Joseph C Hinson

Into the Heart of the Young


On shaky ground he stands.
With trembling wilbury hands,
   he holds his life-line
           (with just enough rope left
         for a hanging)

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN:
   Listen to the words hidden here
     as they roll of my tongue...”

Easy as the moon glows
The river certainly knows
   I have no form.

Blinded by the fright
Seduced by the night
   Drunk by the riverside

Saddened by the news
Oppressed by their views
   A nation dies in agony.

Wicked in the east
We must kill the beast
   Laughing in all of us.

When will words come?
When will I ever learn?
You can’t get anything worth saving
without risking something.
   Or everything.

All of my poems are Daily Suicides.
Rebirth can only come when all thoughts are
Words -- Birds in Flight.

Can anyone forgive me now?
Can I resolve my past?
Can you?
Can I?
   the dog is foaming at the mouth,
     big, ugly, sniffing at my feet,
     begging, worshipping

Part II: “Calling to the young...”
The radio is moaning a thousand songs
calling to the young:
“Forget what you’ve learned
Or what you’ve been taught.
It’s not too late to turn it all around,
To find a new way or answer.”
The world is on fire,
fueled by the red sun.
I will not go. I will not go
     ‘till I’ve had my fill.

To awake in a strange house
the dogs
Children playing with guns
Ancient artifacts
The television newsman is talking aimlessly.
Telling tales of the men who made him.

Dying man on amusement park ride
Maggots eating at rotting eyes
“Will someone stop this thing
   and let me off?”
On the end of town
lives a reptile in love with a shrink.
They said he robbed a convenience store
and shot the cashier.
Do you read the news?

Ride the current
The electric wave
A shock to the system

Awakenings

I am a rock’n’roll poet.

The preacher is leading his flock to the sea.
Who will tell them they will all drown?
But the children are in the know.
They sense he is unreal.

Part III: "Radio Nites"
Radio Nites
City of Lights
Hazy recollection of past impulses
   Stoned
   Poetry
   Death games
That Day At The Lake
Nights we made promises sure to be broken

We escaped through the neighborhood
   on the way to the mall
And shot the bird at the slow-going car.

Now and if I leave this town
   (from which I was born)
Who will know me then?
Who or what shall I be remembered?
Men of Wisdom
Wanderer of Souls
Grant me my one wish:
That those who knew me will...

Death is life’s ultimate safety haven.



Ghost Cows


the ancient river runs through the graveyard
the Indians drank from these waters
long before Colombus took a wrong turn
and the white man stole their land
a railroad track, built in the mid-1870’s,
still runs through the nearby woods
the steam engines long ago gave way to diesel power
“that was when the trains lost their virginity,”
says an old farmer down the dirt road here
his father’s father tilled the same land
but his son won’t carry on the tradition
he’s a big-time lawyer in some small southern town
but the cows still graze the land
although they’ve been dead for 20 yrs. or more
and the steam engines still barrel down the tracks
(if you listen hard enough,
sometimes you can hear the piercing whistle
just barely over the din
of the textile mill in the distance)
and the Indian ghosts still drink from the river,
clear, unpolluted water from ancient times
yes, the cows are withering,
white relics with deep set eyes
watching the cars go by
while the passengers remain unaware
of the secrets of this land
and the ghost cows roaming the forgotten graveyard





Teresa White Joseph C. Hinson Diane Laurie-Farmer David Ruslander Helena