IT

Hit me like a wall of vacant water
Frozen tsunami of grey clouds brushing impasto over a sunrise
Shrieking against cordial brumal sands
Of time

Plunged on a shrinking crepuscular canvas of
Clocks melting over the bough
Of an orange tree
Leafless
A la Dali
A jamais vu?

I’ve been here before
I grew up here
In this gaping gripping gasping whole of absence
Deeper than the hole he was buried in
Now his home amongst the mossy oaks
And anamnesis of civil war.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines,
9 January 2018

 

 

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

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
Rises
To carry on
The legacy

Of truth-seeking
Soul searching
Stories revealing
Us

Rest in peace
Rest in peace
You
Ancient bas-relief

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

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?”

Lost Memories

The scene was dark and dusty,

Full of thought gone rusty,

As disease set in.

 

Neurons fired, Synapses tired,

Thoughts unwired,

Lost, never to be thought again.

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 01/04/2016

These verses slipped into the series of Ulysses poems (http://coachhinesblogs.com/2016/01/03/hey-ulysses-pt-i and http://coachhinesblogs.com/2016/01/02/hey-ulysses-pt-iii) I’ve been writing.  It seemed to stand on its own so here it stands.  It represents the feelings I experienced at my father’s hospital bed during the final months he suffered from terminal dementia before his passing at the end of last year.

The loss felt was multifold.  I watched my dad lose himself while we tried to capture shared memories both made and never made for father and son due to choices of separation made after a youthful divorce. There is something about multiple divorces by parents in one’s youth that creates a sense of loss as one lives.  Losing dad to losing memory to loss of life is the feeling spoken here.