I remember holding her
so small
so fragile
her cries were so soft
I determined to never let her go
Today is her eighteenth birthday
I made her crepes
her favorite
and we talk
of what she might want to do
after college
God
I love her so much.
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
Habitually herding hens;
chicken chasing champion.
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
your breath plumes out
into the chill morning air
cold slowly cut
by the rising sun
the woods are slow
waking up
your footfalls; cymbals crashing
so you stop and watch
and listen
as it all unfolds.
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
The April sun
stretches fingers
through leafless tree tops
its warmth welcome
within the tiny patch
you chose to stand in
free from shadow.
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
Green grass shines
bright in the spring sun
it ripples with the breezes
while the crimson fleck
of a cardinal
flits through the corner
of your eye.
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
rain soaked morning
warm clothes calling
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
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
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
Egomaniacs eagerly eating
Pillowy Parisian pastries.
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
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
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
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
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
Edges 