Friday, October 31, 2014

Insulted By Ignorance

You know you’re insane, don’t you?

The sheep said to me with an overjoyed tone

As he wore the latest fashion

You see, it’s important to them

To have a question mark followed by

An in-style smile

I couldn’t blame him really

The other sheep were looking on

And oh

How tempting it must be

For this lamb to win their approval

My reply

What is insane?

Is it doing what you really want to do in this life?

Wearing what’s comfortable?

Saying what needs to be said?

Even when you know it makes you an outsider?

Standing up for the ones

So beaten down

They can no longer stand at all?

If this makes me insane

Well, I guess

I’m truly mad

Now runaway, little lamb

Back to your flock

They wait for your latest update

Like Piranhas waiting for the next to fall

Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Storm Chaser

Don’t engage the storms of stupidity

You’re not going

To change the minds of the narrow minded

The small minded

The Dullards

If you chase these storms

You’re going to get wet

Washed in negativity

Drown by the weight of their tiny minds

Pulling you under like an undertow

For the storm’s creators

They are always unhappy

They will never understand

Folks that are different

Yes, they are kings in their own little worlds


They can have their kingdom and all the misery that comes with it

For life is way too short

To not feel the sunrays on your skin

The wind on your face

And the freedom of being yourself

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

The Wolf Who Watches Over Me

The wolf says

“Maybe some of those coins ran through

The hands of your friends up here

Like messengers from the future

To let you know

You will never be alone.”

I reply

“I don’t believe, I’ll ever be alone

Now that you watch over me.”

You see

Her eyes are not only dark with shadowed night mystery

They see more than what’s right before her

Barriers do not exist for the wolf

When she shuffles her cards

They’re merely translucent boundaries

Allowing her to see the unseen 

Unimaginable to the average

To the spiritually lost at sea

But for me

The mother of cups

Wraps her feathered wings around me

Guides me to follow my heart

And the wolf says she sees me softly stepping beside her

When the snow is thick on the ground

Two spirits twirling in existence

From bodies thousands of miles apart 


While moon washed magic

Blankets the night

I fall

From conscious to unconscious

I’m dreaming

My eyes race back and forth under their lids

The wolf is right there to greet me

We stroll on the cracked stone sidewalks of the future

In a world most likely coming to an end

I call out to the crowd

The crowd I call out to

Saying, “We poor souls

Have been bagged as vagabonds

By the normal fringes of society!”

The people had become nothing more than nomads

Wandering about

Trying to find anything close to what used to be

The wolf said, “We should dress to amuse them

Help take their minds off the present.”

She then held my hand as we walked

Through the darkness

Protecting me with all of her magic

For she travels across stars to seep into my spirit

The wolf

Who walks among my dreams 

The first part of this poem in quotations comes from an email written by Liz Worth to me. After reading it, I realized even in emails, a poet speaks poetically, and her words of kindness that day were the perfect start to this poem.

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling


Monday, October 27, 2014


Karma is a flower

The most beautiful of all flowers

When it blooms

Its colors burst into a barrage of striking truth

So stunning in their perfection

While they open

Open and show truth without blindfolds

Without mask  

No amount of closing your eyes will stop their blossoms

From opening for the world to see

For this flower of karma shows

Exactly what it’s been fed








Helping or hurting

This flower will show it all

A perfect reflection for all to see  

Even the serpent from the Garden of Eden

Could not convince anyone otherwise once it blooms

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Still Shadows

Black wolf shadows

Cast wide mouths in the moonlight

For the Gargoyles have now come to life

Climbed down the castle’s walls

To move about with me

Among us they crawl on all fours

Gnashing their teeth

Under the most beautiful smile

The wind sends warnings of their trickery

Whipping red colored leaves

Tearing them from their branches

Never again will they feel

The life of the tree flow through them

Yet, they’re finally free to blow about in the wind

For sometimes

We have to be torn from

What we believe is giving us life

To realize free is the only way to live

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Sunday, October 26, 2014

Silver Panes Of Glass

Teardrops fall like mirrors from my eyes

Like panes of glass

They fall with reflections of my life

Sliding down my cheeks

One after the other after the other

Turning off what you internalize sometimes proves difficult

For what you’ve soaked in


The day before, a flood of drowning proportions  

A cesspool of lies

Pushing relentlessly against a lonely levy of truth

One, by one, by one

The lies gather

Till the levy can’t hold any more   

Spider cracks

Fine as Asian silk begin to form on its wall

Then the drips of untruths seep through

Drip, by drip, by drip

They fall, fall, fall

Then comes the moans

Cries from the other side

Whispers from the other side

Reassurances that all is better than ever

Little lies turn to fire-breathing dragons

Impossible to believe

The lies will flow from their mouths

Worthless words you want to believe

‘Cause they sound better than the truth

This poem is from my book : Petals Falling

Saturday, October 25, 2014

The Glass Jar Of Magic

Sealed in a jar is a wish

A wish from a well-wisher written with magic

On a small piece of paper tucked neatly inside

Surrounding this paper

Are symbols of strength

Of protection

A black pressed number 7 imbedded

In the side of a smoothly polished bead

Rolls around with ease in the glass

Accompanied by a light green agate

A stone of many travels with my friend

In her faraway land



And other things

Now sit in this jar before me

All are sheltered by the white petals of an orchid

It lies softly atop, softly it lies

But the true beauty in all of this

Is someone thinking of another

A friend

Putting their feelings and heart into

Something for someone else

Making something for another who’s hurting

Now that’s the strongest magic of all

A magic that lives on forever

Never to be taken away from the depths of my mind

So, when times are good

Or times are bad

I will gaze with glee filling my eyes

While worry wanders away from me

At a jar filled with wishes washed with magic

With kindness

With caring

With thoughts of hope from another

This poem is from my book Petals Falling

Friday, October 24, 2014

My Correspondence With Angels And Demons

I drowned once, you know?

I was a sandy blond child in the muddy waters of Georgia

The tobacco cut knife had been put down for the day

Sticky with nicotine sap coating its curved blade

The men and women had come in from the fields

In from the sea of green leaves roasting in the southern sun

The workers gathered their families

Around the irrigation pit 

To relax

To swim



I found myself falling in

My seven years of living did not include learning how to swim  

Not even tread water


Down, down, down, I went

Like a coin tossed in a wishing well

But this was no wish of mine

As much as it was a bad dream I was stuck in

I stood on the clay colored bottom

Looking up

Through the twenty feet of water

My skin growing cold and clammy

Dull deadness

I was becoming

For I was watching my own death

Living through it

On my way to not living at all

I was acting out my end without an applause

For the angels and demons

Fighting over who would get my soul

Were too busy to clap

My mother screamed from the other side of the pit

Trying desperately to save the life of her youngest son

But her voice was no contest for the irrigation pump

Then as I was fading away

While the muddy water filled my lungs

The two arms of my uncle wrapped around me

Pulled me out of the dark depths of death drowning below

He had seen my mother’s panic and did not need to hear her cries

To know her child was below

So, the angels and demons would have to wait a little longer

Before my soul was ready to take

This poem is from the book : Petals Falling

Tuesday, October 14, 2014

The Writerly Blog Tour : Jason E. Hodges

The Writerly Blog Tour has come my way thanks to Liz Worth. She is not only a writer I greatly admire but a friend who has helped me from coming unraveled in some of the worst times.

What I’m working on.

I’m working on a new paranormal book that was actually a short story I wrote about ten years ago. It was never sent away to a contest or submitted to a publisher. I was three chapters into a different book I was writing and had to put it aside. The time just wasn’t right to finish it. If your heart isn’t into a project don’t do it. Put it aside until it is, burn it, or throw it away.

I also just finished a knife I started making years ago. I’d heated an old metal file in a fire and hammered it out into a blade. It’s funny how some projects need to be set aside until the time is right to do them. You may wonder why blacksmithing is relevant to my writing. The backstory in the paranormal book I’m working on reverts back to the 1692 Salem Witch Trials. As a writer you should be able to pull the reader into a world where they hear the blacksmith’s hammer zing each time it strikes the anvil. They should be able to see the glowing crimson-colored steel take shape from the blacksmith pounding it. Watch the molten metal twist and bend like clay in the fingertips of an artist. Writing from what you know or have done firsthand makes your writing rich and original. A time existed before everybody knew everything about anything by clicking “search” on their computers. When writers wrote from their experiences or their imagination. I still prefer to write this way.     

How does my work differ from others in the genre?

I’m not sure I fit into a specific genre. I’ve had Sci-fi, Fiction, Poetry, Southern Gothic, and Horror accepted and published by different publishers over the years. I do believe folks that have read my work before would pick up on certain themes I tend to move around in. A sometimes dark truth that makes the reader uncomfortable to a point, but a truth that they can’t easily turn away from. That’s probably the best way to describe what I write.

How does my writing process work?

Lots of coffee to begin with. I prefer to write from about 4 am to 6 am. Not much is going on at this time. The phone’s not ringing, no one is knocking on my door, and for me it’s the perfect time to think. The rest of the day I carry a small notebook and jot ideas down as they pop into my head. If I don’t have my notebook close by, I use the original Palm Pilot, my hand. Some days I come home looking like I was attacked a Henna Tattooer turned poet.      

Why do I write what I do?

In the beginning I was inspired heavily by William S. Burroughs, Jack Kerouac, The Beats, and others I found in the world of books. There was no internet in 1989. There were typewriters and whiteout. I was inspired by these writers and wanted to write about the place somewhere between my daydreams and the world I walked around in each day.

All of the writers I looked up to when I started out are gone now. I think the question I find myself asking these days is, “What makes me keep going?” Truthfully it’s hard to keep going. My sister Laura has always said to me, you have to first write for the love of writing. Her words have become an absolute truth as the years have passed by.

I think I get most of my inspiration from what I see others doing these days. The things Liz Worth, Lisa de Nikolits, Kateri Lanthier, Jacqueline Valencia, Robin Richardson, and many more are doing in the Toronto Scene are truly inspiring. There’s something very special going on in Toronto in the world of writing, poetry, and art. I see it daily in the words, photos, and drawings pouring out of that city. My bet is, it will one day go down in the history books as the place where it all went down. If you’re a writer or poet and don’t have your eye on Toronto, you should do so.       

I also like what Brandon Graham is putting down in Chicago. He’s kept me motivated over the last few years. His writing is strong and truthful.

Elizabeth Woodham in the UK is another I’m inspired by. She has real beauty in her work and is able to stir every emotion buried deep within the reader’s mind. I also dig Narcisse Navarre. She’s so full of life and is a real joy to run across on the web.

All of these folks have kept me going along with the hope that one day my work will find a large enough audience that it will live on long after I’m gone. Like footprints for others in the future to stumble across and get a glimpse into the world I was a part of. But who can ever be sure of what the future holds? We never know when we’ll be dealt, Aces and Eights, roll Snake eyes, or walk off into the wild like Everett Ruess and disappear into the pages of time. As writers we can only be certain of what we have just written down.