A virtual chapbook of poems by Mark Justice Hinton.
I walk the dog around the park,
Muttering a poem.
He looks askance
as I repeat lines
to etch them on gray parchment.
I nod distractedly to leery passers-by,
hoping I don’t look crazy
reciting rhyme to a dog.
If I ask the postal worker for paper and pen,
will he reach for his pepper spray, instead?
Will the news report “Postman repels park poet,”
“Park poet provokes postman,”
or simply
“Poet goes postal”? mjh
12-16-02
I’ve become the caretaker
of a small collection of works
by a minor poet
who abruptly stopped writing
when his muse moved on.
Did he feel like a man
whose mistress has taken
a younger lover?
Or was this as bad as
the day the dog died?
He never could say. mjh
04/04/13
It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that all the members of the orchestra
are dogs.
Some in tuxedos,
some in black gowns,
sitting, waiting — good dogs! —
for the conductor
to raise a long meaty bone.
Some clear their throats,
some drool,
none look away for a moment.
It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
that everyone in the audience
is in a tutu.
Men and women dressed for the
ballet, though this is a concert,
each holding a pen and pad
planning to pounce
to snatch some new idea.
As if Beethoven for Dogs
weren’t enough.
It doesn’t seem the least bit odd
in the end
when the conductor puts down his baton,
most of the meat shaken off
to the delight of the First Chair.
He turns and bows
and then I recognize him:
the poet laureate,
the old dog himself. mjh
8/13/02
The dog lies in my chair
his chin upon the arm.
This seems to me quite fair
and really does no harm.
For I have learned to share,
as you can plainly see,
from all the hair I wear,
a gift he gave to me. mjh
7/3/03
Last light of the longest day
lingers in the lodge pole pines,
passes through aspen
that happen to be there,
turning everything pink
against the blue sky.
There is no light like this
last light before night
lies down until dawn. mjh
7/22/06
Saw you online
the other day.
Didn’t IM —
I am not
the chatty type.
Like seeing you
across a room
without waving.
It’s just nice
to know you’re there. mjh
3/21/08 5am
Before dawn
I sit and wait
pen in hand.
I look across
this blank page
stretching forever.
Where are you?
I watch and wait
and look up to see you
at the edge of the woods
you emerge
and walk toward me
walking on water
toward me
that serene calm face
looking through me
at the world.
Am I your mirror? mjh
1/4/2005