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

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



Facing east towards the rising sun
Struggling through the fog in the face of the flocculent clouds
The self-named Poet Laureate of 32805

Sang an anthem of remembrance in honour of a breathless crescent moon shaking like a scythe in the hands of a tall tan man with a Samuel Beckett face

Wise weathered worn like leather
withering in his bones
Tremble tremble tumble tremble
Like the memories of the autumn leaves on the trail of Rufus Morgan

A waterfall whispering hopefulness
Such that he is once again able
To shake off the youthful longing of his yesterdays for the haggard vision of a wee small moment of today.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines


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:
In seasons of change
Sand blown into the paint

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



Note to Self

What happened to choice,
Did you give it up with the bottle
You threw with that note into the sea?

Washed away in the frothy waves
As you walked away, grey water drying on your hands
With the sticky, titian sand stuck between your silly toes,

Following the cursory labours of life
Ignoring possibilities of seasons of change
Like the loggerhead sea turtle labouring her way back to the water dredging her path upon the beach,

Leaving her eggs buried beneath the sand
Near the dunes of waffling sea oats waving in the wind,
Her hopes for progeny’s future left
To the wings of fate:

A chance human child’s touch
While building castles in the sand,
Or a hungry sea gull making a meal
Of the day,
Or a raccoon smelling fresh spilt yolk mixed with mollusk shells drying in the Sun:

Is this the way you’ll dream and drift your little life away?

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June, 2017 in the air, in a plane on the way to the University of Iowa Summer Writing Festival.



On the day Trump pulls out
After late night covfefe
Such a French sounding word

Paris accords
On the first of June!

And all I want to do is paint with
W.            R.


Across my canvas which is my phone
Sitting in the doctors office
Waiting to be carved out of stone

Stitches and a band aid
Not enough to cover up the anxieties of late nights keeping me awake

And all i want to do is paint with
O.        D.
W.          R.

My canvass:
Your lunch

An afternoon with F.O.H.
His orange and blue so perfect pocket sized for
Pick pocketing poems

Taking trips trip taking tripping
From the futon in my study:
Biarritz, Madrid and Barcelona
Thank you Frank!

Skipping A last lunch like THE last supper
Eating words instead.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, June 1, 2017

A Stirring (On Reading Mary Oliver)

I can only read her in small doses of light
Because when i do she stirs up, she stirs,
Her words penetrate the muscles between my chest,
My pectorals squeeze, my solar plexus caves
Into my diaphragm, landing somewhere, Leaving me gasping for air, like a soft punch in the gut one feels days after the knuckles have left, leaving a bruise on the soul, or uncovering one already there?

Penetrating with a surgeon’s precision
Cutting, opening, revealing
The deep of soul where feelings feel,
Where pain persists, where joy resides,
Where secret rivers seek to roll through ducts of tearless eyes, so dry,
A turbulence of wind through the windows of inebriation sans alcool,
A stirring to write,
A stirring moved.

Handcrafted poetry reflection while reading American Primitive by Mary Oliver, April, 2017