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

 

 

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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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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Well-Grilled Life

Don’t turn the steaks more than once-some of the only advice he ever gave me and why I always think of him when I fire up the grill

Watching a green leaf pushed by a dead brown one across the surface
Of the pool tonight

An early Autumnal sunset of pinkish orange pushed out by purple rains
Sweeps across the quickening sky
As cicadas’ machinistic trumpets announce the darkness cloaking another day

And him there, standing over there, by the grill
Sharing his sage advice:
Turn once, not twice to
Live a well-grilled life.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, September 23, 2017-September 26, 2017.

 

SMOKE SIGNALS

The torn seats, the rusted out bed,
I was on board for the ride
To the office with my Ben Ben
To be included in a talk with men,
Hushed stories, jokes, then laughter,
What was i in for?
Oh, I’m so ready to be one of them.

When upon our arrival, to my disappointment, Ben Ben said:
Wait in the truck son
And after i’m done,
We’ll make another run to the corner drug
For a c’cola float
(A consolation prize for a boy
Not yet ready to be one of the men).

Then curiosity got the best of me
And i left the safety of the torn front seat,
Springs popping out all sides
To enter the office and the gathering of men
As Yellow light snuck out of dusty shades and
Wood paneling whispered storied tales
And men gathered in a circle talking
Smoking puffing

While i listened in unnoticed tucked away in a dark corner of the room
Trying my best to understand the discussions
Of men
Until, and when, my burdened
Respiratory system succumbed to the weakness of my genes
And i pushed out the door hocking and tearing and coughing and choking,
A Red eyed snot nosed mess and learned
I wasn’t quite ready to be one of the men.

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

Easter Eve

Disjointed thoughts and words rolled into one strolled through my head as i awoke from dreamy afternoon half-sleep of Easter weekend

Of salty briny breath of Brigid blowing through my hair
Of sea mist moisture on my skin, taste of oysters
Memories of days walking on the seawall in Sandy Cove along Dublin Bay

Of shoreside breezes in freedom’s wake
Soul set free
The feels like temperature (how do they know?) perfect for
Sinking under the weight of an ancient myth
On angel’s wings
on Easter Eve

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, April, 2017

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Kee-ahh Kee-ahh

There they were like stuffed cicada
Little artifacts of remembrance
Taxidermic witnesses of yesteryear
O’ Memory

Echoes of their summer songs in the distant horizon greeting
Sunset painted skies of glorious pinks purples oranges and reds
Colouring the lake with the paint brush strokes of the golden gods of light and lustre
Juices of tangelos sweet sour
Sour sweet
Tango across taste buds awake

Sticky fingers sticky hands pursed lips
Scents of fruit warming nostrils with joy
The buzzing bzzzssszzz of honey bees Dancing the orange blossom special
Filling ears with magical musical moments
O’ memory

Walks to the lake
Hands in the dirt
Ladders in the trees
Salty smells
Soil sweat humidity
Sowing seeds pushing out
Pains of broken family

Into
Another sunset

As the red-shouldered hawk cries
Kee-ahh kee-ahh kee-ahh
Without tears,
All day outside my window
While I’m writing this
With Snyder’s Turtle Island in my lap
And my kitten by my side
Purring Russian on the futon

O’ Memory
O’ Memory

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, February, 2017