Saturday 7 September 2024

Three Poems by J. B. Hogan

 




Blind Owl 

 

Poor Alan owl 

“somewhere” on the autism scale 

messy, smelly, antisocial 

 

Poor myopic Al 

pickin’ that guitar with ancient fingers 

blowin’ that harp down an eon of blues 

 

Poor talented Al 

Skip James restyled vocals 

teaching the Son his own songs again 

hangin’ right with the John Lee man 

 

Poor hopeful Al 

the girls, never faithful or true, 

yet you sang their glory, their story anyway 

 

Poor gone Al 

nearly blind, unhappy 

laid out on that last hill behind the Bear’s, 

swallowing those final sounds 

 

Poor Blind Owl 

no more trips to Haleakala 

no more angst in London 

no more Goin’ or BeinOn the Road again 

no more Blind Alan.

 

 

 

Bar Room Fight 

 

Barney’s was elbow to elbow 

when he squeezed through to the bar. 

He held the glass high but a 

flat-eyed frat boy took exception  

anyway and flattened him 

with a cheap shot right hand. 

Staggering up, he found himself 

back to the bar, drunk, confused, 

catching wild punches from 

frat boy and his pals. 

He fought back only with his right 

hand, feeling fist after fist  

slam into his face. 

He was losing but fighting, 

until the bartender joined in, 

hammering him once, twice from 

behind with a lead-filled billy club. 

Down he went in a pile of  

beer, piss and faeces. 

Dragged up and slammed against the 

juke box he surrendered, looked for a  

way out, fended off a stray punch. 

“Out here,” a cook called from the shadows, 

holding open a back screen door, “these 

people are trying to kill you.” 

Stumbling out, a muttered thank you, 

he ran, ran from the bar, losing a heel 

from his boots, hustling back home. 

Later in the infirmary, the doctor sewed 

his head up and didn’t judge him. 

When the police came round next day, 

his entire face a swollen mess, 

he declined to press charges, 

accepted his karma, took it for the 

life lesson that it was, didn’t hang out 

in the bars quite so much for a while.

 

 

 

Jesus Bombs 

 

Some news hot off the presses 

send the paperboys to  

hawk it on the streets: 

the Romans killed Jesus and 

we dropped the bombs. 

 

Toss the former out of  

your anti-Semitic bag of tricks and, 

the latter? Oh, yeah, it wasn’t 

those rogue states, those random strong men, 

it was us, we, that dropped the bomb –  

not once, but twice. 

 

Disappointing isn’t it, having to 

let all those lost scapegoats go, 

the countless evil empires –  

with no one else to blame and  

nothing to gain, when you finally  

know it wasn’t them all, it  

was just us, plain old us. 

 

Seems like time to line those  

bird cages with yesterday’s news, then, 

friends, time to put on some  

grown up pants and learn to  

face the truth and stop dropping  

your incendiary and radioactive  

Jesus bombs.









J. B. Hogan is a poet, fiction writer, and local historian. He has been published in a number of journals including the Blue Lake Review, Crack the Spine, Copperfield Review, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Well Read Magazine, and Aphelion. His twelve books include Bar Harbour, Mexican Skies, Living Behind Time, Losing Cotton, The Apostate and, most recently, Forgotten Fayetteville and Washington County (local history). He lives in Fayetteville, Arkansas. 

 

 

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