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They throw in Drummer Hodge, to rest
Uncoffined—just as found:
His landmark is a kopje-crest
That breaks the veldt around:
And foreign constellations west
Each night above his mound.

Young Hodge the drummer never knew—
Fresh from his Wessex home—
The meaning of the broad Karoo,
The Bush, the dusty loam,
And why uprose to nightly view
Strange stars amid the gloam.

Yet portion of that unknown plain
Will Hodge for ever be;
His homely Northern breast and brain
Grow to some Southern tree,
And strange-eyed constellations reign
His stars eternally.
Alaynah Sep 2018
Being black
Being LGBTQ
Being muslim
Just being me
Or you just being you

We’re all supposed to be on the same team
At least in my head
But some people are close minded
And want to see some of our teammates dead

Here’s something Jermine Hodge, a young black man said
“I’m just like you
a human
red blood
Emotions
a moving figure
Why should you treat me
Like I’m about to pull the trigger?”

Over the centuries blacks have been discriminated
Because of the color of their skin
Causing a whole population of HUMANS to become sadder
But at the end of the day we all bleed the same color
So why should what’s on the outside even matter?

Being black, that automatically means you deal drugs
And all the homies you hangout with, they’re just a bunch of  thugs
Who play with guns and are thieves
Who gets chicks knocked up with their baby and then just leaves

Black people are the ones who walk around with sagging pants
The ones who get bullied by the police over “suspected suspicion” and not remaining a “proper stance”

If they walk around in the wrong neighborhood it gives that scared white woman a good reason to dial
But really it’s just a good opportunity to flash the blue lights and racially profile.


People say brown kids were born to end war between the two races
But people who are racist at heart, won’t stop their cruel ways
just because they see more brown faces

I don’t experience racism?
That’s what they think
But I’ve gotten called the N word ‘cause
My skin isn’t like milk, it’s kinda like a mixed drink

And being gay? Nope “that’s a sin”
God forbid us to love who WE wanted
but little did he know love always wins

If you’re a man in love with a man,
You’re obsessed with fashion and have a high pitched voice
You see? We didn’t ask you we just insisted without giving any other choice.

And you’re a lesbian if you have tattoos, piercings and short hair
And act like you have nothing to lose
If you are in love with the same gender you don’t love god!
Imagine what it’s like to be in his shoes!

You can’t judge someone because of who they identify as or who they love
If it’s not affecting your life, it’s not something you should be concerned of

Now, Muslims.
I guess they’re all terrorists huh?
But I guess we judge an entire nation of people
Based off of a few unfortunate attacks and call out the whole religion. DUH

If you’re wearing a Burqa or Hijab you get judged and looked at because you’re
an assumed terrorist
Yes 9/11 was a tragic day but we can’t blame all Muslims because of it

People will criticize no matter what
But I can tell you what one of society’s errors is
The muslim that sleeps in my house every single night
IS NOT A ******* TERRORIST

White people get looked at as the racists ones
But I can tell you that this stereotype isn’t true
Because my white mom has many brown daughters and sons
And my white grandmother on my dads side has 21 children 18  of them being adopted black kids, she took them all in because they were so beautiful and held her heart captive.

Negrophobia, Xenophobia, Homophobia, and Racism
These are all made up things for glamorizing human criticism.

The point of this poem was to debunk what stereotypes do
Also to remember never let lies and other people’s beliefs stop you from being unapologetically you
Hal Loyd Denton Mar 2012
Hodge Podge

I entered a shop titled paraphernalia in Canary Row as I started to enter a raw sea breeze rose it
Blew hard against my back little did I know I was about to enter a new world the place set the

Mood so much nothing that set everywhere but was in perfect order what a place to search for an
Indefinable item moving from one discarded disgraced piece to the next then an item of interest a

Pearl among bitter residue a case of leather with gold initials they were meaningless but they
Seemed to gleam like the time I approached a man setting in front of his house I was just a kid

Although I had lot of zeal for the things of God well it couldn’t be a worse situation as far as
Timing goes I just left a woman’s house that tended bar I thought what an opportunity she will

Be thrilled to see what is in store for her life that bespoke despair that has been more years than
I like to think about but when I shook her hand it was like taking a cold wet fish and holding it
I’m not being insulting just truthful the naive blur I was in was quickly taught a lesson it was like
Having a propitious sale on beautiful blue water and all held promise of good things unfolding

But the sea is the master of surprise that is it’s most captivating quality so from nowhere a
Knifing Wind rips the sail loose for a bit chaos rules that was my feeling as I stumbled away and

Came upon this man as said it wasn’t perfect he was opening mail just relaxing and I show up
And I’m Arguing this in my head to God he won’t listen it will just be repeat of what happened

But as I Passed his fine big car the sun glinted on the chrome and in that briefest of moments
God Spoke this is who I want you to talk to sounds good no God was talking to a deaf guy what

A Picture A tiny speck saying oh sure to the one who created this speck an all the rest so I
Soldiered On he probably thought what his problem I exuded a lot but none being confidence

Well after a Quick hello and in the next breath ready to say goodbye the spirit within started
Speaking Winsomely He dropped his guard I didn’t stick my foot in my mouth and we talked

Close to two Hours and at the end he gave me the greatest compliment he said you are a great
Salesman and it meant a lot because that was his line of work again don’t have contempt for

Small things so the Case intrigued me and spoke of promise so I purchased it a bit of history
Picked up a last stop for durable goods and it was such an announcement for the times it came

From it had forties written all over it when I picked it up I felt movement that felt like loose
Papers moving instantly it became more valuable what if it was an old movie script they have all

Kinds of stories about How Hollywood was everywhere up and down the coast and didn’t I bunk
Next to John Steinbeck’s son when I first got to Fort Ord the initials were in fact JS maybe he

Started another Story like Cannery Row Tortilla flat a sequel to Grapes of Wrath my heart raced
As I envisioned Spencer Tracy carrying this very case with the script for Tortilla flat they were

Both drinkers Maybe they switched cases in a haze of drink not unlike the mist that socks in the
Monterey Peninsula whatever it was I had to get alone and search the contents so I returned to

My sea Cabin at Big Sur it was already famous then Jack Kerouac spent time there he opened
Many Doors for me I took to the road in an imagination and later in real life I love the sea so the

Cabin Inside looked like a miniature museum of all things nautical I had the immense fire place
Roaring and the sea howled incessantly and the cabin groaned and creaked slightly what music it

Played To enhance the moment I doused the electric lights and lit the lantern you picked it up to
Carry it and you saw yourself as the old man trudging his way up the difficult path to the light

House Walking against a contrary wind so I placed the lantern on the great table that rested on a
Driftwood base sure I paid too much for it in Carmel but it was the best five hundred I ever spent

The twisted gnarled wood glowed with sea glory so now the time came to open the case with
Excited fingers I pressed and they released and I opened the lid in the shadowed light the paper

Might as well have been Silas Marner’s gold it was paper like rich parchment and strangely it
Had a golden quill I thought typical California you could find anything if you searched very

Long Of course no ink or well to put into it but since I am a calligraphic buff that likes that
Exquisite Way of writing I had the necessary equipment to get started writing with such richness

Crashing Against my heart and mind lost souls at sea and only their case survived it was time to
Write something the quill glowed the tip dripped as black blood the sound of it scratching sent a

Shiver through me the paper licked the ink and pulled it deep within its aged pores for hours I
Was truly lost on a sea of ink well what did you write well friend that is when the pirate in me
Arises and I have to say you will have to wait for the book but I will leave you with this it is

Dedicated to two Donnas’ one who got me restarted and the other that blesses me and others
With her soulful writing not the end by a long shot
Moon Humor Apr 2015
~Many people rely on the convenient, easy ways of living in this age of fast food, plastic packaging and rapid development. Most people do not care to see why they live the way they do or what it takes to live in such a way. Toxic pollutants leaching into our earth and water should not be worth the convenience! Third world women working in dusty, cramped factories to make designer purses for fifteen year old girls. Garbage is America’s biggest export and it ends up in China, on the coast of Somalia... anywhere that American citizens won’t be bothered to see it.

~What does it mean to buy a pack of plastic razors? Some metal, some chemicals, some plastic, more plastic for packaging. Use a razor a few times and toss it in the garbage. Somewhere, maybe at La Chureca, someone will pull the rusted metal and plastic from the landfill. They might make one US dollar per day collecting scraps of aluminum, glass, plastic and other scrap metals. What does it mean to wear deodorant? The plastic stick isn’t reusable. The ingredients are highly toxic. Aluminum-based antiperspirants have been linked to Alzheimer's and cancer. Soap comes in plastic bottles, coffee makers made of plastic, water bottles made of plastic… hell, my plastic shower curtain came wrapped in plastic packaging.

~Americans are lucky. Indoor plumbing with quality water. Green lawns and exotic flower beds. Buy and use, throw away and repeat. Big corporations pay off politicians to pollute. Industrial waste, land erosion, low air quality, pesticides. Why are we so quick to trust an artificial sweetener being promoted by a company that makes poison? They call you a hippy, a conspiracy theorist. They tell you that you only live once and to stop being so worried about it all. I ask them, how can you look away? Deforestation and destruction are all around. Those that profit are not concerned with what happens to the land after the loggers and miners have left the ground scarred and desolate.

~Modern living is a hoax. Yeah, you get around quick in your car but at what cost? Carbon dioxide, greenhouse gasses choking us and everything alive that lives with us and cannot speak. Can’t you walk to the corner store? Can’t you grow a few things in the garden or in the windowsill? When was the last time you saw a sunset and didn’t take a picture of it? Dairy cows packed together so tight they can’t turn around for your glass of milk. The disconnect is everywhere. Overpopulation. Overconsumption. People don’t care.

~They can choose. They can choose paper over plastic. They can buy a water filter instead of 20 plastic bottles. They can bike to work. Anyone can lessen their impact, anyone can think more deeply and live more sustainably. But we’ve made it so easy to be lazy. We’ve become so dependent that we’re forgetting to use technological gains to make the way we do things better. We’ve come so far that we’re forgetting what brought us here.

~

‘We are slaves in the sense that we depend for our daily survival upon an expand-or-expire agro-industrial empire – a crackpot machine – that the specialists cannot comprehend and the managers cannot manage. Which is, furthermore, devouring world resources at an exponential rate.’ Edward Abbey

‘In the developing world, the problem of population is seen less as a matter of human numbers than of western overconsumption. Yet within the development community, the only solution to the problems of the developing world is to export the same unsustainable economic model fuelling the overconsumption of the West.’ Kavita Ramdas

‘Water and air, the two essential fluids on which all life depends, have become global garbage cans.’ Jacques-Yves Cousteau

‘Globalisation, which attempts to amalgamate every local, regional, and national economy into a single world system, requires homogenising locally adapted forms of agriculture, replacing them with an industrial system – centrally managed, pesticide-intensive, one-crop production for export – designed to deliver a narrow range of transportable foods to the world market.’Helena Norberg-Hodge

‘Throughout history human exploitation of the earth has produced this progression: colonise-destroy-move on.’ Garrett Hardin
Quotes from: theguardian.com
The Iron Horse can still saddle this Coach,
Whose Extract nourishes the Children he trains:
One the Golden Girl; The Other a Hodge,
Transpose to the Miracle-Boy remains
Two-Scores-and-Four his Dedication baits,
Like Tunes based to emasculate them both
Here in the Pillow-Jungle Success does wait
Bending limbs into Sport; Then promotes their Growth
What Circus! Said the Lame Artist envine
Yet in Prayer begs him to join the Fray
He looked at his Pearls; And saw that they Shine
Which, suspend, trained his Boon-Dogs to obey.
Hence, to Devotion his Shoes retire
Partner and Career; In Big Thanks suspire.
#andybanksdive
Thomas Thurman Jun 2010
Two creatures' eyes have seen the sun,
and now their lids are filled with dust.
But if their eyes were blue, or brown,
I cannot tell, and yet I must.

St Claire's an Amiable Child
who sleeps secure and snug as Grant,
but who can tell me of his eyes?
(The city parks curator can't.)

And Johnson had a cat named Hodge
who fed on oysters, and was fine;
his coat was black, but not his eyes,
whose shade I cannot now divine.

Two creatures hold me in their gaze,
and thoughts of it I can't dislodge:
the nature of your eyes, my friends,
your sleeping eyes, St Claire and Hodge?
After Edward Arlington Robinson.  I make no claim for this to be good work; it just turned up in my head this afternoon.
THE PROLOGUE.

THE Cook of London, while the Reeve thus spake,
For joy he laugh'd and clapp'd him on the back:
"Aha!" quoth he, "for Christes passion,
This Miller had a sharp conclusion,
Upon this argument of herbergage.                              lodging
Well saide Solomon in his language,
Bring thou not every man into thine house,
For harbouring by night is perilous.
Well ought a man avised for to be        a man should take good heed
Whom that he brought into his privity.
I pray to God to give me sorrow and care
If ever, since I highte* Hodge of Ware,                      was called
Heard I a miller better *set a-work
;                           handled
He had a jape
of malice in the derk.                             trick
But God forbid that we should stinte
here,                        stop
And therefore if ye will vouchsafe to hear
A tale of me, that am a poore man,
I will you tell as well as e'er I can
A little jape that fell in our city."

Our Host answer'd and said; "I grant it thee.
Roger, tell on; and look that it be good,
For many a pasty hast thou letten blood,
And many a Jack of Dover hast thou sold,
That had been twice hot and twice cold.
Of many a pilgrim hast thou Christe's curse,
For of thy parsley yet fare they the worse.
That they have eaten in thy stubble goose:
For in thy shop doth many a fly go loose.
Now tell on, gentle Roger, by thy name,
But yet I pray thee be not *wroth for game
;     angry with my jesting
A man may say full sooth in game and play."
"Thou sayst full sooth," quoth Roger, "by my fay;
But sooth play quad play, as the Fleming saith,
And therefore, Harry Bailly, by thy faith,
Be thou not wroth, else we departe* here,                  part company
Though that my tale be of an hostelere.
                      innkeeper
But natheless, I will not tell it yet,
But ere we part, y-wis
thou shalt be quit."               assuredly
And therewithal he laugh'd and made cheer,
And told his tale, as ye shall after hear.

Notes to the Prologue to the Cook's Tale

1. Jack of Dover:  an article of cookery. (Transcriber's note:
suggested by some commentators to be a kind of pie, and by
others to be a fish)

2. Sooth play quad play: true jest is no jest.

3. It may be remembered that each pilgrim was bound to tell
two stories; one on the way to Canterbury, the other returning.

4. Made cheer: French, "fit bonne mine;" put on a pleasant
countenance.


THE TALE.

A prentice whilom dwelt in our city,
And of a craft of victuallers was he:
Galliard
he was, as goldfinch in the shaw*,            lively *grove
Brown as a berry, a proper short fellaw:
With lockes black, combed full fetisly.
                       daintily
And dance he could so well and jollily,
That he was called Perkin Revellour.
He was as full of love and paramour,
As is the honeycomb of honey sweet;
Well was the wenche that with him might meet.
At every bridal would he sing and hop;
He better lov'd the tavern than the shop.
For when there any riding was in Cheap,
Out of the shoppe thither would he leap,
And, till that he had all the sight y-seen,
And danced well, he would not come again;
And gather'd him a meinie
of his sort,              company of fellows
To hop and sing, and make such disport:
And there they *sette steven
for to meet             made appointment
To playen at the dice in such a street.
For in the towne was there no prentice
That fairer coulde cast a pair of dice
Than Perkin could; and thereto he was free    he spent money liberally
Of his dispence, in place of privity.       where he would not be seen
That found his master well in his chaffare,                merchandise
For oftentime he found his box full bare.
For, soothely, a prentice revellour,
That haunteth dice, riot, and paramour,
His master shall it in his shop abie,                       *suffer for
All
have he no part of the minstrelsy.                        although
For theft and riot they be convertible,
All can they play on *gitern or ribible.
             guitar or rebeck
Revel and truth, as in a low degree,
They be full wroth* all day, as men may see.                at variance

This jolly prentice with his master bode,
Till he was nigh out of his prenticehood,
All were he snubbed
both early and late,                       rebuked
And sometimes led with revel to Newgate.
But at the last his master him bethought,
Upon a day when he his paper sought,
Of a proverb, that saith this same word;
Better is rotten apple out of hoard,
Than that it should rot all the remenant:
So fares it by a riotous servant;
It is well lesse harm to let him pace
,                        pass, go
Than he shend
all the servants in the place.                   corrupt
Therefore his master gave him a quittance,
And bade him go, with sorrow and mischance.
And thus this jolly prentice had his leve
:                      desire
Now let him riot all the night, or leave
.                      refrain
And, for there is no thief without a louke,
That helpeth him to wasten and to souk
                           spend
Of that he bribe
can, or borrow may,                             steal
Anon he sent his bed and his array
Unto a compere
of his owen sort,                               comrade
That loved dice, and riot, and disport;
And had a wife, that held *for countenance
            for appearances
A shop, and swived* for her sustenance.             *prostituted herself
       .       .       .       .       .       .       .

Notes to the Cook's Tale

1. Cheapside, where jousts were sometimes held, and which
was the great scene of city revels and processions.

2. His paper: his certificate of completion of his apprenticeship.

3. Louke:  The precise meaning of the word is unknown, but it
is doubtless included in the cant term "pal".

4. The Cook's Tale is unfinished in all the manuscripts; but in
some, of minor authority, the Cook is made to break off his
tale, because "it is so foul," and to tell the story of Gamelyn, on
which Shakespeare's "As You Like It" is founded. The story is
not Chaucer's, and is different in metre, and inferior in
composition to the Tales. It is supposed that Chaucer expunged
the Cook's Tale for the same reason that made him on his death-
bed lament that he had written so much "ribaldry."
Nara Hodge Jul 2018
I walked into a sunset that did not belong to me,
Its vivid colours burning across the Mediterranean Sea.
In a fragile, elusive moment of composure
I gazed at the choppy sea moving closer
To the rugged, pebbly, rocky shore
Where I stood alone against the Rock.
The Rock of Gibraltar watched with a smile
As the turbulent Med pulsating with life
Scattered its waves against the strand,
And the sapphire waters kissed the ancient land.
The stormy sea embraced the coast
With fierceness intangible as a ghost.
The air vibrated with a taste of freedom,
With barely audible words of wisdom
That travelled across the centuries
To fill the tangy air with memories.
The voices from the past enveloped the Rock
In an alluringly mythical, protective cloak.
I gathered the strength I drew from the Rock;
Fears discarded, the resolve growing strong,
I walked the Med Steps to the very top
Against a dazzlingly splendid backdrop
Of the breathtaking views of the bay,
Basking in the aura of fears thrown away.
Intoxicated by the beauty, hungry for more,
I was feeling elated to the very core.
The fear of heights temporarily conquered,
The contentment felt almost awkward.
Suddenly, the world seemed a different place:
Offering the nature's graceful embrace.
As the starry night slowly descended,
In my solitude, I felt protected
By the mighty Rock standing tall and grand
Guarding the ancient, immemorial land.

Copyright: Nara Hodge 2018
Grace Jordan Sep 2014
Lucky.

Some people would look at this little life of Grace and think, ****, she is lucky. Of course, you know better, don't you, Wonderland? You know what goes on in my hodge-podge head where the rainbows lament and the killers dance.

So come and tell me what my kiss tastes like. I want to know if the poison is evident or I'm just the one who can feel it.

Skeletons twirl on my walls, and that's not a metaphor. I literally have neon skeletons dancing on my walls. That's just the type of person I am.

No where. That's where we're going right now, with wonderful gibberings of a lost cockatoo, so lost she found herself in a young woman's body.

Lost little Grace, trying to find her place in the world, just like her beloved Alice. Yet Alice was always free of Wonderland at the end of the night. Or was she? She did always gravitate towards the insane place, maybe she's just as trapped as Grace.

Musings of the world as I grow, from young little wide-eyed girl to the woman I am today. A young woman, albeit, a naive, wide-eyed woman with too much hope in her heart, but a woman nonetheless.

The scars of your love leave me breathless. Oh no, no they don't. I hope mine have left you dead.

Still bitter I am how my caterpillar betrayed me. Have I not told this story? How in the dark of the night he found solace in the wings of another, to leave me blind to his deception. Thank the gods the March Hare had the sense to enlighten me.

Now I spend my nights in the arms of other, and I could not be happier. Never one solid man, never one stationary enough to become a character of Wonderland. But there enough so the loneliness does not creep up on me in the waking hours of the moon.

Stars are my companions now, yes, that's what they are. I am always stargazing and sometimes, when I'm lucky, I share my pantomimed sleep with them, pantomimed for of course I do not sleep.

So perhaps I am lucky, for I am a Grace surrounded by stars, and at the moment, I would not have it any other way.
Grace Jordan Sep 2015
Grace has made it through Wonderland, and has seemed to find peace with it for the time being, so where does she go from here? This would be easy if like in books things just ended, closed up in a neat little bow at the end of the story and there is resolution.

But there is no resolution here. Just a desperate craving for meaning again.

I guess since my Wonderland is stable, the only thing left wrong is me.

Not to say that the baubles and do-dads in my head are still broken, no, Wonderland is at peace, remember? Must get you checked for that memory of yours, good sir.

Regardless, my ducks are trying to row and I must follow their orders as to not rock the boat. Nonetheless, though, who is Grace? I've been working so hard to keep the Jabberwockys at bay and stop the wars from coming and protect the heads from rolling, that it's like some part of me is missing. I feel like a hodge-podge, a hedgehog, speeding around and around in lost wonder trying to find something but never quite sure what.

Is writing truly the only distinctive, certain characteristic I have, with no contradictions and carpenters and changes? Is it the only solid footing I have on the edge of tomorrow? Am I not much else, with as much substance as a sellophone?

Everything seems to cancel, make me some sort of odd creation of jumbled things that don't seem like they would fit right at all, but enough glue was pumped into me that practically anything seems to stick.

I'm covered in glitter and polish, getting thicker each day, making me someone new with each passing coat. I'm not gaining weight, so is my inner soul just melting away?

Can a person just become polish? A person who creates themselves instead of something made, genuine, and real? Am I even Grace anymore, should I adopt a new name as if to show the difference that has taken a hold of me since my name was born years ago? Will I reach the point that when someone wants to know me and starts to chip the paint away, that by the end there is nothing behind the color at all? Will I become nothing but choices and farces to the point they are me?

I have no clue how to get back. Can I? The paths behind are gone, the bread I've been crumbling to save my path was gone years ago, as the Chesire Cat promised I'd find my way if I had nowhere to go. But guess now I have no way and have somewhere to go, and he's not to be found. Typical.

Do I want to get back? Am I too attached to my polish now?

My polish was layered to make others happy, so who am I without others, without the affections and pleasing of others? I don't know. That's terrifying. I can't do alone, and I have led myself here more and more with each passing day. I don't think I can be alone ever again, or the Jabberwocky will certainly **** me. I wish it was a maybe, but for once I can't even rely on those.

Guess I better keep on layering the polish and glitter, trying to find a semblance of who I once was. Maybe a mix of now and who I am? Possibly that could work.

Now only if I knew who I was at all.

That would make choosing polishing colors much easier.
Kate Little Sep 2011
Oft had I thought ‘twas meant just for a male
And mindlessly I’d chosen not to read
Until one day I was summoned to heed
Melville’s epic tale of The Great White Whale

The wandering sailor - “Call me Ishmael”
Captain Ahab -  vengeance his greedy need
Reckless, careless; anything to succeed
Yet, his destiny, rightly, was to fail

Hodge-podge of cultures from all walks of life
Scruples, beliefs, tenets, lessons  and more
Adventure and religion - all were rife
Herman challenged and gave voice to it all

The world then -  the world now - deeply in strife
When will we learn and stop fighting the war?
© Kate Little 2011
All Rights Reserved
Zachery Oct 2018
Thanks for all that you say
Night and Day
Nothing more do I have to pay
This friendship is what I have
So thank you
And that poem too
I needed that pick me up
To get back up
Its a dark time
For me right now
Nothings safe
My problems they strafe
I try to hit them away
But they dodge
One big Hodge bodge
But you were there
And you did Care
And so did I
So I didn't want you to die
Heres a line about pie
So I do love you
In a platonicall way
You helped me
Because of you
I now enjoy life too
Best buds
Society's duds
Quirky, and weebs
We peeps
And life plays for keeps
So keep this friendship going
Keep our minds peaceful like its snowing
Buds
Duds
Friends
To the bitter end
Aw thanks for what you said about me you german you. Your poem really helped you croissant. Thanjs in all seriousness. Lots of loves.
Sean Kassab Apr 2012
I’d like to introduce myself to you today,

I’m Joe Nobody.

You’ve seen me before, I’ve worked for you for years.
I was the crossing guard at your children’s school.
I was your janitor; I emptied your trash and mopped your floors.
I delivered your goods by truck or took away your garbage on Sunday.
I delivered your mail in the rain.
And you never even knew my name, but that’s ok.

See, I’m not special like you,
I’m just plain old Joe Nobody

I don’t drive a Mercedes; I drive a beat up old Dodge.
You wear Armani suits and my clothes are sort of hodge-podge.
But my hands know the feeling of an honest day’s work.
And no one in my life ever said “That guy’s a ****!”
My pockets aren’t full, but what’s there was earned with honor.
So with that I’m off to the store to buy supper for my daughter.

I’m not looking for anything special, no big fancy type of ordeal,
Just a box of mack-n-cheese, some veggies, and some veal.
Maybe a small piece of that cake they had on display.
Then I’m off to the register, goods in hand and ready to pay.  
“Hello Julie, how are you doing? How was your day?”
She smiled that I remembered her name, and that I cared enough to ask.
See she was helping me just then, though we’re just regular folks.

Not special like you.

I pulled up in front of my small home.
Sure it ain’t much, but it’s warm inside and well lived in
The roof doesn’t leak, not even a bit.
And the fridge is covered in magnets that hold my priceless art collection.
It’s all drawn in crayon and scribbles of course.
Mostly pictures of a pink unicorn dolphin horse.
I still laugh at those…..

I opened the door and walked in to the sweetest voice saying “Daddy’s Home!”
I dropped to a knee, bags in hand to hug an Angel.
I, Mr. Joe Nobody, hugged an Angel today you see.
Maybe you never knew my name; maybe to you I didn’t matter at all.

So I’d like to introduce myself to you today,

See, I am a Father
And in the eyes of the most special little girl,
I’m not simply special like you.
I am a Super Hero!
From the hodge porridge
of their country lust,
their local life in Illinois,
where all their acres look
like a sprouting broom factory,
they name just ten years now
that she has been his habit;
as again tonight he'll say
honey bunch let's go
and she will not say how there
must be more to living
than this brief bright bridge
of the raucous bed or even
the slow braille touch of him
like a heavy god grown light,
that old pantomime of love
that she wants although
it leaves her still alone,
built back again at last,
mind's apart from him, living
her own self in her own words
and hating the sweat of the house
they keep when they finally lie
each in separate dreams
and then how she watches him,
still strong in the blowzy bag
of his usual sleep while
her young years bungle past
their same marriage bed
and she wishes him *******, or poet,
or even lonely, or sometimes,
better, my lover, dead.
David Nelson Sep 2011
Get out of Dodge

well pardner I guess it's time
think I heard that school bell ring
they're playing tunes to a nursery rhyme
and I wasn't even asked to sing

the writing is clearly marked on the wall
<---- this way out you silly fool
you're the one left standing at the ball
no dance partner and that ain't cool

did you really think that this would work
you need to see the limits in your dreams
now everyone thinks that you're a ****
tired of hearing your yells and screams

so get out of town while the gettin's good
before someone decides to shoot you down
the horse you're riding is made out of wood
you can try your luck in some other town

the Marshall is coming he's bringing a rope
the posse all gathered in a huge hodge podge
they know that you are the one who's a dope
it's time for you to get out of Dodge

Gomer LePoet...
Madeleine Toerne Jan 2014
Week old tincture
tinted with lemon-grass
and snod-grass
and grease from black beer-spilled book-bag.

Weak old tincture
couldn't sustain relationships that envelop
circadian rhythms that clash and grate against bunk-bed guards and bone hanging ceilings.

Play bill:
swam in the shallows, metamorphosed, gender bended
unwavering and unending personal development through catharsis.

Pushy beliefs pushed on people who don't believe,
who won't believe in the "serenity of a clear blue mountain lake."
Science, and logic, and classical hodge-podge of ideas,
no,
of theories;
that makes sense.

The non-sensical is the warm.
The un, understood is the energy.
The sun shines in hard, unforgiving through the frosted window, blinding me and I trust my instincts suddenly.
Ann Beaver Oct 2013
She knows more
than she shows,
Shows more than she knows.
Bows, ribbons, flowers, lace
Invisible mask
Cast iron and shadow play
May I understand this
Heavy air?
This feeling of despair?
Words like bullets
He pulls the trigger with his tongue
Rung out like a towel
Trowel to dig a grave slowly
Stinging sharpness
Darkness never knew light.
A hodge podge sea
Of words can't make a sentence
When I said this is me
I really meant it.
Francie Lynch May 2015
The boys ran
After the ball exploded
The bedroom window.
Shattered glass shards
In indiscriminate flight.

The ants re-grouped
To build after
The red-cherry erupted
The hill like Pompei,
Scattering serendipitously.

Grimmacing quarter moon
Pumpkins lay in hodge-podge
Pieces on All Saints Day.

Suitcases, clothes and neckties
Stewn on a runway
Like a kid's bedroom.

We move from order to chaos,
Like the third light
On a match.

I was lead to believe
Displacement Laws,
Science, and regular
Bowels could explain
Explosions,
So we can lift the stones
On Salisbury and Newgrange,
Or re-arrange grains of sand
With projected order.
We only have a beginning
And an end, while living
Through the explosions.
leaving
home alone
cheap
*****
liquor
dope sick but
I'm sicker than what
star stickers could fix

it's made me
a motley collage
of a hodge podge
apogee sentenced to be
hanged from the ceiling
or on the wall in a
cheaper motel hallway.

this is in no way an apology.

what the **** are we doing here?

getting stupid numb
playin dumb &
faking it, making noise
to fill a synchronized void
it's feeding itself,
it's eating itself

photosynthetic autophagy

lovely little lamb
lost cause long shot
breaking the bottles
for succumbing to
their own poison

but smashing the glass
don't quiet the voices,
it just makes them laugh.

peace love
*** drugs
bubblegum baby in
a neon pink bikini

a tragic act.

houdini chasing
rabbits & red dragons
to wonderland
under the tophat
he huffs his magic
from a plastic bag

- escape artistry.

carved from bone
covered in leaves
drinking veins.

darkhearted
hollow-eyed & starving
***** & sparkly
snarky harpy barking
senseless malarky.
she's pretty garbage.

beautiful.

just plain
*******
beautiful.
Andrew Parker Jun 2014
The Ninth Father's Day Poem
(6/15/2014)

A 12 year old Wynn,
wandering around the house.
Not so different from a spirit,
one that had shed its oppressive shackles of daily struggles.
A lot of people came to my father's funeral.

Everybody kinda threw a hodge podge of advice at me.  
Saying token phrases that they probably picked up in a movie.  
Things like, "Your father loved you, you were a lucky boy."  
I don't care to remember the rest.  
Although the worst was the people who had the audacity,
the nerve, to tell me, "Time will heal all."  

They must have meant it takes enough time for me to die too,
only able to heal once I can see him again.  
Because I spent the first 6 years numb,
carrying on through awkward motions,
like I needed a good grease or tune up.  

You could hear the **** squeaks
as a poorly maintained robot should.  
Devoid of emotions, unfeeling,
unable to accept the traumatization of tragedy.

I spent the last 3 or 4 years successfully.  
I graduated college.  
I've fallen in and out of love.  
I even grew up into a promising young adult.  
But I also learned how to miss my dead dad.
Time only makes it hurt more as I count each year.
This is The Ninth Father's Day.
Anjana Rao Feb 2016
These days,
you don’t talk to anyone.
You hear the offers,
and you refuse to take them,
refuse to give anyone
the satisfaction
of helping.

[What could they do,
what could they say?]

These days,
you don’t reach out
reply as much as you have to
when approached,
and disappear into dissociation again.

You don’t feel bad,
you don’t feel sad,
you don’t feel.

Only tell yourself that
they don’t need you
and you don’t need them.

You’re alone.

But not lonely.
Your brain is home to a chorus,
there’s never a dull moment.

How could you ever be alone
with so many voices in your head?

There’s the querulous one of anxiety with her constant,
whatdoidowhatdoidowhatdoido?

The heavy, lumbering one of depression, who only mumbles,
Who cares? None of this matters.

There is the babble of Mombrain,
a hodge podge of toxic sludge that
at this point,
is not cruel but
almost comical:
You’reuglystupidbadloserfreaksocialmisfitliarliarliarug­lystupidbaddesperatepatheticracistunfeelingcoldfuckyouyoulazyburd­enonsocietyfuckyou.

There is the matter of fact one of Logic Brain.
She is the one who
has to do damage control, works overtime to
make you appear Sane, Articulate,  Good, Better.

She is the one who guides you through
every
single
action.

Get out of bed.
Now brush your teeth.
Now make the bed.
Now take a shower.
Now put on clothes,
Now eat - you have to eat multiple meals.
Now take your meds, don’t be a child.
You are going to get things done today.
You will be Fine.


But the whisper
is the one that interests you,
scares you,
thrills you the most.

She's the one you never shut down.

She is cool, suave.
You can never see her, of course,
but she is the girl you could never be.
She is
so close,
so seductive -
just                  out of reach.
She breathes into your ear:
crash the car,
jump on the tracks,
fly off the bridge,
stab yourself to watch the blood,
drink the nail polish remover,
chug a whole bottle of whiskey
and down some pills,
just like the old days,
remember the old days,
you were sure you would die?
You can still Do It.


Ideation always whispers,
but the whispers are so loud,
feel so
right.

She tells you:
You think I’ll disappear, but
you and I,
we’ll always be going steady,
I’m not like those other girls,
the ones who rip out your heart,
who never say sorry when they need to,
who use you and expect so much and
leave when they’re done.
Baby, with me
there will never be any surprises
no heartbreak,
no drama,
no manipulation
no uncertainty.


*Baby,
I will never leave you,
I am the one constant.
Come into my arms,
let me hold you tight
and never let you go.
My name is a lie Mar 2015
I may not Know who
I am, but I Recognize
pieces of me,,
in Contemplation
in Time alone
in Others

we are all a Hodge Podge of
pieces, a Mosaic
cracked, yet beautiful
Panoply of mystical elements of holly day style
breathe prez sense frostily exaled aired
per millennia athwart
(this terrestrial spaceship planet Earth)

two plus seventeen carousel rides resonated
veritable pantheon of pagan rituals
and quirky superstitions lit
(akin to a lit Christmass tree)
starry eyed imagination

as catalyst viz **** Sapiens
furrowed stern brow of forehead
aft stemmed whilst Santa oft puzzling
(allocating suitable gifts)

inducing him to tug thought generating beard
pondering, whence agents provocateurs
receive just desserts
fueled hodge podge, mished mashed, helter skelter

eclectic December twenty fifth
encompassing tens of thousands previous generations
bred despacito fixtures via paganism,
Manicheaism, Jainism, et cetera
ancient brutish credos, ethos, faiths

brewed nebulous concoction
within mindset of early mankind
loose confection, confederation, conglomeration
indiscriminately torquing, vetting, whetting
disparate constituent beliefs

contagion wrought spirit paradigm
inculcating oral tradition Madonna and child
occupying high chair
whereat superstitions birthed patchwork
comprising divergent ensemble heralding

tender petsmart impact, where world wide web populated
with sacrificial pacification sans deity
via oblation, immolation, flagellation appeasing *******
borrow wing, vis a vis amalgamated viz Roman sol invictus
wrought fiery brimstone tempting those who dared
assert contrary fledgling jambalaya outlook
provoking regally supreme sacerdotal wiseman

punishing opposing incorporating
novel modus operandi explaining sacrilegious worship
such heretics pitched headlong
into fiendish frothing furnace
forcing obeisance toward primitive popular
identified, honored, glorified father figure
expressing devotion re:
decking the halls of the moutain king,

whence boughs of Juniper sprigs contriving wreaths
sanctifying twisted brambles via springling angel dust
(actually cremated remains of malefactors
stripped of habiliments) during bleak winter

unwittingly interweaving nascent (futuristic)
formally codified bona fied religions
unknowingly, tacitly, silently rendering
quintessential premises obliging
layperson to foreswear locally rooted secular treatises

trounced, trumpeted unction voided
wishy washy antithetical blind faith coalescing edicts
over course of time became established
Greco-Roman imposed group think
disallowing cynics,

diametrically emerging fanatics, skeptics
who (if he/she did not recant
recalcitrant reccommended recourse
faced torture amidst throng of madding crowd

as entertainment and forewarning gall
asper those who held steadfast dissimilar views
taught since birth, when citizenry reared
as just a little drummer boy/ girl pipsqueak

taught to stay the course (sans straight and true)
bound without freedom to express contrary aspects
of ways and whyfores, which controlled each green day
and silent night, wherefore unimaginable ogres

lined straying hip cats
eventually ensnared within warpath,
whence law of the land lend scimitar to smite
any mortal man, woman or child with flaming torches
licking the heretical body electric,
while defiant individuals
left to burn into decimated
charcoal blackened, ashen corpse.
M Elee Feb 2015
Hodge-podge of strangers
looking at my door
I welcome you.
Let this time in here
turn us to friends.

Let me serve you
on my finest china.

Please come into my door.

Let me take your coat,
tell me, how fine is this house?
and I can tell you
it is truly better
for having you in it.
For every smile shared
under my roof
For every laugh
had in these walls
has given me a home
when I was once homeless.  
For that, this humble one thanks you.
Please come in, for you too are home.
Let it be known
That this is not a dim porchlight
but a beacon
come in, come home
dear stranger
let's go home.
Nara Hodge Jul 2018
Within my own broken self
I look for hidden parts of you.
You, the destroyer; I am your victim -
For now, at least, our roles are reversed.

I climb the steps to the top of a fountain -
The imaginary steps, the ones we invented;
And I reach the fountain that never existed,
To drink from its memories - torn and twisted.

Do you remember how it all started
On that fateful night not meant to happen?
It happened though, despite all odds -
Its pain enduring, its memories blurred.

No longer knowing what’s real and what’s a dream,
I crawl through the day not daring to scream.
With one wish only - to reach the night,
So I can beg it for shelter and a brief respite.

The imaginary comfort of welcoming darkness,
A cruel illusion that inevitably shatters
As soon as the first beam of all baring light
Casts a fierce spell with all its might.

Thus I’m left with another day to crawl through;
With promises that are fantasy - none of them true,
Longing for the arrival of the merciful night
With its false comfort to sleep by my side.

Copyright: Nara Hodge 2018
Masha Yurkevich Apr 2019


Every conflict is just an opportunity to solve a problem.


                                                              ­          ~ Lisa Hodge
My language arts teacher keeps on saying this, and so I finally decided to make something of it.
Jennifer Beetz Apr 2019
You hodge podge
of a person you
random facsimile
you who would
pull yourself off
of four legs just
to have a go
at me

Climbing up the
evolutionary ladder
keeping me at bay
while that lizard
brain of yours
feels the real time
of our mutual
decay

Something soft in me
the warm red blood
in me, you could smell it
even from under that stone
with one eye peering
above the mud while
the other eye plays
dead, white as a
bone

You kept your weapons
well hid but in the soft
light of night and under
a bowl of stars I could
hear your claws sliding
over white flesh and
scars

You, fooling me by
standing on two legs
and showing off those
practiced and opposable
thumbs- how ******
gallant of you

(And I watched him
fall on his neck, biting
himself in half; in his
parody of a human
he forgot to add a
spine)
if I posted this before, like in the past day or two, this is because my memory is for ****. if I posted this before AND it had a different title, well, this is due to my aforementioned memory problem- in fact I probably change the title of pretty much all of the poems I post more than once. I do the same thing with the collages I make. But I can assure you- or anyone else not paying attention- the titles to each of my poems stay put at least through a reading of one of them. What I mean by this that when you start to read a poem titled "The Ascent of a Man" it will still be titled "The Ascent of a Man" by the time you finish reading it. It will not be titled "The Vacuum Cleaner Salesmen I have Known and Loved, part one- Elliot Erickson and the Electrolux" (no matter how badly I want to change the title to that).

— The End —