Des salutations et des adieux
Lunch Poems in my pocket
Dare I sneak Meditations in my laptop bag on the way to work?
Can I dial a 911 to rescue a self cut in two by preoccupations on the side of some minute form of sanity?
Whistling in the wind like Isak’s scythe
Cutting through some form of literary truth-seeking lyricism offering hope
Just another mardi matin or a something-else?
A little meditation in an emergency
An every day chameleon
A false yellow label folded into the pavement
Mashed by not-so-lonesome boots in a painting by Van Gogh
Like the fresh cut grasses on Isak’s land
My own Sellanra
Waiting to be raked
The promise of a machine in the days to come
Hiding secrets like Inger
Inside my little faux leather bag
Is it really so il faut savoir?
No heart on the sleeve on the way to another day of grinding
Fresh cut timbre
In the water-powered sawmill of Sellanra
For these new dialogues je sais par coeur
They’re buried so much deeper than that still-born
In that shallow grave by the river-stream
Running down through the property I may never fully own.
Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, February 2018
Like the trunk of an old oak
Felled for lumber his knees
His tongue held captive
Enslaved muscles of utterance unable to move to utter the words
His arms hung idly
Paralyzed at his sides
His loins unfeeling
Barren like the womb of Abram’s sweet
[Yet, in one felt moment all this
Giving way to
A glorious heart sweeping wave of newness
Fresher than the dew of early morning
Lighter than the new moon’s cotton candy luminescence
In the starless night (of early morning)
Weightless as the scent of jasmine wafting the predawn air
As quiet as the whispers of winter entering Fall on the shoulders of summer
Soft as the downy coat of lamb’s wool against an infant’s cheek
Greener than the Rocky Mountain aspens against the tobacco-yellow landscape
And a truer blue than the sky was that day they met
on the corner of
Sixth and Broad
And walked hand in hand to Central.
Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, December, 2016 with thoughts caught across the continent between Denver and New York City.
A key unlocking
A parade of possibilities,
Unread books to be read
Well read books to be reread
Writers to know
Painters to peruse
Places to visit and possess
Poems to be penned
Short stories to be started
Novellas to effuse
Like the smoke of his
His morning ritual
Waking his deepest
Is how reading Hem’s
Away from potentialities
To finding the key
To moving with ease
As the main character
In his widest dreams
Somnambulist no mas! No mas!
Photo taken this summer in NYC on the Chelsea HIgh Line. Sculpture created by artist Tony Matelli.
Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2016.
I’ve been reading, no feasting on Hemingway’s “A Moveable Feast”
this week; and am now submerging myself into his “The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway: FincaVigia” edition. Shall soon be tracing Hem’s steps in Paris.
Cornucopic feasts for the senses
Brain on fire
High Line High of Holies
Hammering Sounds of Industrial
Amidst nature’s whispers.
Odes of joyous
Singing anthems of praise
To the gods for this lovely day
Handcrafted poems by John M. Hines, June, 2016
I wrote this poem last week while slowly walking the High Line in New York City’s Chelsea area. I was taken aback by the art around me created by both humankind and nature in a setting of industrialization. While my wife captured the surrounding stimulations on her camera, I slipped into the shade in joyous contemplation to try to put the emotions of the place into words.