In your hand


In your hand
that gold catalyst
an onyx

Silver now,
and then blue
fading up into the light.

Without the arrows that pierced my eye
I leave the bronze guitar leaning against the wall

Maybe I'll pick it up, maybe it's just there for the confidence.
the street value
the market share.

I can turn my hand around,
but then I'm looking straight ahead.

Near the Station


Out on the green asphalt highway the trespasser rides
On a silver skateboard.

..into the unfettered calamity of modern commerce.
Without a question or doubt, his head turns
over the shoulder,
and looks backward into that contradiction of dawn.

A wretched metropolis of mazes.
Vying not what the others think, not even for a minute.

He haunts the back alleys on the border of the town,
near the station
Both his voice and the sound of his wheels are meaningless scraping tones: a chalkboard, one for
the quietest audiences.

He is his own poet, audience and critic, rolled into one with the best things left to sprite.
Without the best ones, he rides
with the best ones. He cannot wait for the prime moment, and so,
goes it alone.

Tiles


Now, walk through the portico
Set the object in your hand down,
coffee cup, rubber ball.

The light in the veranda is a mere fragment,
a Mondrian shape cast on the floor
tight squares of yellow light
Intersecting
place optional, a feature, dependency?

What was it?

Rust


Slowly, patiently
I drip from hands poured from cement
I am looking out, out
into the cold frost-zigzags on the pane of glass
In the palm are blue and red rust-bodies
wheels and taillights and bumpers rusting
Trees and rivers there in that cement palm
And I am it, moving in the distance
wandering. . .between the fingers
wandering.

Ink


Ink
on my hand.
Smudges
the pages.
Blurring
the words.

On some crap left behind in a room:


Today, kiddies, we'll talk of the commonplace National Geographics
An ashtray, gathering dust on the shelves
Another mug of coffee in front of me.
A comic book, maybe a curled-up newspaper,
the sound of someone' s marching footsteps.
A saxophone coming, whining, through a T.V. speaker

Other publications of some of this work:

"Tiles": www.johnhammink.com
"Rust": December Poems (Self-Published) and www.poetry.com
"Ink": December Poems (Self-Published)

Author Notes            I like complete thoughts; I prefer singular ideas and impressions. As a result, my poetry and prose is short.

TEXT INDEX |  Latest Literature  |  Virtual Chapbooks  |  Fiction  |  Poetry  |  Essays/Articles on Writing  | |  Personal Essays  |  Genre Fiction  |  Author Information  |  From K.L.'s Desk  |  About WG  | |  Submissions Guidelines  |  Copyrights & Credits  |  Guestbook  |  K.L.'s Blog  |  Literary Links  | |  Toolbox Links  |  Virtual Reference Links  |  Hot Links to Cool Distractions  |  Link Exchange  |  info@thewritegallery.com  | |  Home  |