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

 

 

OLD FLA HOME

So maybe, just maybe, the Poets have taught me to embrace the me
That is me
With all its mud and dirt dirt durty

My native Floridian
With all its humidity
With its divorce, its absence of fathering
Subtracted roots and substance of
Family
Of roots sinking deep
Into the mud where mollusks breathe

And the gulf breeze blowing in across the Pine Island sands of tumidity
I accept the gifts of Gulf
So bequeathed to me.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, August 5, 2017, Florida, U.S.A.

IMG_2138