Reading Hemingway

A key unlocking
A parade of possibilities,
Unread books to be read
Well read books to be reread
Top shelf
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
Nag champa
His morning ritual
Waking his deepest

Is how reading Hem’s
Moveable Feast
Moved him
Away from potentialities
To creation
To finding the key
To unlocking

To moving with ease
As the main character
In his widest dreams
Somnambulist no mas! No mas!

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: The Finca Vigia Edition”. We shall soon be tracing Hem’s steps in Paris.

New Site

Greetings All,

Please visit my new blog site at

Sincerely & Gratefully,

John Hines

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

So ready…for Spring Break!

Wafting attention from Henry Miller’s

Tropic of Cancer to the U.S. Un-Presidential Race

Race for president, racial run for President of the Un-United States

Well, maybe, states united, but people in the states

Represent a state of dis-unitedness, protest this mess.


Between bouts of labor and a little bit of sleep

Making up for sleep not taken with little afternoon siestas

Body sore from predawn workouts-day in and day out

Keep the body, yea, the mind young and healthy pumping out

Caffeinated endorphins, a little serotonin, some norepinephrine for the road.


Out there grindin’, changing young lives

Yearning to set young hearts burning

With desire for learning, setting apathy on fire,

So apathetic some days, your mind a prosthetic brain?

Or something real? Readying itself for life.


The American dream? Livin’ the dream!

REM rebound churning out

Fresh poems almost daily, Well, maybe weekly, maybe bimonthly,

“Get it done, Son!” “Writers write.” “PERIOD.”

If you are a writer, then get to writing! Whatcha’ waitin’ for?

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 03/13/2016

Cryophilic Little Devil

Devilishly delighting in the denial of even

A nugatory spoonful of desiderata

To hungry hearts longing for just

A taste of warmth of dreamy visions.


He was a cold hearted cryophilic species

Much preferring the islands of his own deceits

To an isthmus of connectedness

Even with those he claimed to love.


Ever focused on the dirty deeds of his

Daily existence–“for the nonce, for the nonce”,

Powerfully denying any brighter future outside

Of surety of death.


Even as golden mountain’s fresh alpenglow

After summer’s quenching rains

Offered an aeromancy of possibility

Of sweeter days to come.


Spring to Summer, Fall to Winter

Seasons of unchanging surety of sameness,

His daily nonexistence flowed forever

Through the marrow of his essence.


Even while shifting lunar cycles made their play all round,

Each tide shifting willing spirit’s sands of dissimilarity,

New to First to Full to Quarter

Waxing to Waning, Gone and back again.

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 02/05/2016

This is the fifth in a series of poems using 7 consecutive words of the week (  This week’s words were isthmus, cryophilic, nonce, aeromancy, alpenglow, desiderata, and nugatory.

I wrapped up the reading of my 10th book of 2016 this week-Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities.  I think some of the emotions I experienced in the final half of the book snuck in here and met up with some earlier life experience.  Maybe this devil is depression?  Maybe depression’s work on a person is like the devilish figures of Dickens making their way through the streets and prisons of the guillotine-era?  Thank you for reading :).



Third Week of January

Finding himself walking his way down Pine behind much younger people and still hearing the silly laughter of a young date in an Escalade parking on the third level twenty feet away, he carried himself with a “Don’t ‘F’ with me” old guy chip on the shoulder attitude while feeling younger days lost.  Something about that spot in downtown put him into a defensive, yet reflective posture these past two weekends out of three.

Finally, alone with his customary double shot of espresso and cool, effervescent Pellegrino in the green translucent bottle with just the right bit of bubbly feel in the corner of his mouth in a new corner of the hotel coffee shop having paid his $5.13 rent for this corner space, reaching into the corner of his brain where he kept such things, he began to write the poem of the week reflecting on his notes and getting a handle on his thoughts.

Sitting across from his former end table spot taking over a table for four near the door of the place which today of all days was the sunniest and unlike Florida coldest seat in the house, the door opening more often than usual letting people enter to find warm atmosphere and drink revealing the unseasonably seasonal cold snap of wintry winds, he began to write, on this, the third week of January:


Whether reading the lacustrine writings of our friend Thoreau

Or of the travails of travels of Bukowski’s Chinaski

Across the plains of alcoholic presenteeism.

After nights given to drink

And mornings to drink’s failure

To erase the pain or elucidate

Aeonian truths yet to be found in the writings of these

They call the literary greats.


His ludic approach to these sessions of playful reading

Might never open the doors of Truth

To an enlightened state of Beingness.

But he was willing to roll the dice, to play the horses

To spend more solitary time of the kind he craved

Reading and writing as the stuffs of his reading left

Their sitzmarks on his thoughts

And sometimes left their imprints on what some might call soul.


“Awe, Kerflooey!”

An expression that seems so much like nonsense

As if struggling out of an aposiopesis of wordlessness.

In the third week of January

A kerflooey of mixed thoughts of joy suppressed

Blended with a cornucopia of sorrow’s mixed remains leaving

Him speechless and at times

Longing for ______.

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 01/26/2016

This is the third in what might become a series of poems written using the 7 most previous, consecutive words of the day ( and  This week’s words were: lacustrine, ludic, aeonian, kerflooey, aposipesis, presenteeism, and sitzmark.  I am looking forward to next week’s challenge!  Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed :).

Isles of Antipodes

Guttural voice inflected,

Confessions of Sinful thought,

Be Damned!




Or purely Insurrection?


Is this merely just one more intersection?

Intersection of Introspection,

Stealing through the dusk of night.


Dusk of night labouring

Labours upon labours giving birth to

Nothing more than Captain Obvious.


Upon closer inspection,

It’s an outright and outwardly unrighteous loss,

What’s going on inside of us.


A purely neuronal dissection,

Total and complete,

Call it what it is.


Now bringing a synaptic infusion of


Yet thoughts still divided as on Isles of Antipodes.


Soul brought low,

And now subdivided,

Into the Triunal three of threes.

Gute Nacht, Gute Nacht!

Handcrafted poetry by John Hines, 12/12/2015 

Liner Notes:

The inspiration for this poem came on a walk last Sunday, December 6 as the sun was setting over O-Town.  I wrote the beginnings of this poem in my phone while flaneuring my way around various neighborhoods south of the city.  I edited it this week between stints of teaching psychology and planning for, meeting for and having my annual formal observation.

This urban walk took me to some of these places in my mind and the places in my mind took me through my walk.  This week I’ve been voraciously reading between bouts of work, sleep and family time and working on more poetry:

The Magic Mountain, Thomas Mann

The Divine Comedy, Dante Alighieri

Bluebeard, Kurt Vonnegut

While Mortals Sleep (Unpublished Short Fiction), Kurt Vonnegut

Thank you for visiting and staying long enough to read these thoughts.

Have a most blessed day!