Aldon Hynes's blog


The “Waiting for Jesus” Facebook group
went wild
when the liberal cable news host
had a special commentary
on Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem.

#Hosanna trended on twitter.

Although, the conservative
talk radio hosts
reported much smaller crowds

For the next couple days
the news cycle was dominated
by questions about the movement,
the leaders,
the goals.

The mood remained jubilant.

Until He disrupted
financial transactions
in the temple
and the analysts
on the financial news networks
turned critical.

The #crucify was all the tweets
and followers started denying
their ties to the movement.

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Spring Snow Still Glistens

On the second Saturday morning of spring
we stood ‘round the transfer station
transferring our trash
and talking about the weather.

“You know,” he said
“this isn’t real snow.”

And I told him ‘bout
how when I was young
we called it
poor man’s fertilizer.

He chuckled and said
“Seems we’re all a little poorer
these days.”

But the flurries lasted all day
and as I drove my daughter
to a sleepover
the headlights
illumined the flakes.

Spring snow still glistens.

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I thought
if I head off the trail
about here
I can cut through the woods
and get home
more quickly.

Through the brambles
down the embankment
across a stream.

Yet the short cut didn’t come out
where I expected
so I wandered
deeper into the woods.

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I explore the manuscripts
of Emily Dickinson
and think about dashes.

What do they mean?
How important are they?

What about the line breaks?
The smudges on the page?

Where does the poetry end
and negative space begin?

I grew up, in part,
on e.e. cummings,
with his choices
of capitalization and punctuation.

I pause to think about the line break
the blank line
and I think about the syntax
of a mathematician
or computer programmer.

If you miss the semi-colon
the reader may be confused,
but figure it out.

The compiler,
on the other hand
throws an error
but pays no attention
to the spaces or line breaks.
(Depending, of course,
on the language used)

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The Seashell

I hold a seashell in my hand.

I’d picked it up
on a morning walk
beside the breaking surf.

I hold it gently,
looking in wonder and awe
ar the intricate designs
that once protected
a living organism.

I hold a seashell in my hand.

As I walk along
I hold the shell
in my hand
almost forgetting
it’s there
as it fits just right
and is now
the same temperature
as my hand.

I hold a seashell in my hand.

I pause to remember the seashell
to feel its weight
and its place
along with the other shells I hold
as I start my long walk home.

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