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

O’ Sweet Muse

O’ Sweet Muse,

Sweet soul whisperer,

Whisper your sweet words to me;

I promise that today I’ll listen soulfully sweet.


“Pierian winds blow over me,

Blow through me your delightful inspiration,

So much irresistibly sweeter than the powderiest olykoek,

Visit my soul for a while, please stay,” I pray.


To make sweet songs

That make all the daily crap feel tickety-boo–

My British ancestry making words like that okay,

More than fun and okay with me.


O’ sweet muse,

Pardon me as I escape beneath my urbanized baptismal font,

Escaping the vapours of this June humidity felt through body and soul,

Finding sweet relief in this downtown Y’s natatorium.


Sinking to the bottom of the deep end,

Exhaling all the hot air still trapped inside my lungs,

Finding breathless solace beneath the water’s weight,

Washing away the anxiety and guilt of not being.


Guilty of not being something more than a mugwump,

A mugwump wandering on the Island of Indecision

Allowing life to pass while waiting for some spiritual sweet,

Some sort of doughty awakening of blissfulness of flow of work.


Of labour, love of labour,

“Love’s Labour’s Lost” as the great Poet once wrote,

A metanoia bringing sweet soulfulness

To living each day one poetic moment at a time.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, 06/05/2016

This is another poem in a series of poems I’ve been writing that incorporate 7 consecutive words of the day.  See if you can find them! Thank you for reading! 🙂

Zoogenic Tendencies

So what if these poems never meet the standards

To bear a colophon,

Colophonic complaisance was never his intention.

Whether writing odes to his Dulcinea

Or energized by the jimjams that were his

Maternal genetic blessing.


In writing he found the cure for shaking away the gormlessness

Of his work-a-day world,

Often awakening from hypnagogic restlessness

That refused to yield to deeper sleep

To write these words,

Slowly stripping away the hard-caked fard covering up his Soul.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, 05/29/2016

This weekend, I felt like it was time to pick up the 7 word word-of-the-day poetry challenge I initiated a few months back and hadn’t approached for a while.  This week’s words from were colophon, complaisant, dulcinea, jimjams, gormless, hypnagogic, zoogenic, and hard.  (Yeah, after writing this poem, I discovered an eighth word had snuck into the mix).  Looking at these seemingly unrelated words and their definitions in my notebook proved to be too much of an unyielding temptation so I started writing these verses down before my wife and I went out on Friday night and came up with this little poem. Thank you for reading!  🙂

Young Poet

Young Poet, here you go, he said

As he handed me Leaves of Grass

Its greenish-golden hues

And picture of Walt himself

Inviting entry into a world unknown.

It’s everything you need contained

Between these pages

To be

The writer you’ve not yet known.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, 04/23/2016

Another One of Those Days

There are days when the only acceptable noise

Once wrapped in the soothing chocolate brown walls of my study

Is the whir of the ceiling fan mixed with the purr of sweet Kitty.


Anything else cuts through the silence my soul is seeking

Like fingernails across a chalkboard,

And today is one of those days.


Trying to sift through the anger, frustration

I’ve been feeling lately most days as I walk out to my truck through the parking lot

To drive home after work.


Second week in May, four weeks ‘til summer,

Up today since 3:44 like every day,

A predawn 5 mile run in the books before driving to work.


And now, all I crave is silence and solitude

To hear the voice of the author I’m currently reading

Speaking to that deeper place of soul.


‘Cause you see, those words are medicinal

And I know I only have about two hours, maybe three of lucidity

Before the tiredness pulls the back of my eyes into my occipital lobe.


But, for right now that fan whirring, that Kitty purring

Are the only sounds my soul desires,

All others cursed like anathema.


These are the sounds of solitude, the sounds of silence

Wrapped in the textures of these chocolate brown walls,

That girl breathing gently beside me on the futon.

Handcrafted poetry by John M. Hines, 05/10/2016






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