FACING EAST TOWARDS THE RISING SUN

Facing east towards the rising sun
Struggling through the fog in the face of the flocculent clouds
The self-named Poet Laureate of 32805

Sang an anthem of remembrance in honour of a breathless crescent moon shaking like a scythe in the hands of a tall tan man with a Samuel Beckett face

Wise weathered worn like leather
withering in his bones
Tremble tremble tumble tremble
Like the memories of the autumn leaves on the trail of Rufus Morgan

A waterfall whispering hopefulness
Such that he is once again able
To shake off the youthful longing of his yesterdays for the haggard vision of a wee small moment of today.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines

Visions of Autumn ((Trapped))

Shade of a palm tree’s sun-shadowed reflections trapped in a frame on white-washed particle board opposite a French door,

Brown shrouded priestly vestments lipping over a sinewy, sun-leathered wrist guarding wrinkled fingers wrapped around a chalice,
No, a coffee mug:

Snowy cold memorials of seasons
Lost
On a mountain village garden path

A brown leaf rests atop a tiny river-stone:
Surviving remnant of
Autumnal verity from yesteryear

A weasel’s fur stuck in road-side thistle stands out amongst the crowd

Butterflies swoon, yellow blossoms lift Golden halos drop
Smoke smells whisper
Waiting, waiting, waiting for

Blueberries plump
Juicy
Ready to be culled

As frozen memories take a beating
while reading colossal Plath on a Sunday mourning’s after noon.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2017

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A BARBERSHOP QUARTET

(Confessions of John Joe Hayes)

As I sit on my bed in the dark of a Saturday night of a three day weekend
I think how close we were to death today in a barber’s chair
Surrounded by straight blade razors that could cut through the carotid truth of any moment
How the barber of another man said his grandfather was honoured today as the oldest living soul in his neighborhood at 91 and so ready to die 10 years ago

And I, though I thought, I didn’t speak of how I, at over halfway there might be ready too:

Only in the late evening, after coming or not, lying in bed and thinking what is there left to do, death of ambition, what left, but to love, to live each moment in the moment, the challenge at hand, the things I said that day, the things I didn’t do come weighing in on judgment of a life, sorry soul sitting in the courtroom of Kilmainham Gaol, life so lived, what say you?

As I float away drifting into rebound of REM:

Floating around the Isles of Hypnagogia
Hibernic needles in my veins
With thoughts not right, not said, with words of readiness for death
The only thing left
To love
To let.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, September, 2017

Full Moon Frenzy

Chasing the orange-timbres of a full moon
Setting over the City skyline
Down the expressway on the way to work
Glimpse of lunacy caught like a faded memory
Retrieved for a fleeting moment:
A déjà vu ? A trompe l’oeil ?
GASP

As the acetylcholine stutters across the synapses
Guardrail barricades avoided
Steering left around the curve
Under construction
For now and
Always

The dark black clouds hanging over the eastern sky hiding the sunrise
Like an old worn tattered black trench coat wrapped around the skinny shoulders of a homeless man

Ripped paper bag wrapped around an empty bottle
Sitting in a puddle of piss on the sidewalk Under the bridge
Alone
Hopeless as another day on the Trail begins

A modern day trail of tears to
Nowhere
In the boundaries of the City
Beautiful
Division Street.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November 4, 2017, Orlando, FL

FALLing

Terrazzo and terre cuite:
the feelings so similar they provoke,
Synesthesia dismissed and folded into the feelings of being a deciduous leaf

Folded into the cement-lined polished glass
Magnificent colours of autumn
Scenes from wintering greys and ocherous browns on the way

Lost on the nature paths of a park northeast of the Hague
Imagining Van Gogh and Sien in the dunes of Scheveningen

Painting symbols of death or death Retreating:
Retreating
In seasons of change
Of
Sand blown into the paint
Impasto

Those challenged descriptions
Make the poet want to spend the day
Folded into the tiny fragments of memory
Lost and found staring at the floor.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, October 25, 2017

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ALONG THE THAMES

 

Along the Thames along the Thames
The push of the World moving along
Barges pulling cargoes
Captains of Industry taking a break from lifting pounds to lunch
Pigeons puzzling over scraps of scones on the sidewalk
Poets taking pause to observe to breathe
To smell the fishy salty briny browns:
To feel the feels of the pulse of the City
Floating heartbeats aboard the Tate to Tate

Painting word pictures on a phone
After viewing Rothko in a room of Rothko’s
Nine
Crimson blacks and brownish browns
Marooned
Subtleties of meanings wrapped in colour

Four seasons spread across the walls of a room inside the Boiler House Level 2 East with two and a half inch slat unfinished scandalized oaken floors that creak with each step whether sandals boots or soft soled walking shoes

As a young girl makes a game of triggering the alarm her father ignores
And a baby cries and a woman sleeps or meditates on the contoured teak bench
Arms crossed, crisscrossed arms
Within a view of Monet’s lilies
Floats floats floats
Along the Thames along the Thames

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, July, 2017, London.

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HELLO SEPTEMBER!

He left a bit of himself inside
Along with his shadow,
Umber-ish greys of yesterday

Peeking through the sublime mould of today
Like a scholar of the school of Structuralism

Pieces of concrete and the separate elements thereof:

Water, aggregate-rock, sand, gravel
And Portland cement

He’d become CONCRETE

And the

Shadowy dust landing on frames of Monet’s lilies
And
Rothko’s room of 9

Blown away by the lusts of patrons
For something more
Beyond the humma drumma of
Daily life cat call whistling
On Tottenham Road

Slacks set over the ankle
Sporting colourful
Socks painted over
Cloudy internal voices:
Distant

A memory to be returned to as the hours turned into days turned into months turned into

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

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