Edges

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.

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.

Winter lifts its pallid hands

steam rises

from the muddy fields

that lay in anticipation

of farmer’s furrows.

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

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…”

A lattice work

Of pale green

New leaves

Just beginning

Their annual opening

It hangs before

A tapestry of deepest

Blue sky

Dappled

With small

White clouds

Slowly sifting

Across its vast

Expanse

Above the rangelands

Ripe and rich

And you feel

That the sun

And all of this

Can lessen

The pains

The losses

The clutter and mess

Lying close to the

Core

An attic

Strewn with yesterdays

Leavings

And tomorrows

Remembrances

All the lessons

We should have learned

Long ago

Like the impermanence of it all

Everything temporarily

In its place

Destined to disappear

These fragile things

Linger

Like what comes after

A blow to the shin

Its memory

Crawls along

The nape of

Your neck

Prickling the fine

Hairs

Until you shiver

Alone in the dark

Calling out

In your mind

To no one

In particular

Hating them all enough

Until they love you

And when they turn you out

To trod upon

The dusty bones of the world

Found only

In those high places

Where the air is thin

And horned sheep

With full curls

Batter each other

In crushing echoes;

None will admit defeat

Because to do so

Would be to confirm

The reality of it all.

When we bury friends

In the sunlit spring

It takes away

A piece of us;

We feel less than

What we were

Yesterday,

Laughing at the ways

Of the world

And our brief place in it.

    Erik Hansen    April, 2012