Washington Square

As i walked from Strand Bookstore with my fresh copy of O’Hara in my pocket,
The shorter buildings of Union Square and East Village brought solace
After the crush of Mid-Town’s scrapers covering up the sky stirred up old anxieties

Ahhhh…Washington Square just outside 1 Mews where I was one year ago today
When the drops of fountain water felt like a sweet baptism-
That relief so absent in this moment,

And there He was:

He’s a multi-coloured Pomeranian she said
His tufts of hair blowing over his forehead like
A Donald Trump toupee,
His cool calm loins spread out on the sidewalk,
His name is Tuxedo, she said

And I couldn’t get past the contrast-
Tuxedo dressed so cool and calm,
hair blowing in the breeze,
Me wilting sweating melting-
A strawberry ice-cream in a sugar cone,
Slipping falling

Becoming a pigeon’s sticky footprint on the stoney hexagons concrete,
Those pink flowers by the fountain whom I have yet to meet
Seeming to be, right now, in this moment,
Doing so much better than me.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June, 2017, New York City, NY.


Estival Solstice

The day appeared on the horizon like a baby born breech
The orange, tepid sun peeking through cirrus clouds
With a new seriousness

Obviating with curiosity in a black mist floating over an obscured view of the slivery moon
Sliced into wisps of light by a man with a scythe

A dark Dublin Bay quaking with remorse
Over deeds undone
Words un whispered
Love not shared.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June 21, 2017. Happy Summer Solstice!


“TRY JESUS!” is what it read,
white block letters on a cozy black T,
Suppose I took him up on the offer, I thought,
What would that entail?

A trip to a big church like a castle in the sky,
Or an on my knees confession of sanctus ceremony,
A monetary gift of superior denomination?
“TRY JESUS!” is what it read, white block letters on a silky black T,

What would happen if I asked him what his shirt means as a point of conversation
I wondered from my econ-aisle seat in 30C:
Had he tried Jesus too?
And done-did all that would entail?
With a Big, Bold & Brassy “I will! I Do!”

Or was he like someone with a brand you love but will never ever afford to own,
Having only the means to wear it sported across the chest,
Was he like one of Us headed straight to Hell
with all the rest?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June, 2017 in transit to the University of Iowa Summer Writing Festival, Iowa City, IA.


Note to Self

What happened to choice,
Did you give it up with the bottle
You threw with that note into the sea?

Washed away in the frothy waves
As you walked away, grey water drying on your hands
With the sticky, titian sand stuck between your silly toes,

Following the cursory labours of life
Ignoring possibilities of seasons of change
Like the loggerhead sea turtle labouring her way back to the water dredging her path upon the beach,

Leaving her eggs buried beneath the sand
Near the dunes of waffling sea oats waving in the wind,
Her hopes for progeny’s future left
To the wings of fate:

A chance human child’s touch
While building castles in the sand,
Or a hungry sea gull making a meal
Of the day,
Or a raccoon smelling fresh spilt yolk mixed with mollusk shells drying in the Sun:

Is this the way you’ll dream and drift your little life away?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June, 2017 in the air, in a plane on the way to the University of Iowa Summer Writing Festival.



On the day Trump pulls out
After late night covfefe
Such a French sounding word

Paris accords
On the first of June!

And all I want to do is paint with
W.            R.


Across my canvas which is my phone
Sitting in the doctors office
Waiting to be carved out of stone

Stitches and a band aid
Not enough to cover up the anxieties of late nights keeping me awake

And all i want to do is paint with
O.        D.
W.          R.

My canvass:
Your lunch

An afternoon with F.O.H.
His orange and blue so perfect pocket sized for
Pick pocketing poems

Taking trips trip taking tripping
From the futon in my study:
Biarritz, Madrid and Barcelona
Thank you Frank!

Skipping A last lunch like THE last supper
Eating words instead.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June 1, 2017