Dare Stones

Scratched words from desperate people

Left behind in a strange new land

Fleeing from what

Ultimately awaited them

Being engulfed by time

Swallowed up by circumstance

These stones with their messages

Would surface years later

Like dead fish on top a pond

For people to ponder

For experts to speculate

For skeptics to be skeptical

Making modern folks happy

For they had something new

To fight about

Yet

Never understanding

Why these words were written

In stone  

Hoax?

Maybe?

Either way the Lost Colony

Did what we all will in time

Disappear into a fading memory

Unless our messages

Stay behind for the next

What will we leave behind?

Or will we take so much

There will nothing more to take

Use so much

Nothing will be useful

Until our planet looks like Mars

Dry and barren

Red and dusty

Waterless riverbeds

Rocks as far as one could see

Sand storms choking the air

Mars

The biggest Dare Stone of all

Flannery O’Connor

I had a dream the other night

I was a little boy again

Standing outside of my home

I could hear peacocks

Calling in the distance

On a farm

A few fields away from mine

This was a common sound

Growing up

The high pitch screech of peacocks

Traveling through the wind

Through the trees

Across wild grasslands 

From a neighbor’s back yard

These brightly colored birds would cry

Throughout the day

Yet, now I was dreaming

These peacocks

No longer belonged to my neighbor

But were Flannery O’Connor’s birds of song

Singing sweet songs she is gone

For

These blue crushed velvet dream birds

With their pinwheel of feathers 

Miss her words as much as I do

Her tales of the unwanted, for our enjoyment

The dispossessed, for our entertainment

The excluded, to make us think to include others

The outcast, to question if we’re really on the inside 

The killers, to make us look twice at a stranger

With her words

She made us ponder all of these things

While we watched her characters

Casting their nets

Their way of life

Upon the world

I awoke to hear the birds no more

And realized 

Anything is possible in a dream

All of it is real

As long as we are asleep

Night Sounds

Night sounds drift through

The wet morning air

Birds chime like the sun is rising

Yet, there are hours to go

Before bright light

Burns away the darkness

The full moon must be confusing

These feathered creatures 

It hangs high over head

Like a night watchman

With his flashlight

Constantly shining down

Through the slow moving clouds

The birds’ songs echo across this town

Down its barren streets

For, most are sleeping now

Sleepless, I sit drinking coffee

Steam rises up out of my cup

On this cool March morning

Sitting here

I write poetry and read Whitman

Read Whitman and write poetry

As time floats by

One minute falling into two

Two falling into three

Now

Coyotes move through

The school’s grounds

Across the street

They communicate

Out there in the darkness

With what almost sounds like laughter

Their cries bounce off the buildings

And the covered walkways 

The coyotes’ laughter now moves

Into a neighborhood

Rows of homes that all look the same

Like they’ve been stamped out

In a giant machine press

Nothing more

Than a maze of the modern

Up-to-date and boring

Perfect for insecure souls

To watch one another

For what to do next

What car to drive

What outfit to wear

When the sun rises

And

The night sounds are no more 

Souls In A Jar

Many years ago

Years by the many

I used to work for a shop

That bought scrap metal

A man came in with a bag

Hanging from his bony body

With his brows lifted he asked

If we sent scrap gold off to be melted down

Refined for money

I said, we did

He then pulled from his bag

A one gallon pickle jar

Filled to the top with gold teeth

The roots looked like

Stalactites and Stalagmites

Bunched together within the glass

I asked, where did you get these?

He said, he worked for a funeral home

I said, get out!

He said, he came about the teeth legal

He said, I would miss out on lots of money

I said, some things transcend making money

He would have to find someone else

To handle his thousand curses in a jar

Over 20 years has passed since that moment

The shop has long since closed

The owner now dead and buried

Yet, I’m sure someone was willing

To melt down those teeth

Into rings and jewelry

For the living to wear and make

Unforgettable memories of love and commitment  

The other day I read the pope

Once pried a small crucifix

Off a friend’s coffin

And now carries it wherever he goes

Some kind of a keepsake

I believe

A keepsake of some kind

It’s strange what’s taken from us

Even in the end

Yet, some spend lifetimes fighting

For all they can gather

Whether sentimental or tangible

Valuable or dots on a map adventures 

Most are chasing something

To put in their pocket

Put in their bank

To pull out and show others

Yet, does any of this

Mean anything to the billons

Of stars in the sky?

Or to

Our little speck of sand and water

Floating in a galaxy, beside a galaxy

Beside a galaxy, beside a galaxy

And so on, and so on, and so on

Stop

Look up sometime

Realize, we’re also just a speck in the sky

To the eyes of the universe

The Lighthouse

Photo by Jason E. Hodges

 

It seems

Someone

Something

Is watching us

Each step we take

Watching our every movement

Within this tower of

Sea guiding light

With its painted black stripes

Spiraling upwards

Into the crystal blue sky

The higher we climb

With each step we take

The more we feel their presence

Is the lighthouse guardian

Still walking these grounds?

Or

Is it the mariners?

The ones

Who never made it back

From the sea

From the dark water and waves

Tossing their boat about

Like a twig

In the eye of a hurricane

Are they now here beside us?

Yes

Someone

Something

Is watching us

I feel their eyes from the other side

Peer through the void between our two worlds

The gaze of the ones not living

Can be chilling indeed

Once you realize their eyes have falling upon you

For

Only your primal senses can feel them

You have no way of knowing

If they’re looking with lust

With love

With hate

With curiosity

Because we’re all just trespassers

In their eternal haunts

Until the day we cross over 

And watch what once was ours

Discovered by the next to walk

In the footsteps we walk today

Katie In Love : Chloe Thurlow

 

I recently bought and read “Katie In Love” by Chloe Thurlow. It’s truly mind-blowing how beautifully written this book is. Thurlow takes you on a journey through the eyes of the protagonist, Katie Boyd. You see the world she is walking through so perfectly at times you feel you are walking the same streets, hearing the same sounds, feeling the same things. Her senses become your senses. Her thoughts become your thoughts. Thurlow creates a perfect refection of Boyd’s life as a writer navigating through today’s world.     

This book is labeled erotica but it so much more than that. Yes, it has sex scenes but not to the frequency that one would think reading the label erotica. This is one of the many reasons I’m not fond of labels. The sex in this book is timed perfectly. It’s passionate, strong, and dripping with desire but not overdone. It’s honest in the sense that Katie Boyd knows what she wants and is not afraid to acknowledge her needs. In this life most are feeding their conscience lies to make them feel better about not going after what they really want. I admire Thurlow for creating a character like Boyd, and for being just as fearless in her on life as a writer.   

What is the mark of a true artist?

“Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground” is a song so hauntingly real when heard it stirs every human emotion locked within the listener. Yet, it’s a song that has no words. It was also written and performed by a man who could not see. A man blinded by his stepmother who threw lye in his eyes when he was seven years old. “Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground” is comprised of nothing more than his sorrowful moans and the sounds of his slide guitar. But when played it cries out and holds you with an undeniable truth. This is the mark of a true artist. Someone who pulls you in with their expression and moves you so deeply you never want their art to end. You wish there was one more verse in their song or one more chapter in their book. Chloe Thurlow is one of these artists.

Chloe Thurlow, has been compared to Anais Nin. I’ve read a great deal of Nin’s work and I would have to agree. I don’t say this lightly. To say Anais Nin was a huge influence on me as a writer would be an understatement. When I read “Katie In Love”, I looked at it through a microscope. Thurlow’s work is as close to Nin’s as one could get. Like Nin, Thurlow’s words are insightful and moving. “Katie In Love” is compelling and spot on with the life of a writer. Her descriptions are poetic and creative. When reading her work it feels like she has blown some unseen magic into the pages of her book making the storyline alive and real. As a writer, I know this is not magic, this is hard work. This is sleepless nights worrying over what will be written next. This is rough drafts, rewrites, backspacing, and rewriting again. From the first few pages to the last you will see Thurlow poured everything into this book and shied away from nothing.

Chloe Thurlow, along with Elizabeth Woodham, are two of my favorite writers today. Both are out of London and write erotic romance, but their writing goes far beyond this label. They have studied their craft and it shows in their quality of work. Look them up and you will see for yourself.

If you’re an adult and can handle mature subject matter, can handle writing not hidden by curtains, “Katie In Love” is the book for you.   

    

 Link to Katie In Love on Amazon

 

Words To Be Heard

All YouTube clips are poems written and read by Jason E. Hodges. The photos, and artwork within these clips are also by him.