Ghost Sounds

Spending the day slowly reading Baudelaire
Sauntering over each turn of phrase
Soul agape at each choice of word
A literary splenectomy
No need for anesthesia
Having awakened earlier in the utter darkness
Of a North Carolinian misty mountain predawn
Mind looped in the phantasmagoric smokiness of wild dream-filled sleep
Feeling not a bit lonesome in my bed of solitude
Hearing metallic sounds of symbols inexplicably sounding in the blackness of my shortened slumber
Was it the sweet nectar contained in the Lazy Hiker growler we had so thirstily consumed
Or the little red barn’s ghosts relishing in welcoming me back for another visit?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, July 2016

I wrote this on the first day of a serious slowdown of pace after visiting Dublin, IR, NYC, Seattle, Iowa City and Savannah, GA in the span of a month, unsure of whether or not I’d become comfortably immured in the cadence of the walls of our little red barn mountain retreat.


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