Dimanche (Des médias sociaux)

As I searched for some fine quote
A word of wisdom
A someone’s doing
Or a pretty picture painting hanging in the Louvre
A tronie’s earring hanging in the Hague
It was all right there in my hand

The way the morning light was streaming through the trees
Settling on the quiet ripples of the pool
Casting shadows across a life
Framed in a French door
Tiny birds all atwitter on the power lines
Bees abuzz between the thorns of winter blooms
Chameleons guarding the motes of our little castle
In the city

Et moi, settling into the first lines of a poem
Keyboard driven by right thumb presses
Against the letters in my hand
Until they formed a peristalith of hoary memory typed across the sinking sand.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January, 2018

 

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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Full Moon Frenzy

Chasing the orange-timbres of a full moon
Setting over the City skyline
Down the expressway on the way to work
Glimpse of lunacy caught like a faded memory
Retrieved for a fleeting moment:
A déjà vu ? A trompe l’oeil ?
GASP

As the acetylcholine stutters across the synapses
Guardrail barricades avoided
Steering left around the curve
Under construction
For now and
Always

The dark black clouds hanging over the eastern sky hiding the sunrise
Like an old worn tattered black trench coat wrapped around the skinny shoulders of a homeless man

Ripped paper bag wrapped around an empty bottle
Sitting in a puddle of piss on the sidewalk Under the bridge
Alone
Hopeless as another day on the Trail begins

A modern day trail of tears to
Nowhere
In the boundaries of the City
Beautiful
Division Street.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November 4, 2017, Orlando, FL

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.

GOLDEN SUNDAY

The nouveau leaves of trees brushing against each other like the long grey tails of coats of unknown people,
On East 42nd,
On a cold, bustling Monday morning in Manhattan,
Rushing to get to where they’ve got to get to,
Before the getting’s gone,

Memories wrestled out on a Sunday afternoon
By dancing, bouncing patterns of light on closed eyelids,
Bliss of golden yellows reminiscent of a kiss, held in a painting hanging somewhere, between The Neue and a museum in Vienna,

Now and again breaking between the pages of a book,
Aloft in a dreamy state of being,
A Soul drifting in the space between:
remembering and forgetting
and want of escape,
On the wings of a jet plane powered only
by the lambent lust that remains of this golden afternoon.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, May, 2017