Brian Peter Hodgkinson

Updated: Fri, 26 Dec 2025 10:53 pm

https://allpoetry.com/Brian_Peter_Hodgkinson

Biography
Stille Nacht
Downstream
The Squeaky Mouse Got the Cheese
Stoop 34
Whose Tree?
Talking Head
Far, Far Greater
Blog

Biography

Brian Peter Hodgkinson is a contemporary poet known for his evocative and introspective verse that explores themes of nature, identity, and the human experience. With a background in literature and a passion for the written word, Hodgkinson's work often reflects a deep connection to the landscapes and environments that shape our lives. His poetry is characterized by rich imagery, emotional depth, and a keen observation of the world around him. Hodgkinson has published several collections, earning recognition for his unique voice and ability to capture fleeting moments of beauty and contemplation. His work resonates with readers who appreciate the interplay between personal reflection and universal truths. In addition to his poetry, Hodgkinson is an advocate for the arts, often engaging in community workshops and literary events to inspire the next generation of writers. Through his poetry, Brian Peter Hodgkinson invites readers to pause, reflect, and find meaning in the everyday, making his contributions to contemporary literature both significant and enduring. His poems are not whispered; they are testaments, meant to be written—and read—out loud.

Stille Nacht

Cat's eyes search for someone near the tree. Ten below, twenty with the wind— the same cold my father knew, standing watch on another Christmas. Power's out. We huddle close. The departed huddle too— shoulder to shoulder with the living, warming themselves at our fireplace. Candles burn: cinnamon, spruce, mom's bayberry. An old sock hangs from the mantle, waiting for candy a name still embroidered there. Laughter in the dim light. Silence, too. The ghosts lean close, listening to the dying embers— their faces flicker in the grate, fading as the coals go dark.

Downstream

Downstream under afternoon heat, light and shadow drift along both banks. Half-clad children wade in the shallows, pointing, shouting, a redwing's whistle answering the rain. Humidity sits on the brim of my hat, sweat tracks my ribs, deer flies needle my neck, slapped away. Still dollar-poor, still counting dresser change, cut-off jeans under a sun-bleached sky, looking up, I squint with watery eyes. A muskrat's tail slaps once beside the rowboat. I leave the rippled wake till it settles as the bank sands move past in stop frame— this old man's sunsets bleed on the water, the current carrying me forward, oars barely touching the surface, the river shimmering.

The Squeaky Mouse Got the Cheese

An orange mouse and a white mouse held a contest: fill your box— one red, one blue— with cheese stolen from the kitchen. One bribed the cat. One picked the lock on his opponent's stash. The winner climbed his heap and squeaked that no contest had ever been more fair. The cat cleaned its claws and waited. The white mouse watched from the baseboard, silent. He'd helped the cat wink before.

Stoop 34

It's quarter to four— moonlight strikes stoop thirty-four, cold hinge, closed the door. Morning air cuts cheeks— city holds its breath, click, flame— orange splits the dark. draws in Lucky Strike— bitter warmth fills sleepy chest, gray fades in fresh smoke. Full moon pales with clouds— ghost light on cold black pavement, tendrils climb skyward. Kitchen table warms— lucky cat waves on corner, dawn breaks on the paw. Body aches, then stills— cigarette snuffed on cement, luck waves behind door.

Whose Tree?

Chalk line down the orchard— haves and have-nots, guessing who owns which tree. Roots cross underground. They don’t ask permission. Hard wind. Branches crack. Fruit bruises on both sides. One man calls it loss. Another just calls it harvest. Later, it isn’t trees— it’s hands. Who held on. Who was held. Having, or not having someone’s basket when the frost comes.

Talking Head

It runs amok inside my skull— strutting arrogant, sure I'm dead. It sneers when I reach for calm, feeds on the static spill of thought. It bleeds my eyes with morning news, howls through the blue‑lit rooms, reduces speech to chattered cue, swells like bile up the throat of sleep. We keep still, biding our time, soaking in trumpet and slime— each day the same counterfeit grace, each night the voice we can’t erase.

Far, Far Greater

An expert shepherd is my guide, versed well in flesh‑blood sympathies. Tho often hidden from my eyes, his name I trust, cling to his side. From me the living waters glide, hope risen—eternal, never dies. Tho derided by the worldly wise, and by double‑minds defied, yet who rethinks, who stops to see, perceives the life‑renewing power— bedrock base for the future hour; faith girding our mortality. Tho toward the earth‑bed grave we go, we’ll receive the tomb made bare—its glow; risen Shepherd close, he guards below— far, far greater than we’ll ever know.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.