Fresh Air

Little legs furiously kicking the lower part of my seat for hours on end,
With brief moments of respite
Only to begin again even more feverishly
Working like ants carrying bread crumb morsels up their hill
Despite my frustrated glances over my shoulder to her helpless father

The gaseous odours wafting through the cabin from the rooms of rest
Bringing fears of overflow
Of falling asleep and awakening to a Gathering storm of waste matter
Suffocatingly pressing on my chest
Seeking a portal of reentry through my mouth

The lady sitting next to me nervously picking at the outer crust of her sandwich
And then wadding it up in the brown bag it came in
With the ferociousness of institutionalized madness let loose for the day

Drifting slowly off to sleep as the furious little legs take a breather
Only to be awakened from my hypnagogic jerks like glass shattering in the middle of a quickened night
When the tray table behind me slammed between my shoulder blades at the behest of the little rug scrumler’s knees

So good to be back in the air again
Knowing we’ll soon once again be awash in the dry airs of Denver
Warming our hearts together by a fire
Sipping whiskey and dark brown stouts
In the best of company
In that phantasmagoric old Victorian in Capitol Hill!

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, Thanksgiving Day, 2016 in the air on the way to a long weekend in Denver.


Rocky Mtn Dreamin’

Sunset’s amber rays cut through
Red Rock of Winter
Golden grains of grass
On roadsides

As we exit the day
As the day exits
Enters night
Of dreaming
a dream (undreamed) come true:
This day.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2016

Written on the roads and byways to and from Denver, CO through Boulder with stops in Estes Park and Rocky Mountains National Park.


Was I?

Raised by one of Harlow’s wire monkeys
Hugs cold steel
Gun metal against your chest
Ginsu knife turning and twisting
Lifting out your heart in the
Ancient tradition of the Aztec

Leaving you empty
Bottomless emptiness
Never expecting less
But always surprised
By the feeling she leaves
Was I?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, Thanksgiving Day, 2016
Thanksgiving has a way of bringing families together and bringing back old ghosts to haunt. Today, though, I’m so grateful for the cloth monkeys all around!! HAPPY THANKSGIVING Everyone!

Monday Moon

Twilight Monday
Moon begins to…
Creeps across the darkening sky
Bringing on another yesterday
Delivering a memory:

Won’t you come with me
As Miles smiles
And chases the Monday blues away
Come away with me

Sink into the couch with me
As Kind of Blue
Play with me
And make the dreads of Monday
Float away to

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, Monday, November 21, 2016

Written during a pause from reading E.E. Cummings’s “No Thanks” and while soul drifting to Miles Davis’s “Kind of Blue” playing on the phonograph.

Reading Hemingway

A key unlocking
A parade of possibilities,
Unread books to be read
Well read books to be reread
Top shelf
Writers to know
Painters to peruse
Places to visit and possess

Poems to be penned
Short stories to be started
Novellas to effuse
Like the smoke of his
Nag champa
His morning ritual
Waking his deepest

Is how reading Hem’s
Moveable Feast
Moved him
Away from potentialities
To creation
To finding the key
To unlocking

To moving with ease
As the main character
In his widest dreams
Somnambulist no mas! No mas!



Photo taken this summer in NYC on the Chelsea HIgh Line. Sculpture created by artist Tony Matelli.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2016.
I’ve been reading, no feasting on Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast”
this week; and am now submerging myself into his “The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway: FincaVigia” edition. Shall soon be tracing Hem’s steps in Paris.

O’ Denver

O’ Denver
Love at first breath
Mile high

Immediately immured by the enchanting Dry winds
Rustling tumbleweeds of

As ghostly spirit-voices
Through the Gothic rafters
Of the old Victorian:

Saddle up,
Put your boots on
We’re goin’ for a

Moving through the mist
And cloud
And smoke
Of early morning

Slowly waking up from my Phantasmagoric
Working hard to create a schism of

And then finally surrendering to
And all
She had

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2016

Written on reflection of a summer trip to Denver while looking forward to soon return.


When A Poet Dies

When a Poet dies,
A flower weeps
A butterfly cries
A newborn sleeps

A star escapes
Interplanetary bliss
The Poet whispers
Wish on this

Heavens open to receive
As Earth ever so hesitatingly
Lets go in release

When a Poet dies
The Lady cries
The Lord belies

The lies told
now fold
Into the soil,
Ash to ash
Dust to dust

Until another Poet
To carry on
The legacy

Of truth-seeking
Soul searching
Stories revealing

Rest in peace
Rest in peace
Ancient bas-relief

Staring into
Your face
Lit by a candelabra
So mythically placed
Upon the dusty mantle of

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November 12, 2016

Upon reflection on the death of Leonard Cohen in answer to the question : “What happens when a Poet dies?”