Erik Hansen's Blog, page 15

Untitled- work in progress

 

Tattered sails
Twist in the winds
Above a battered vessel
The tides lift and push it
Upon its way
The moon provides 
The throbbing heart beat
To usher it across the swells
That glimmer greenly
In the afterglow.
 
 

Vagabonds

Vagabonds slip past sign post sentinels

during the humid night

red dust sticks

to canvas sneakers

cottonwood chaff clings to sweaty skin

while tomorrows’ victims await

again.

 

Roaring Brook

Today I revisited a trout stream I haven’t fished in quite some time.

I was so glad that I did.

Roaring Brook meanders its way through Suburbia; however, much of it remains hidden from homes and the town roads by thick woods and lush undergrowth.

This was a fact I enjoyed taking advantage of when I was young.

I was always a jealous hoarder of secret trout waters you see.

Whenever speaking of such, I always made sure to use lots of casual hand gestures (suggesting a wrong direction) and vague generalizations in regards to the actual body of water fished.

This is actually a well-honed skill I have developed over the years and it has served me well to this day.

Funny how today everything seemed smaller and less than it used to be as I made my way towards the sound of the running water.

The brambles and briars weren’t less than they used to be however.

They, in fact, were much more than I had remembered them ever being.

After suffering their lashings for what seemed like hours I finally arrived at one of the favorite spots of my youth.

The light here is almost always diffused by the canopy of trees above, causing the colors of the mossy banks, the leaves and wild flowers to really jump out at you.

Yet it is the sound of the water over the stones at the tail end of the pool which I remember the best.

That had not changed.

After being there for a while I realized I had needed this meditative break in my life badly.

Between the everyday stress of running three businesses and trying to give the attention to (while finding the right care for) my troubled teenage daughter, I found myself beginning to stagnate spiritually.

This is never a good thing in life, especially when you are in recovery and doing your best to remain in recovery. I require balance in my life and my spirituality is the key to much of my success in this life; without it and gratitude, I would have no sobriety, no family, no business, nothing.

The great outdoors is my gateway to my personal spirituallity. It is my connection to my god, it is the church that I visit, it opens up for me like a holy book.

Even if the great outdoors is just a tiny pool of water hidden like a gemstone in the woods behind some suburbanites’ McMansion.

Watching my line arc in the current as I plied the depths of my long hidden trout pool, these thoughts crystalized in my mind.

And I smiled.

Erik

May 6th, 2013

A brush fire burnsacross the canyon floorsmoke obscures...

A brush fire burns

across the canyon floor

smoke obscures the sun

sifting ashes cling to your lashes

as your fingers

linger

upon the surface of my thigh

gooseflesh

like sparks

carried upon the wind.

National Poetry Month 4/16/13

Waking from a dream

emotions stick inside

scratching out their escape

Flowers

and blood

a blackened sun

time slipping through my fingers

like the waters

that you carried

across the arid wastes

that sickly smile you turned towards me

the skull behind your face.

National Poetry Month 2013

Winter lifts its pallid hands

steam rises

from the muddy fields

that lay in anticipation

of farmer’s furrows.

Remember

Remember

 

The shadow of the towers

Still casts itself

Down the streets

It is a revenant

That walks in dreams

It is dust

In the eyes

It is dust

In the nose

It is dust

In the mouth

It is choking ash

It is bits of bone

Wrapped in thousands

Of tiny boxes

Ferried

Over the river

To the homes

Of the living.

It is something

To be remembered

And not forgotten.

 

From, “Compass, New and Selected Poems”

Copyrite 2012 Erik Hansen

Photo

"Hush"

Hush
 
A young hunter bends his bow
To string it
In the shadows
Cast by the setting moon
The autumn...

“Hush”

Hush

 

A young hunter bends his bow

To string it

In the shadows

Cast by the setting moon

The autumn frost has finely dusted

The fletching of his arrows

And he hears a gentle whisper

Through the hills and glades

His father has shown him

And it calls to him,

“Hush…”

 

For many moons it has been,

That upon these rocky ridges

And familiar hardened ground

I have bent

Or knelt to look

Yet never found

A single track or trace

Sign of her silent passage

She has slipped through

The gauze of night

And wriggled her way

Into my hazy drug dreams

Wrapped tight

In concertina wire

Bleeding through

That gap in time

Where I lay awake

Cold and sweating

Begging to sleep

Praying to die

Trudging across the fields

Of fresh cut stubble

Cutting my feet

With all my occupation;

Countless muddy trenches

I had dug around the miles

Of my Hell

Of hurts, loss and numb-swept joy

Stalking their dank loveliness

Knife in hand

Grinning

Behind the plastic eyes

Of my gasmask

Content to breathe

The poisons of my existence.

Stirring the dusty cobwebs

That hang

From the worm riddled beams

And rotting rafters

Of a long abandoned

Tobacco barn

Is her whisper,

“Hush…”

I hear her whisper,

With soft, warm lips that brush

My ear…

Of the gentle spring rains

That pop and roll

Off green oak leaves

That spread like hands

Making shadow puppets

Above the cool depths

Of my hemlock Sacristy

And I kneel

And pray

That if I could

Cut out

And bury

My own cold, dark heart

Under the ages

Of decaying leaf litter

That slumps its’ shoulders

Beneath these glacial scars

Maybe

I wouldn’t have to hear

Its’ muted thumps

Its’ crooked, rusty

Hinges and valves

That croak

And whisper,

“Hush…”

 

A raven ruffles its inky feathers

And croaks,

As a young student bends

Down to study

The artifact

He has uncovered

More closely

The ancient, glacial

Scarred hills and glades

Have yielded up

Yet another secret,

An age-blackened jewel

The bright autumn sun

Begins to reveal

Its’ dark artistry

Its’ curves and lines

Its’ somehow sinister design

The way it quivers

While in shadow

Oddly rolling upon his palm

Seeking those darker places

The way it seems to call to him

Softly

Warmly

He can almost

Hear it whisper,

“Hush…”