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


(Confessions of John Joe Hayes)

As I sit on my bed in the dark of a Saturday night of a three day weekend
I think how close we were to death today in a barber’s chair
Surrounded by straight blade razors that could cut through the carotid truth of any moment
How the barber of another man said his grandfather was honoured today as the oldest living soul in his neighborhood at 91 and so ready to die 10 years ago

And I, though I thought, I didn’t speak of how I, at over halfway there might be ready too:

Only in the late evening, after coming or not, lying in bed and thinking what is there left to do, death of ambition, what left, but to love, to live each moment in the moment, the challenge at hand, the things I said that day, the things I didn’t do come weighing in on judgment of a life, sorry soul sitting in the courtroom of Kilmainham Gaol, life so lived, what say you?

As I float away drifting into rebound of REM:

Floating around the Isles of Hypnagogia
Hibernic needles in my veins
With thoughts not right, not said, with words of readiness for death
The only thing left
To love
To let.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, September, 2017


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
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.



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.


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

Thoughts On: Reading Berryman

Connecticut shade wrapper stained
fingers wrapped around a pen
He was off and writing again
Reading Berryman’s dark Dream Songs
Sitting in the bright May sun

Ripples of truth sought on a watery bed
Of melted, azure glacial ice
And a fresh mix of
Yellow blood spilt on the pool deck

Seeking an aphorism
Amongst crushed crustaceans
Higher thought of deeper meaning understood
Rebirth of Renaissance
Reborn at midlife
And moving: On

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, May, 2017.


Solstice on the Avenue

Walking down Park Avenue on the
Second day of winter
Florida Summer’s humidity
For a moment succumbing to the Songs of Winter Solstice
Answering the verdant grass’s breezy invitation
To pause, to sit
To hear the sounds around me

Sounds of city fountains flowing
And children’s voices playing
Filled with the anticipation of Advent’s End
Train’s whistle signaling a departure
Bells signaling a new arrival
Of an almost lost mode of moving humans Low roar of diesel pushing out the sounds around me
As a yellow Labrador on a stroll his collar softly shakes

Walking on I hear the conversations around al fresco meals
Wine glasses clinking toasts of health and happiness
Knives and forks on plates making the musical happy sounds of friendships gathered
“Care for a sample taste to go, Sir?”
As lively carols play on the sidewalk through a speaker system
Accompanied by a man on a flute

And then the evening Solstice sun begins to cast
Her shadows across the spacious city green
The red bricks by Indians once laid releasing the absorbed whispers of the day
With little effect on the sounds around me
Closing out another shortest day
And reminding me how good it is to pause
To push refresh on all
The sounds around me.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, December 24, 2016
Merry Christmas ya’ll and to all a good night!