Hitler
over the radio? 
Or Polycarp to contradict Caesar
to his face? Their fame is more indelible
than any viral TikTok, YouTube, or whatever.

There is a time for everything under
the sun --so says the Preacher. 
Bards who water down their flow
are tepid blowhards.
 
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Posted by on July 16, 2021 in Uncategorized

 

Denatured

The masked marauder goes over the earth.
The poison-tipped bolts of fear and rage
discharge from its computerized combined lips.
It takes shape, shifting sideways.
It trolls us while eating our a.M. Cheerios.
Tablets and cells bore into the gray stuff.
Unawares, yanking the strings, 
there is dancing, lurching--

The tree is still there. The morning dove is oblivious
that its song should be silenced or merely be canceled
as a YouTube phenom. Screen time may denature.






 
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Posted by on July 16, 2021 in Poetry

 

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