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Best Poems Written by Johnnie Hynson

Below are the all-time best Johnnie Hynson poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Johnnie Hynson Poem

Old Woman's Hands On a Grinding Stone

The coyote circles
he always circles
he shadows the path
of our existence
set by the pattern
of wind blown seeds

The old man sleeps
while his children 
play by the fire

He thinks he is 
still the slayer
of enemies
that are long gone

The crow waits
in a ragged nest 
for us
to move on 

My old heart
beats like this
grinding stone
it beats, it beats
and it beats
until it is still
like the dogs
in the afternoon

Sleep waits for me
like a white wolf
in the shadows
of that long line
of trees

Patient as water
he must wait for me
until I finish
my meal

Details | Johnnie Hynson Poem

Saved By the System In Waco

The real clues
are in the cobweb scraps
dropped by
hapless bronze birds
that will never
feed again

The children
are all there
in little specks of
brittle hopes in
black pieces
in the dirt

They lie there in
pools of sprinkler water
collected where it lay

Running down
heat bleached
wet white concrete walls
where globes of fire
all yellow and red
and hissing
danced in circles
around and around

Huddled in terror
they did not know
it was sent
so lovingly
to purify and protect
from some self-appointed
head of grace
of the fallen state

Details | Johnnie Hynson Poem

The Velvet Trap

No one
not even
the rain
has hands
as small as yours
when you shake your head
your hair moves like
the limbs of willows
and that certain
motion of your fingertips
can stir the well of my soul
your electric love
calculated to please
is like
a ring
of trees on fire
around a pond of ice

Details | Johnnie Hynson Poem

Lance

dressed in a feather
on a fur cap
and an oil skin coat
the medicine man
sits by
a grave of old wisdom

wearing whisker stubs of
light and mystery
he sits there like a stone
in a dream wthout mirrors

his hands circle my sleep
and in the center
coyotes and bears pad
around the rim of darkness

his arms rise
we see him dimly
then not at all

Details | Johnnie Hynson Poem

Corrections Department

They are the most 
Smoothly ungracious
Thief of time
Those gray walls
That steal the
Only thing that
I have left

How long to go 
To hold on the longing
And how many times
Can the song bird
In my chest
Forget to sing
And still be there
To see again the
Yellow of dawn

Brown uniforms, and blue shirts
Blue suits, and brown days
The thinnest slice
Of fate separates
Us from you
God I hope
I come back soon
To the land of life
Before the color runs
From my veins
Into the dust of the
Exercise yard

Green dresses and blue skies
Blue moods and green fields
You all wait for me
Like an itch
Lying face down
In a pool of memories
Trying not to drown

Heartaches were full
When my pockets were empty
Everyone was talking at me
And I was trying not to listen
All the while spending 
Easy money trying to be
What I was not
Hell, I only wanted
To be just like you
And now those grays walls
Are my now secret friend
And your unknowing bitter enemy

Your pockets are empty
And my belly is full
With all that
It cost you to steal from me

The heartaches that chase
Us all from under
Those gray skies
Lives on and waits
There in those
Same streets for you
Look closely for it
It lives close to the ground

Underneath your quiet mind
Is a sound that echoes in 
Your footsteps
Is how I talk to you
When you are there
And I am here

But you can’t step over it
No more than 
I can step over these walls

Your time waits
Somewhere for you

Details | Johnnie Hynson Poem

Saved By the System In Waco

The real clues
are in the cobweb scraps
dropped by
hapless bronze birds
that will never
feed again

The children 
are all there
in little specks of
brittle hopes in
black pieces
in the dirt

Their lives were
spilt like milk
from the inside out

They lie there in
pools of sprinkler water
collected where it lay

Running down
heat bleached
wet white concrete walls
where globes of fire
all yellow and red
and hissing
danced in circles
around and around

Huddled in terror
they did not know
it was sent
so lovingly
to purify and protect
from some self-appointed
head of grace
of the fallen state

That hollow blessing
melted cosmetics
into the prom pictures
that would never
be taken

Now crisp nylon khakis
march over remnants of
pennyloafers threads and belts
over scattered salt
strewn like stars

Ah, but the young
Republicans are happy
those tales of children
are not about them
and theirs

The news stories
are not about them
the fortunate few
that are unlimited by
some well written
blessed law
to help only those
that are no
longer there