woodsmoke smells of home
when the clean-up leads
to brush burning
renewal and a fresh outlook
but it clings to your clothes
your hands and hair
you watch it trickle away
down the shower drain.
late at night dreams reveal
tall flames, fire licking
the ink black sky
while smoke stings the eyes
and obscures the countless stars.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
Pink and white
apple blossoms
smile through the green
while the scent of lilacs
dressed in purple royalty
is carried on the breeze.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
walking the dirt track in
plowed fields all around
revealed in the dim light
I stop
to double check for everything
calls, shells and gloves
anticipation building
for a colorful, strutting tom.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
the deer feed slowly
moving across the hillside
unnoticed by most.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
off and on
drizzle becomes rain
becomes drizzle again
the wind pushes the clouds
across our moisture laden
horizons
the skies as dark
as your hair.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
Rain pocks the slow flowing
surface of the river
its low murmur
speaks to the many
whirlpools that spin themselves out on their way downstream.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
a hand reaches out
with food across a fire
witness this act
long after the hunt
and the final meal is offered
to the animal itself
in this time honored
denouement.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
breathe it in
wood smoke, turned earth
manure spread upon the fields
listen
the birdsongs from the brambles
a tractor grumbles in the distance
see it all played out
different
yet the same.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Writing
soft spoken whispers
promises made to be broken
ash is the color
love leaves
in the aftermath.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
1988
Watching the thick smoke
billow out from the entrance
to Victoria Station
I had just exited
I remembered the news story
of weapons and explosives
found buried on the grounds
of Buckingham Palace.
Later that night listening
to the low hum
of quiet conversation
over illegal pints
and hand-rolled fags
blinds closed
lights off in a smokey pub
short sentences in Irish accents
discussing the days’ events
punctuated
by the sharp clicks
of colliding snooker balls.
© Erik Hansen 2017
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
Edges 