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


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

Sleep of Sin

Wrestling all night long with the angels of sleep
No demons of darkness, only silkiness of somber
An old somnambulist rests
Milking the night of every last ounce of REM

The last bit of lace of a fine stout left on the side of the glass
The last bit of morning dew drying on blades of grass
Waking here and there, falling back to sleep again
Slipping into dreams and out of them again
To stay in bed all day doing this:
Such a silly, silly sinful sin?

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

Community of Poets

Our Kitty in the upstairs windowsill
Dry winds of low humidity
Blowing through the limbs of younger oaks
Sweeping away anxieties

And feelings of grievous heavy loss
Weighty grey feelings of winter
Of endless summers of breathless heavy air
Of sweat of toil of tonnage

Squirrels jumping freely limb to limb
Playtime recess, school’s out for squirrels
All their homework done and
Nap time in
Racing through the trees and along electric lines

Cardinals flirting and lovingly labouring
About their nest building
Gathering twigs and plastics and grass
An assemblage of protection
As the cats prowl gauging

And something so calming about
The steady unrelenting
hum hum hum
Of the pool pump gently moving
The blue waters of our artificial

Inviting cats, possums, snakes, & squirrels
For a drink and sometimes an accidental swim
A daily sweeping of the leaves before they sink effortlessly to the bottom
After a carefree float around our little lake
This little urban ecosystem
This community of Poets
And howlers at the Moon.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, February, 2017

Smoky Traces

Nag champa incense burning
Words of poems churning
In his head
As traces of her memory
Land on his lips
And fill his every sense
With sweat

Parietal lobes on fire
Olfactory bulbs awake
As traces of her memory
Wash through every pore and cell

Sounds of alarm clock ringing
To sheets a soaked in sweat
And another day
With only smoky traces of
Her memory.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, November, 2016


I’ve only quickly read three little lines and three words of Whitman:
“Enough! Enough! Enough!”
On a Saturday morning
Scorching summer Sun Star already well up
Burning off the mists of foggy thought
REM rebound and a little bit of melatonin from a verdant bottle having done their work in the blackness of the night
Which brought a week of work to another end.

Weak from work clearing out
Words of Whitman leading the way,
“In the beginning was the Word
And the word was with God
And the word was God.”

Enough to set my soul souring with the possibilities of the day ahead
Without work
Without fuss
Without muss
Without a “To-Do List” leading the way
Like a day hiker oblivious to the dangers of thin air
High on life, high on something.

Simplicity of a writer’s solitude
Slipping through the cracks of thoughts and memory
Like the summer Sun star’s penetrating beams peeking in through the shutters
Soliciting the promise of a literary life,
Enough! Enough! Enough!

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, September 17, 2016

Whitman’s Whisperings

The cars on the expressway a mile away

The squirrels rustling in the leaves nearby

The water moving in the pool beneath my feet

The airplane making its way across the sky

The gentle breeze whispering through the trees

The birds sing singing—I hear them all.


The wind chimes chiming

Human voices walking down the street

The breeze again, the cleansing breeze again

Sitting here feeling while reading Whitman that

That breeze is blowing over me

Blowing through me.


Blowing away the cares and worries of the day

Soul cleansing, Hearing awakened, Emotions summoned

Cicada twittering its song of taps

As the sun begins to set behind me

Throwing the shadow of my pen

On the paper journal I’m writing this in.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, 04/19/2016