Je Veux, Chapitre Deux

I want no more Sundays
Haunted by leafless boughs on hidden nameless lakes
Sweeping across solidified vistas of mould
Failing to break through the everglade fog

Feet stuck deep in the mud of the stick marsh
Up to my ankles up to my knees
Groin level
Searching for an apt metaphor
For mud between the toes
For grey sculptures set in a crepuscular ray

Cloudless hellish-skies let loose
Reigning through eternal bells de bleu
Ringing and singing their silly songs
Of Sunday

Let me dance through trees like the squirrels
Let me soar through the air like the hawk
Let me live nine lives like my cat
Let me squawk all day long like the caged bird who lives next door

If I want to, if I want
No more Sundays haunted by leafless boughs on hidden nameless lakes
Set me off set me loose let me follow
the loggerheads out
to the green Sargasso Sea
Set adrift on the Gulf Stream flows of eternity.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January 2018

TREE

That tree those branches leafless boughs the whole year through
Balanced strong against the morning sky
Steady
Morning in morning out
As the Sun struggles to light up the Trail
Sending me a message

It’s a backdrop it’s a foreground to something else
Figure-ground concepts on a schoolyard lot
A picture without a frame
Of what I am not sure

But he’s there (yeah, he’s a male)
Mourning in mourning out
Will you be my father I asked him today,
And he said YES!

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January 2018

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Dad

On entering his writer’s study
As the gargoyles fell off the shadowy sinews of his mind
Like fish scales
One
by
One
by
One

He heard that voice again
From deep in the earth
Beneath the ancient oaks
Amidst the ghosts of the Confederacy

Surrounded by groves
Of freshly peeled tangerines
The juice so sweet
Effusing orange aromas
Like the memories of walking down to Hancock Lake
Smelling the dirt beneath our feet
Sharing sacred family histories

That voice again
Now lucid
Now as luminous as this morning’s monster moon
Echoes out of a makeshift wooden box
So long underneath the earth without a marker
Carry on,
Son,
Carry on

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January, 2017
Happy Birthday Dad

Stroke of Broca’s

Words of thoughts
Thoughts of words
B:/
R. O? K. E.).
N
Like spilt scrabble pieces on
Terrazzo.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, December 3, 2016

I woke up this morning with these ideas swimming in my head with memories of my father. The two year anniversary of his passing was a month ago this week. Over the last few years of his life he suffered multiple strokes that took away his words and swallowed him. Thank you for reading.

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?”

One of Those Days

One of those days Dad,
One of those days where
I reached in my pocket for my phone
To call you Dad
Just to chat and see what’s on your mind
Maybe share some things
On mine
Just to tell you how well I grilled the chicken
Share some love for each other
And for life or
Just talk about the weather
And
Between the pauses of silence
A knowing, the knowing
One of those days Dad
Of knowing
How much I missed you Dad
How much I miss you now, Dad
One of those days,
One of those days.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, A Sunday in August, 2016