Friday, August 7, 2015

Truth In Quotes by Jason E. Hodges

Despair is a night without lights. Dreams are the sunrise that leads you out of the darkness.


They say, poetry is dead. I say, was there ever a time they had a clue of what the state of poetry is?


I was a poet. I had no expectations other than creating a world of art with words that would live on long after I was gone. 


There is no value in your promises. They are as hollow as fangs and poisonous as the venom within them once I allowed them into my heart.   


For the writer, madness should seep slowly out of them from the world they endure each day.


As a writer, a poet, you’re not alone in wanting to be alone. Your work is a friendship that never leaves you.


I asked my father if we were rich or poor when I was a small child. He said, “We were rich with God’s love.” I knew from that moment forward, we were broke.


Destroying the planet is like stepping from a moving train and thinking it will all work out.


Your dreams don’t stop being dreams because of circumstances.


Poets, with no sponsors, no agenda, are the truest form of freedom today, bleeding out every drop of themselves for the world to either hate or devour.


Each morning the winds of the city moan and weep with lost souls clinging to hope of reliving the memories of yesterday.


History is the roadmap to a better tomorrow. Destroying it is getting rid of any chance of what not to do for future generations.  


A poet’s words are like mortar to the bricks of society.


Becoming a writer does not mean words will suddenly flow with perfection from your pen. It takes hard work, rejection, and the willingness to lay everything inside you out for the world to see. 

Thursday, August 6, 2015

Speaking To The Man Upstairs

It was a halfway house on East University Avenue


At the end of the long wooden hallway

Each plank seemed to creak out

Some old ill sound

As my small feet walked across them

I was only ten years old at the time

I had been sent to grab some stew meat

From the only working refrigerator

Where all the residents kept what little they had

The community sink and bathroom

Were on the same end of the hall

There were only five or six rooms upstairs

He was standing outside his doorway

His hand bandaged

“What ya doin’ kid?”

“Grabbing some stew meat for dinner.”

“What’d you do to your hand?”

He pulled hard on his cigarette

As he exhaled waves of smoke

He said, he burned it

Fell asleep while smoking in bed

My mother later said, he was a drunk

He had probably passed out

Woke up on fire

She said, he was an ex-con

That he hadn’t been out long

I opened the fridge and grabbed what I was sent to get

Turning around

I asked, “Where’s Mr. Ericson been?”

The man’s brow pulled together tight, “He’s gone, Kid.”

He pulled hard on his smoke once more

His cherry now glowing

“They carried him out the other morning.”


“He died. Been dead a week before anyone noticed.”

I didn’t or couldn’t understand this at the time

How could anyone pass away and no one miss them?

My thoughts

My questions

Must have been written

Across my face

The man thumped his ash into the sink

Then spoke up once more

“Mr. Ericson was an old drunk.”

“A wino.”

“Not many miss you when you’ve gone that far.”

“He was old and used up.”

I ran into the man upstairs at least once a week

He would tell me stories of losing his friends

In Vietnam

He said, the war was nothing like the movies

And sometimes he didn’t speak at all

I didn’t understand a lot of what

The man upstairs said back then

But his words have become

Transparent over time

Some were lies

Some were truths

Some were just the way it was back then

When I would talk to the man upstairs

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Still You Write

Dishes in the sink

Still you write

Clothes not washed

Not folded

Still you write

Trash needs to be taken to the curb

Still you write

Grass needs to be mowed

Still you write

Bills not paid

Still you write


Still you write


But, lessened as a human by your belittling boss 

Still you write





Still you write





Still you write


With nowhere to go

Still you write

Living in a low rent motel

Still you write



Abandonment by family and friends

Still you write

When the lies and promises are presented to you

Day after day with a smile

Still you write





Still you write

For, your dreams

Don’t stop being dreams

Because of circumstances

And writers don’t stop

Until the end is upon them

So, still you write