Stalagmites stalactites
Tactile memories burned off cut out frozen in time with the music-

Barnacles growing on pylon
Piled on thoughts
Of survival
Of living
A captured moment between space and time

Looking out over another sunrise
Rapt in the flocculent
Purple haze of the Orange Blossom’s
Trail of tears

The fires of Helios challenged to burn off the fog
Of another brumal night of

That tan man over there
In the shadows of the stay-weekly motel
Breathing in breathing out
Deep belly breaths
A swami
Arms raised to a sky in midwinter mourning

Whispering prayers
Whispering whispering hushed breaths
Whispering for a youthful hopefulness
Long since crushed and squeezed into the juice of a daily-breader

Now lit in orange and green
Across a hallway in O-Town’s
Last chance for

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, Winter in Florida, 2018


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
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



The Way She Looks at Me

Today, she looks into me with her mysterious eyes inlaid like green marbles in her royal velvet grey as if she’s known me for forever and eternity,

At other times she looks at me as if I’m a stranger from a strange land, a nomadic invader from the desert encroaching her space, Stepping off my camel into the kitchen, Spilling orange sand from my boots wherever I step,

The same way i look into the mirror on a Monday morning facing another week,
Or melt into the ocher floor that is terrazzo folding myself into the glass mixed with concrete,
And, somehow feel so much better there, more free in that space.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, April, 2017