Erik Hansen's Blog, page 10

4-11

  

change is subtle

slow most times

less often it arrives

a cataclysm of words

people, places, things,

cutting like concertina wire

as you scramble over

cut, bloodied, tired

that tipping point reached

you run

slow over the muddy fields

and far away

to a place unseen

by human eyes

pristine, unspoiled,

clean,

without the water

to wash it all away.

© Erik Hansen 2016

Four 10

  

Egomaniacs eagerly eating

Pillowy Parisian pastries.

© Erik Hansen 2016

Four Nine

  

The murmur

of frog’s song

and duck’s babble 

from the wet heart

of the swamp

reminds us

of the everlasting

change, 

the triskele we see

in everything

If we look close enough.

© Erik Hansen 2016

Four Ate

  

The dust laden wind

across the high desert

cracks lips 

and exposed skin

like baked mud

around the waterholes

slowly receding

green gems

in the red dirt.

© Erik Hansen 2016

4 Seven

  

Protein drink explodes

upon the sidewalk;

tragedy comes

in many guises

this Thursday morning.

© Erik Hansen 2016

Four 5

  

Inuit see clearly

the aput

And the slow suffocation

accompanying it

if the wind could pierce it

you could breathe

the icy air

far away from

the bloody brush strokes

glistening upon the pack ice

left by the nattiq

dragged from their aglu

by the ever hungry 

ever silent 

ever searching Pihoqahiak.

© Erik Hansen 2016

Four Four

Cold bites downupon your bare neck

Spring seems in retreat

as the winds whip snow

across the smothered

grass.

Daffodils bow their heads

waiting for the sun

to warm it all away.

© Erik Hansen 2016

  

Four 3

Sudden Sunday snowfall;

slippery sidewalk surprise.

© Erik Hansen 2016

Four Two

Rain taps out a 

stuttering beat upon

the aluminum flashing

wrapped window sill.

Beads of moisture trickle

in random pattern

down the glass surface of

my office window;

the day as dark

as the mood 

it ushered in.

© Erik Hansen 2016

 

Four One

Once her hair hung down

her back

rich, shiny, black

Like a crows’ or Grackles’ feathers

Or piled up tight

in a bun

stuck with pins

you could barely see

Now age has cropped it

to a utilitarian length

silver white it shines

from between the flowers

she has painstakingly nurtured

in her gardens

like the full spring moon

high

in the daytime sky.

© Erik Hansen 2016