Bubble Attack

a twinge of pain in the chest
the throb below the center ribs
the speech-bubble in the head begins puffing up
flashing cardial attack surgery stroke clot aneurysm
the bubble helium grows and vibrates
like a monster of terror with fangs
of surgical knives
minions with white lab coats all in the bubbly head
bubble blowing up taut the pump speeds up
hear da-dum sloshing in the ears the tight bubble
with more horror language
breathing gasps the monsters of terror loom
sirens sounding coiling revolving in the head
ouroboros feeding on me sucking like spaghetti
chest and ribs thumping world dimming black
nose pins and needles strangulation
brain bouncing off bone walls screaming
the echo chamber hemmed in
this all began with a twinge in the chest
and the speech-bubble in the head
terror fuels more terror - then mountain of pain
xanax worstened this for me, but
sitting like siesta saying - let let
entering the now sanctum
kills the swallowing snake

.04 10/9
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 10, 2022 in Poetry


Broken Wing

near the burbling stream
next to the clover bank and hill
the meeting place the pearl hooves fell
under the yellow moon beam
with coat of fire orange opaline
the winged mare alicorn stood seen
mirrored on the flowing ravine
but not to pass this shore again
a broken bird huddles in the freezing rain

2.9 10/7
iambic tetrameter, enclosed rhyme 
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 10, 2022 in Poetry


Clown Hobby

A guy with the hobby of dressing like a clown
    Looked at clown costumes as just the play
Bought the shoes, the silks, and the red and white paints
    Children's birthday parties to make a buck
The gladsome his trademark Smile Mouth Chuck
    Chuck the dilettante with the grin of gold
His smiling mouth cheered both young and old
    In his mail, a guest pass to a clown guild house
Claiming to have an award for him to announce

    The house numbers on the card led him to a gate
Pitch night, the bell rung, he'd stand and wait
    The pranksters inside with the planned trick
They'd cut off Chuck's clown pants and a donkey tail stick
    But they shouldn't do this penny-wise they are crazy
Chuck also went 
                  by the birth title,

© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 7, 2022 in Poetry


White Man Walking

Taking a seven-mile walk in Kakamega Kenya
Outside the dusty sun-beaten town,

Strolling strides measure the landscape
Gnarled primeval trees grandly stare
My happy feet with aimless bliss
Beating cadence, teary eyes open,
"White man, what news?" bird chatter warns,
Bystanders lean in to watch me

I float along, invisible,
The enigmatic streaming spectacle
Miles to go under the hot lamp glare
The latitude-zero sun
My moisture is evaporating dust
Clouds of gray silt canopy the hidden walker

A woman digging grins at me toothless
Throws her mattock down, cackling
Naked boys peek over a bridge
Hearing the beating sound of my feet
Giggle, splash, "Hey, white man!"
Muzungu Muzungu haha

Two kilometers is a lifetime study
Smörgåsbord of sights for this optic glutton
The terrain rolling up to the heavens,
Cloudless, for the monsoon, is not yet

No categories to name what impacts
The sensory consciousness
My wheels ache, exhausted from head to toe,
But I climb to explore. More African greetings
"Hello brother" (Habari ndugu)
"Salute" (mzuri), I reply

I'm interrogated for my traveling crime,
Using the inferior mode of my feet
Cross-examined again "Gari yako imeharibika?"
(Is your car damaged?)
Climbing, sweat calculated steep
Burning lungs expand victoriously

Greeting giant boulders,
Potato-shaped guardians ringing silently,
Stretching new distance,
Crackling green cane funnel drawing further
Brown on one side, Chief Sakwa on the other,
Steering between cut green stalkers

Village of people like you, like me,
Curious, amazed, and bored
Most faces in lockstep
Never seeing their own utopia
I shout to tell, "The environment is gorgeous!"
Mocking laughter, pointing calloused fingers,

"This white man is poor!"
Doesn't drive a Landrover - haha
I can't stop. Almost there,
Chased and scrutinized for my misdemeanor,
But they can't keep up
My head of steam the plodding flyer

Deep mourning overtakes,
Missed seeing half, and I'm almost there.
The little graves of blindness,
I won't pass this way again.
So I turn around

2.5 8.5/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 5, 2022 in Poetry


The Wall Blew Off Typing A Poem

April 16, 2007 - Monday
after an afternoon siesta
sitting the room write a poem
suddenly a gargantuan storm
shrieks moans berserk the wind
looking out the pane curiosity
pine trees dance the herky-jerky
side to side - dipping their butts
hide from those monster bumps!
hide curled in my air leak room
as its rage beats against the wall
blusterous thumps tweak my dread
their angry gloom is way ugly gray
crazed squall racers run - horizontal
boisterous chasers blasting icy sleets
spitting machine-gun drumming bb's
beat my glass, i shout Avant, leave!
queasy heart hardens cold before
this maniac - this evil thing lives!
off boards lurching possessed
down the avenues - stagger
drunken on a wild search,
and though unsaid, this
foul wintry nympho -
riled with a growl
the walking dead,
hungry whore
it died only
to revive

.08 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 5, 2022 in Poetry


sun flesh

not a wisp of cloud
azure glass transports the sun
hairs bramble from heat

© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 4, 2022 in haiku, Poetry


The Chief

A dog was there, there was more, but a dog,
The chief, his name Chief ruled the yard front and back
Back was a valley of green, elephant-like leaves green

But no elephants, no, not in the valley, but monkeys
Some could ride elephant if they were there, but none
They just hid behind the ears like elephants, yes, hide

Guava like light green golf balls with crunchy seeds birds eat,
White out to plant new guava like the golf course in back
Golf hotel up the moon cratered road of ditches for cars,

The hotel of the malibu stork bone-legging around bald headed
Dubbed mr. hairy tufts of hair on the pink skin head eat the dead
Peep in the hotel windows, toms looking for dead scraps bones

Passion fruit juice after a duet bath, the voyeur mr. hairy
Bone-legging begging for a piece, the beef there smells old
Milimani home the chief awaits, sleeps on his back, the wicker chair

Front porch the dog in wicker legs
Up pink weiner show tongue lolls
Say hi to the Chief scratch - the belly watch out.

3.6 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 2, 2022 in Poetry


rose prick

the two pardners meet and have a fling
with sparks fireworks and eruption jing

the pink-flesh four-letters are bandied about
the soft eyes at you you say oof at me
of bed ugly tongues then things go south
or not or too
talk yak - talk yak
is at you speak at me i speak at you

people that joined bodies
now cannot stand them - the us the we
speaking wounds to the body they once joined
duet battleships firing cannons broadside
and sinking the yesterday four-letter lie

lies if the messages true
then the joining people
the join a clue
not true

3.5 8/5
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on June 1, 2022 in Poetry


Feather Touch

i stand and stare on this conch-strewn beach
the rolling sea
the seagulls seem hollow in my thoughts
left dry
like a sunburned shell

i dropped anchor for you in wide waters
like a breached galley
capturing me with your face
yet also held me at bay
above board as fellow sailors
as an enclose haven

so made was i to be
the man you sought out
and my furnace for you found no stoke
enough to boatswain your masts
but you had to depart for the siesta
beneath the sea

i plan to cross for you aft
and not stop searching leeward for you
our parting was a saber
as your ship set sail
our teardrops mingled like blood
handkerchief waving that fair winds

like the sea
quiet or in rage,
then your voyage met a nor'easter storm
gulping your ship into the maw
you did not reach the imagined door
my sight grew dim

i cannot hear inside my echo
you are in the lock
the beach breakers still roaring
your grin
far too permanent to be held
in that dark beneath
buoying me
when feather
touching the barnacled hand in mine

4.4 10/10
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on May 31, 2022 in Poetry


The Inside Look

home from the marines
looking for a job
the newspaper help wanted ads
looked for near to home

a funeral home ad
just a few miles down the road
light housekeeping
some mort assist work
piece of cake job

first day a load of telephone books
yellow pages
to put in every mortician room
going along swimmingly

open a mort room door
a naked woman
naked as a jay bird
more so
cranium top removed
breasts flopped to the sides
with a large y cut
innards removed
look in her cut ribbed breast cavity
cave like

she died being caught in an elevator
an opera singer
her dress caught in the door
elevator went up
she didn't - the strong dress broke her spine
and neck

first day on the job
see a millionaire woman less than poor
by the eyes
looking into her

4.7 8/5
© Brian Peter Hodgkinson    
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Posted by on May 30, 2022 in Poetry