Behind The Axe

My father

Gave me my first axe

When I was 8 years of age

39 years later

It’s my go to tool

I’ve honed my skills behind the axe

And

Honed its blade!!!

Its weight

Its length

Its handle

Which soaks in my sweat

And

Sometimes my blood

Becomes a part of me

And me of it!!!

A symphony of

Cutting, slicing, and chopping

Me, the conductor

It, the instrument

The Axe and Cutting Mattock

Have been in my hands

My father’s hands

His father’s hands

His father’s, father’s hands

So on and so forth

All the way back to Ireland, Scotland, and Wales

Back to Scandinavia and The Vikings

The axe is deeply rooted in my blood

My DNA

Everything that is me

When it comes to working outdoors

One day

When I’m old

And my hands too feeble

Too crippled

To hold my axe

I’ll look back on the lands I’ve shaped

The dirt I’ve churned

The trees I’ve fallen

And remember

My days

Behind the axe

Open Letter to Brandon Graham

Time slips by or maybe

I’m slipping as time goes by me?

Not every day is a drag

But it seems the ones

That involve passing by the TV

When the news is on

Can really bring me down

I’d much rather walk outside

Stroll down the path with my friends of the woods

Like a raccoon named Sugar

She’s so large

So big

I believe from

Eating out of the ice cream store’s dumpster

Down the street from my home

She waddles from the weeds and peers at me with

Dark curious eyes

Then slowly makes her way back into the brush

There’s also a deer I’ve named Brownie

Her husband Buck Owens and their child Jane Fawn-Da

Also come to say hello

A turkey named Loner

For

He is always alone

And a rabbit named Tag

For

It runs to me then back away

Then back to me then away it runs

They all seem to be so much more entertaining

Than anything on the tube…

And Brandon

I still wonder how your writing is going from time to time?

I wonder about all of my friends

Who practice the craft of words

Along with my own thoughts of what next to write?

Lizzy Worth is still doing her thing above us

In that far away land called Canada

I’m sure she still scribbles words

Her cat Plumb

Most likely meowing in circles around her

As she pulls words from the air like magic

And arranges them on paper

Illian Rain is up there too

Her cat’s named Leroy

I’m sure he meows

I’m just not sure how much it affects her writing

Whatever the case

Illian and Lizzy are such strong voices

From the land of Canada

And Brandon

I still talk to Lizzie Woodham from across the sea

Emailing words through wires way over there

She’s patient with me and my questions

About her writing

About the places and things that make up Europe

From Scottish Snow Flakes

To

The Irish Sea

To

The smells and sounds of the streets of Soho

But most of all she listens to me and my wandering mind

What a friend I have in her!!!

And Brandon

Mallory Smart is still out there somewhere

The windy city I believe

Or maybe the city of wind?

She loves coffee, you know?

She writes and publishes

Publishes and writes

Words swirl around her mind

Like a cyclone

At least that’s what I believe they do!

When I met Mallory

Another person that loves “The Beats”

It gave me hope for the future

And Brandon

I still think of your encounter with Burroughs

It still makes me smile

And Brandon

I still wonder if we, us, and our friends in writing

Will ever have a name associated with our work?

With our lives?

Like “The Beats” or “The Lost Generation”

I’ve pondered this question for years?

So, I will now take it upon myself to name us

“The Holding Generation”

There! I’ve coined it!!!

For

I feel we are holding onto hope

Holding onto anything

That tomorrow will be better than today

That moms and dads will be able to hold

Their children after a day at school

That the kids will carry books

Instead of bulletproof jackets

Holding onto the thought

That maybe just maybe

People will stop killing each other

Holding onto the idea that society

Will somehow someway get their act together…

But most of all

Holding on

While we continue to write and create art

That’s all I can do anymore

Riverview

Between Belbedere and Clyed

The last days of his youth

Were coming to an end

He was born into a world of hard labor

The plow, the axe, and the crosscut saw

Were the tools by which

His family carved out a living

They migrated wherever

The next income could be made

From

The North Florida farmlands of Hilliard

To the snake-infested waterways

Of the Okefenokee Swamp

Cutting timber and growing crops

Were their way of life

Yet

Life was also lived

On the mean streets of North Jacksonville

Riverview

Was where you went

When all other options were gone

His father grew up on these

Same streets delivering turpentine

From the forest surrounding the city

At the age of 14 in 1906

He would gear up mules

And make the journey alone

On a wagon

His overalls stained with sticky pinesap

With tobacco

With sweat

With dirt! 

Now his son

Was following his father’s footsteps

Yet

Work was not all that thrived in Riverview!

On the north side

When the sun went down

With his hair slicked back

And

His blue eyes sparkling in the streetlights

This young man

Would slip into the night

With his brothers and friends   

Going from honky tonks to juke joints

Anywhere a good time could be had!

Because

When you were a child of The Great Depression

And

Had seen times so hard

Your parents boiled the seed

For planting that year’s crop

To feed your brothers and sister

To feed you!

Any happiness even if through recklessness

Was excepted

But 

His way of living

On the edge of existences   

Was drifting away

Drifting toward a domestic life

Of a father

Of my father

And

On a Sunday afternoon in 1952

One last ride was taken

He and his Harley 74

With its

Suicide shift jutting upwards

Its 1200 CC motor winding out

The wind stinging his face

As he blasted through

Florida’s highway heat waves, and humidity

He hit the Main Street Bridge

On the north side of the city

At 100mph

Crossing over

From one life to another

From Harleys to house mortgages

From ‘42 Ford coupes

To station wagons

He would raise his kids

With only stories of the life he left behind

But the promise

That our lives

Would be better than the one he had lived!

The sun set on his wild ways

But rose every day for us

In the figure of our father!

Now

His 82-year-old hands wrinkled and scared

Point here and there in the horizon

Telling me stories

About the places and people

That once were alive!

Yet he can’t find any trace

Of the world that surrounded his childhood

But the world he created for us will live on

For generations to come

All made by a man who was born into nothing

But was able to give us everything  

Pockets Of The Profit Maker

Everything is necessary

In everyone’s

Own needing of necessities!

The machines are taking over

At least

It seems that way!

The laborer

Is becoming more and more

Scarce to see these days

John Henry was the first to

Fight this

Way of working

Where machines

Take the place

Of

Muscle, blood, and bone 

I heard his song

Many times as a boy

This

Folk hero in the lands

Of

My youth

Gave us hope that mankind

Wouldn’t completely

Be taken over

By oil

By steel

By plastic

Yet

We all kind of knew

This day was coming

We just didn’t expect 

It would be so soon

Or

Maybe we never realized

How fast it would

All go by

I guess

There are too many profits

To be maximized

Too much money

To be made

To not go this route

And the machines are

Not only taking the place

Of

Working flesh

They’re taking the position

Of

The mind!

Of

Critical thinking!

Is it possible

In centuries to come

We will have bodies like jellyfish

And

Grunt like cavemen?

The sun will burn brighter

Than ever by then

And the air

Will be too poisoned to breathe

Machines will be our only

Choice

To work outside

Mechanical movement underneath

A radioactive sun  

All for the pockets

Of

The profit maker

To continue

Making their money!

From my book, When The Cedars Shade Your Grave

Boudicca

Boudicca

Queen of the Iceni

Wife of Prasutagus

Daughter of Britain!

Upon her husband’s death

Rome came to take everything

That was his

Not recognizing

His daughters as heirs

His wife as

The new ruler reigning over

Her people!

Boudicca was flogged

Humiliated

Beaten

Blood-soaked   

Her two daughters raped

Her property seized

Her soul stripped of all

She knew and loved!

But

Rome would soon regret

Their treatment of Boudicca

Revenge on Rome was hers

With

Fury and fire

Sword and chariot

The uprising she led

Wiped out whole Roman cities

Now known as

Colchester, London, and St. Albans

They were

Burned to the ground

A culture cleansing of anything

Roman!  

60 years after

Nailing Christ to the cross

Pushing a spear into his side

Watching his blood

Soak the sandy soil beneath him

The same generation

Of

Roman soldiers

Now retired

And

Living their last days

Off the plunders of Rome

In these cities she sacked

Would live their last hours 

On the crucifix!

Eighty thousand Romans

In London alone

Were put to the sword by Boudicca!

To this day

There is a layer of charred earth

That blankets the underbelly

Of

The city

Scorched soil seeping

With the souls of the dead

In the end Boudicca

Was defeated on the battlefield

By Suetonius

Thousands of her people lay dead

The great Roman author Tacitus wrote

She survived the battle

But took her life

With poison later that day!

No one truly knows

Boudicca’s final hours

But her story of resistance

And

Fighting oppression

Will live on

For centuries to come!

Blunt

An old friend of mine

I’ve known for thirty years

Told me

I was blunt the other day

He then said

It was one of the reasons

He has remained friends

With me

For so long

He knew exactly where

He stood with me

At all times!

I was surprised by this

I said, I thought I believed

I was careful

With people’s feelings

My wife then joined in

The conversation

“You thought you were

a sugar coater?”

A smile then pulled gently

Across her face

His wife chuckled

“You’re no sugar coater!”

I spent the next few hours

Pondering all this

Like Archimedes

Pondering Physics

I wondered

What people would think

If I didn’t try to sugar coat

My words?

A few days later

And

Hours into a day

Of

Dealing with customers

A coworker said to me

As her brow

Slowly moved upwards

“You don’t have to be

antagonistic with the customers”

I said,

“I’m not.”

“But I’m also not promising them

unicorns and rainbows”

From my book, When The Cedars Shade Your Grave

Jason E. Hodges Quotes

“Never be an artist that starts worshiping yourself or believe your little group is better than anyone outside of it. For, you are nothing more than a grain of sand on a hillside in this world of ours. Even Da Vinci’s work is only glanced at then scrolled past on a phone or computer these days. Climb down off your throne and become humble once more.” Jason E. Hodges

“Your only guarantee in this life is that eventually it will end. So make it extraordinary. Live like tomorrow won’t start for you.” Jason E. Hodges

“The biggest weapon that threatens us all is, mankind’s stupidity.” Jason E. Hodges    

“To forgive is powerful. To not remember the reasons why you had to forgive is foolish. So continue on with open eyes and see all that’s before you.” Jason E. Hodges

“To pluck out debris from one’s eye can be quite painful. To dig into one’s self can be unbearable. But in order to move forward we must pluck out the painful and fill our souls with hope that the pain never returns.” Jason E. Hodges

“I’d rather fall climbing a mountain hand in hand with someone I felt was my equal than to make it to the top by stepping on them.” Jason E. Hodges

“Humans have the ability to rewrite history. Within a few decades it is not even questioned. Stories of the past become as real as the world you walk through today. Wars are waged over false history. Sins are denied. All for mankind to move forward and feel comfortable about its past. Your true history is written in the stars. Look up, breathe in, and be humbled by the ones who came before you. The ones who have suffered, who have endured, who have overcome. Their blood is alive in you. Their spirits roam freely in the heavens above.” Jason E Hodges      

From my book, When The Cedars Shade Your Grave

Workplace Machine

The morning sun

Bends and twists

It changes

Minute by minute

In the reflection

Of

The buildings

Sky-glass

Windows of sparkle

All for the lifeless sheep

To gaze upon

As they crawl

Their way into work

Their faces are long

And

Lost of expression

All because

They’re waiting for

The workweek to begin

Waiting for the coffee

To drip from the dripper

Self-inflicted misery

For another day’s pay!

God knows how many times

I’ve been in their shoes

And

How I’m still there

A few days a week!

Within a few hours of working

The counting of minutes will start

A quick glance at the wall clock

To see

The day is far from over

And

The Boss

The Shepherd

Is constantly frowning

His smile was lost

With the collapses of the market

The fall

Of

His 401k something-another

His morning

Drives at the range

Are now nothing

But a memory

A thought

Fleeting at that!

So the sheep

Have good cause to worry

To sweat

To cry secretly

In the restroom

But before all of this

Worry in the workplace

This stress to make

Green colored paper

They must travel

Like ants to the mound

Bumper to bumper

The sheep

Are fed

To the workplace machine

One soul at a time

Losing all that was

And

Becoming all they never

Intended to be!

From my book, When The Cedars Shade Your Grave