Great Awakenings

On Holiday awakened early,

No alarm,

Before sunrise.


Seduced by the promise

Of the silence of solitude

The big, empty house opened.


Big mind emptied

To seas of thought

Sweeping their foamy memories

Across the vastness.


Open wide,

Open heart,

Soul has spoken to our hero.


Smooth leather-brown walls

Of that study warmed his thoughts,

Like tastes of chocolate fondue.


Dipping mellow

Mellow marshes marching

Deepening the soul’s awakening.


Sybaritic sympathies beware!

Pulse of soul beats strong and true

Like a heart assured from the Great Physician’s remedy.


Marshmellowed berries buried mellow thought,

Mellow thought married to ideas long sought

And fought to mind’s deep depths.


20,000 leagues no more, no less

Mind open, Bless,

Bless this mind so blessedly obsessed.


Irenic incense blocks his sense of time,

Lend me your two cents of irony? No!

Two cents of Wisdom? Yes!


Buys momentary freedom from his pain.

No pain, No gain,

Who said that?


Thoughts confused?

Thoughts construed to truth of soul’s wit

Fused with the peace it brought.


Peace brought in the solemnity of solitude

These walls of leather-brown doth bring

To a soul’s birth.


To love and truth everlasting,

Word was God, Word was with God,

In the Beginning.


A guazzabuglio of creation,

Logomachy forever lives,

Words did create this world in which we live

And so shall die.


Truth to live,

Truth belie,

The Way, The Truth, The Life.



The End. Done.

Finished. It is.

And begins again. Renewed.

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 12/22/2015.

I wrote most of this poem on my phone between sets at the gym a day after a medical procedure requiring anesthesia that yielded the relief of extremely good news from my physician.

A Christmas Poem

Let’s have a real Christmas tree this year,

One that is messy and leaves

Sticky sap everywhere.


Visions of our cat Anna climbing up into said tree

Dropping glass ornaments,

Not one, not two, maybe three?


Delivering us mischievous yuletide stares

Spreading oodles of pine needles

Across every square.


Across every square

Of wood, travertine and tile

Resting our souls

For a short Christmas-while.

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 12/21/2015

I started writing this poem on 11/14/2015 after reading about a Christmas tree in a Kurt Vonnegut story.  Our Christmas tree is still not up.  However, our cat Anna is lying in the ready.

Love’s Promise

Love’s peril awaits

Those who dare choose her adventure

To launch their hearts

Across the bow of uncertainty


Into love’s tempestuous seas

Leaving the safety of telluric harbor

For a certitude of uncertainty


The hero of our tale

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 12/15/2015

I couldn’t decide on the need for punctuation in this poem so I left it without punctuation after wrestling with at least ending with a period.  The story of love for our hero goes on…

Perhaps the lack of presence of punctuation represents the openness to uncertainty one must have to love and to be loved…the openness one must have to the promise of peril one opens oneself up to when one opens oneself to love.


Isles of Antipodes

Guttural voice inflected,

Confessions of Sinful thought,

Be Damned!




Or purely Insurrection?


Is this merely just one more intersection?

Intersection of Introspection,

Stealing through the dusk of night.


Dusk of night labouring

Labours upon labours giving birth to

Nothing more than Captain Obvious.


Upon closer inspection,

It’s an outright and outwardly unrighteous loss,

What’s going on inside of us.


A purely neuronal dissection,

Total and complete,

Call it what it is.


Now bringing a synaptic infusion of


Yet thoughts still divided as on Isles of Antipodes.


Soul brought low,

And now subdivided,

Into the Triunal three of threes.

Gute Nacht, Gute Nacht!

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 12/12/2015 

Liner Notes:

The inspiration for this poem came on a walk last Sunday, December 6 as the sun was setting over O-Town.  I wrote the beginnings of this poem in my phone while flaneuring my way around various neighborhoods south of the city.  I edited it this week between stints of teaching psychology and planning for, meeting for and having my annual formal observation.

This urban walk took me to some of these places in my mind and the places in my mind took me through my walk.  This week I’ve been voraciously reading between bouts of work, sleep and family time and working on more poetry:

The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann

The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri

Bluebeard, Kurt Vonnegut

While Mortals Sleep (Unpublished Short Fiction), Kurt Vonnegut

Thank you for visiting and staying long enough to read these thoughts.

Have a most blessed day!






What Would Happen IF?

It was Independence Day,

And our protagonist asked himself:

“What would happen, IF, every day, for the next 10 years,

I played an instrument,

I read something I enjoy,

I wrote down my thoughts,

I pursued creative, spiritual, soulful expression.

What would happen if…?

Is “pursued” even the right word and tense?

Change “pursued” to “lived out”, to “living out”?

And by living out I mean allowing it to pursue me,

Or giving in to the pursuit of me by the soul of me,

To answer to the whole of me,

By expressing what could never be the sum of me,

but maybe just some some of me.”

My name is John Hines.  I’ve started posting handcrafted poetry and musings on my blog.  Thank you for reading.

Most of this was written on Independence Day, 2015 from a verandah in Asheville, NC overlooking this beautiful city and her mountains.



Summer Songs

Lazy day,

Thoughts a sway,

Swinging through the trees.


Hummingbirds and bumble bees

Fly their flights,

Luring me away.


Summer sun,

Oh, wonder one

Lurking through the trees.


Thoughts of you,

Onslaughts of true

Bring me to my knees.


Cicada concert singing,

Bells of truth a-ringing,

Gospel piano bringing.


Strained thoughts,

Of good news sadly wrought,

And Judgment Day’s

Drenched memories unsought.

Handcrafted poetry written by John Hines, 8/2/2015 

I wrote this short poem on a sweet summer day spent reading Chuck Palahniuk’s Damned in a little red cabin amongst the trees on a Western North Carolina mountain.


Remains of a Dream

He awakened, with thoughts of his dog, thoughts of his god,

Encircled in the fog

Of the remains of a dream.


Things are not what they seem,

The answers they so often spun,

His mind on the run.


Imagining thoughts as they weren’t,

Were not there,

Would not share.


Without care,

Thoughts spun,

Mind on the run.


From jailed thoughts spinning,

Web of thoughts done,

Like that silky web of dew’s mist,

Shining in the sun.


Hand-crafted poetry by John Hines, 8/1/2015

Written upon awakening from a summer nap…