Je Veux, Chapitre Deux

I want no more Sundays
Haunted by leafless boughs on hidden nameless lakes
Sweeping across solidified vistas of mould
Failing to break through the everglade fog

Feet stuck deep in the mud of the stick marsh
Up to my ankles up to my knees
Groin level
Searching for an apt metaphor
For mud between the toes
For grey sculptures set in a crepuscular ray

Cloudless hellish-skies let loose
Reigning through eternal bells de bleu
Ringing and singing their silly songs
Of Sunday

Let me dance through trees like the squirrels
Let me soar through the air like the hawk
Let me live nine lives like my cat
Let me squawk all day long like the caged bird who lives next door

If I want to, if I want
No more Sundays haunted by leafless boughs on hidden nameless lakes
Set me off set me loose let me follow
the loggerheads out
to the green Sargasso Sea
Set adrift on the Gulf Stream flows of eternity.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, January 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



The torn seats, the rusted out bed,
I was on board for the ride
To the office with my Ben Ben
To be included in a talk with men,
Hushed stories, jokes, then laughter,
What was i in for?
Oh, I’m so ready to be one of them.

When upon our arrival, to my disappointment, Ben Ben said:
Wait in the truck son
And after i’m done,
We’ll make another run to the corner drug
For a c’cola float
(A consolation prize for a boy
Not yet ready to be one of the men).

Then curiosity got the best of me
And i left the safety of the torn front seat,
Springs popping out all sides
To enter the office and the gathering of men
As Yellow light snuck out of dusty shades and
Wood paneling whispered storied tales
And men gathered in a circle talking
Smoking puffing

While i listened in unnoticed tucked away in a dark corner of the room
Trying my best to understand the discussions
Of men
Until, and when, my burdened
Respiratory system succumbed to the weakness of my genes
And i pushed out the door hocking and tearing and coughing and choking,
A Red eyed snot nosed mess and learned
I wasn’t quite ready to be one of the men.

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


The nouveau leaves of trees brushing against each other like the long grey tails of coats of unknown people,
On East 42nd,
On a cold, bustling Monday morning in Manhattan,
Rushing to get to where they’ve got to get to,
Before the getting’s gone,

Memories wrestled out on a Sunday afternoon
By dancing, bouncing patterns of light on closed eyelids,
Bliss of golden yellows reminiscent of a kiss, held in a painting hanging somewhere, between The Neue and a museum in Vienna,

Now and again breaking between the pages of a book,
Aloft in a dreamy state of being,
A Soul drifting in the space between:
remembering and forgetting
and want of escape,
On the wings of a jet plane powered only
by the lambent lust that remains of this golden afternoon.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, May, 2017

Easter Eve

Disjointed thoughts and words rolled into one strolled through my head as i awoke from dreamy afternoon half-sleep of Easter weekend

Of salty briny breath of Brigid blowing through my hair
Of sea mist moisture on my skin, taste of oysters
Memories of days walking on the seawall in Sandy Cove along Dublin Bay

Of shoreside breezes in freedom’s wake
Soul set free
The feels like temperature (how do they know?) perfect for
Sinking under the weight of an ancient myth
On angel’s wings
on Easter Eve

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, April, 2017


A Sunday Prayer

(To KW & JL)

Smooth waves of applause from an audience pleased
Roll down Pennsylvania Street
As Night begins slowly closing the shutters on this day
Sweet live Sunday jazz sounds play from a verandah,
Chase away the Sunday blues,
Little bed and breakfast,
Denver city neighborhoods-
Capitol Hill, Cheesman Park, Colfax Ave, Broadway, Downing, Seventh, & Franklin Street.

My own soul’s demons, for a moment, quite appeased,
Chimera resting quietly for a Sunday afternoon,
Trumpet, bass, drums and saxophone melt into the senses with their harmonies
Methodically molding their rapturous rhapsodies
Around untangling souls,
Sweet, soulful Sunday sabbath sounds.

Leaves on trees in concert dance happily As the sun’s closing rays of light weave themselves
Around and through church spires,
I surrender my soul to thee-
A prayer for daily kindness
I whisper to the breeze
Help me practice such to all to whom my path doth wander in the coming week,
Release release release

Sweet, soulful Sunday sabbath sounds
Hydrophilic courtyard fountain sounds
Wash over spirits in a solemn baptismal rinse,
A mirage of
Tiny drops of rain for a moment filling the surprised air,
A Sunday offering of forgiveness whispered in silence,
Forgive myself and others
And allow me for just a moment more, to
Just be,
Listen as Night wraps her arms around
Sweet, soulful Sunday Sabbath sounds.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, July, 2016

I wrote this on a recent visit to Denver, CO.  Thank you for reading. 😀


Blue Red Yellow

Having awakened with the sun’s rays on Sunday morning,

The ocean waves white noise app having done its job,

And no longer able to quiet the thoughts energized by

The potential brought on by a new day.


Songs of potential sung by the song birds singing

Ushering in the day with their own brand of wake up music,

Faintly remembering my last dream-

Trying to explain Bandini to a pair of luthiers who had never read Fante.


And then remembering the events of last night that kept us awake after SNL,

The sounds of sirens of first responders arriving at the next street over,

The text from my daughter’s best friend and 21st birthday celebrant

Arriving simultaneously alerting us to something grim.


“Lots of cops on next street over. Ambulance. Fire trucks.”

Flashing blue lights filling the cool night air.

We walked outside as Mama pulled up the active crime scenes on her phone.

“111.295 Battery. Shooting.” Shots fired. Person down.


A tragic scene reduced to 2 words and 6 numbers.

Neighbors. Anonymous.

Never knew them.

Never saw them in their front yard.


Walked outside and around the corner and watched

What seemed to still be an active scene,

Holding my daughter’s hand in my heart,

So thankful she was home safely from the night’s reveries.


Walked back inside. Disturbed. Sad.

Now quiet outside.  Blue lights dimmed. Investigators busy.

Ambulance leaving scene with intermittent sirens, red lights flashing.

Yellow tape wrapped around trees and power poles.


Yellow tape so reminiscent of the yellow ribbons

Placed in hope of soldiers’ safe return home to family,

Dear neighbor we never knew,

Prayers go up for you today in hope of safe returns.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, 04/17/2016