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

1B489701-3A93-4420-9EAB-11345A152980

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

 

 

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

Lost in Paris: A Flaneur’s Tale

Now his soul floats along the Rue des Vie
Laterigrade
Like a crustaceous little crab
Who’s lost his way
Down the Champs-Élysées
Without an Arc de Triomphe
In his future
Or a new love to behold

For her memory towers over him like the Eiffel
Inflated beyond measure
To unapproachable heights
Making les Jardin du Luxembourg feel like a willowwacks
Staring at blank faces as if they were empty letters without words postmarked from some sort of
Neverland

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January, 2017, Paris FR

img_1019

Nameless

‪Her igneous eyes pierced his soul with a gaping ‬
‪Longing for the fire once felt between her legs‬
For they were once long ago rapt
In the heat of each others company
Such that everything their senses touched together
Caught flame
and turned to
Ashes of memory

Now his soul floats along the Rue des Vie
Laterigrade
Like a crustaceous little crab
Who’s lost his way
Down the Champs-Élysées
Without an Arc de Triomphe
In his future
Or a new love to behold

For her memory towers over him like the Eiffel
Inflated beyond measure
To unapproachable heights
Making les Jardin du Luxembourg feel like a willowwacks
Staring at blank faces as if they were empty letters without words postmarked from some sort of
Neverland

His words and thoughts now jumbled
Once an artist of the spoken word
His creations reduced to the crambos
Of illiteracy
Her memory a myrmidon
His soul bent to its knees
In crushing obedience to the
Power it struck
A gong in the moonless night

Until (and when) (and then)

He posted a declaration of his love
Like some sort of bohemian flackery
On the Pont des Arts
The predawn snow and ice of the wooden bridge crepitating under his feet
As he raised the hammer
To beat the nail
Into the tiny parchment
And closed the coffin on her memory.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January, 2017, Paris, FR

img_1043

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.