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

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

LIZARD LOVE

It’s afternoon, last day of school,
I’m cooling off in my pool, rough life,
Living in a lizard habitat:

We come face to face, eye level,
Him green as the table he’s perched on,
Me, curious, having taken pause in the little oasis that is our backyard,

Home to lizards of many species to me unknown, snakes mostly friendly, ‘possums, squirrels, feral cats and cardinals, jays, kestrels and a hawk or two,

Me left wondering as he wandered off
with more of a plan than i had in that moment or for the rest of that day:
His orange throatiness a threat, or perhaps he’d found love?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, May 31, 2017

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

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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

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HOWL at the MOON

Canto no. 3
3rd time a charm
No,
A spell cast for eternity
Canis major
Across space and time
Young unrequited love
Locked
Like their bodies that night
Such a perfect fit

Sirius Souls
Now spinning in
Interplanetary
Bliss
Connected in space and time
Separated by
Infinity
Like two stars in different orbits
In separate
Galaxies

Around and around and
Around
Elliptical spinning
Doomed to spend
Eternity
In separate
Universes

Joined only by the
Timeless black hole
Vaporous
Infinitude of
Memory

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2016 while howling at the monsterous super moon.

Was I?

Raised by one of Harlow’s wire monkeys
Hugs cold steel
Gun metal against your chest
Ginsu knife turning and twisting
Lifting out your heart in the
Ancient tradition of the Aztec

Leaving you empty
Bottomless emptiness
Never expecting less
But always surprised
By the feeling she leaves
I
N
S
I
D
E
I N S I D E
Was I?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, Thanksgiving Day, 2016
Thanksgiving has a way of bringing families together and bringing back old ghosts to haunt. Today, though, I’m so grateful for the cloth monkeys all around!! HAPPY THANKSGIVING Everyone!