4-30-19
Endings are endings
final
finite
but only in this world
this realm
there are others we can visit
as we leave this one
of this I am sure
because I believe
in the unbelievable
and cast aside all fear
to pursue
the incomparable
adventure.
© Erik Hansen 2019
Filed under American, Contemporary, Creative Writing, Diversity, Edges, Literature, Poetry, Publishing, Self Publishing, Writing
4/15/19
Rain taps the flashing
upon the back porch window
subtle spring music.
© Erik Hansen 2019
Filed under American, Contemporary, Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Publishing, Self Publishing, Writing
I’m writing this kind of stream of thought.
I feel I need to honor Ann now as I probably won’t be making much sense as I grieve in the near future.
Right now she is still with me and I can write this in honor of the fantastic, loving, fierce woman she still is.
Daughter, wife, nurse, mom.
We love you so much!
I’m sitting here next to mom now as I write this. Just watched a hawk startle some pigeons out over the Hartford rooftops I can see from her window.
Its a fine first day of spring, the sky is blue above the smoggy skyline of the city and the buds are beginning to pop on the trees.
Mom is resting peacefully now, I can hear her soft yet strong breathing over the usual hospital sounds just outside the door of her private room; nurses voices, beeping alarms, rolling carts and the sticky tread of sneakered feet.
Mom won a hard fought battle against breast cancer back in ‘82 when I thought the world would end any day when I wasn’t rolling a d20 to help keep Bingham the Brave alive to keep Rangering away, back when imagination and books were the shelter I sought from a fatherless reality.
My mother lost a breast to the beast that is cancer and I will never forget how she asked me to draw her a platinum dragon, an image she would use to destroy the savage cancer while the chemo drugs stripped away her hair, but never her courage or dignity.
Thirty seven years.
That was the gift that my mother was given, the reward she acquired for fighting the fight of her life back in 1982.
Let it be known that our family has been blessed with her presence, wisdom and knowledge for every second of all those years.
Her gardens are full of daffodils, lilies, hibiscus and a multitude of flowers I still haven’t managed to memorize, constantly asking questions and pointing, feeling like a child.
She is my Lily Warrior.
Stalwart and courageous yet sensitive and gentle.
The RN that she was in reality giving way to her katana wielding spirit in my minds’ eye.
Her adventurous, inquisitive nature brought her to many lands and wonders; from the Galapagos Islands to the cities of France, from Buckingham Palace and Stonehenge to the natural beauty of the Pacific northwest, Yellowstone Park and the Everglades.
She was always willing to share these adventures through pictures, her journal entries or just simply by word of mouth, either out on her porch on a warm summer night or holding court at the holiday dinner table.
Right now she is resting, having fought another fight of her life.
Resting up for another journey, another adventure and I wish I could know where it is that she’s going.
I wish she could tell us all about it.
Maybe she’ll see my dad where she’s going.
Her Bingham the Brave.
And a platinum dragon to ride over the seas.
Maybe some day I can go there too.
And she can tell me herself.
I love you mom.
Erik Hansen
3/20/2019
5:58 PM EST
Filed under American, Cancer, Contemporary, Creative Writing, Edges, Non-fiction, outdoors, Philosophy, Poetry, Reality, Writing
I went into the woods
to count the countless trees,
where three hundred years
is young,
found they indeed have a number
the ancient mossy stumps of giants
felled long ago
host seedlings that may never
grow
to the heights of their ancestors
while the wind through the pine boughs
are whispered legends, myths in Mi’kmaq
quietly told to others who will never understand.
© Erik Hansen 2018
Filed under American, Contemporary, Creative Writing, Diversity, Edges, Literature, outdoors, Poetry, Publishing, Self Publishing, Writing
Here is the second tentative cover. I am leaning towards this one as it is a cleaner, more simplistic look.
Thoughts?
Feel free to visit my website via the link below where you can shop, read about upcoming projects & subscribe to my email list.
Thanks for visiting!
Filed under Creative Writing, Diversity, Edges, fantasy, Fiction, outdoors, Philosophy, Poetry, Publishing, Reality, science fiction, Self Publishing, Short Fiction, Short Story, Writing
Tentative cover for the soon to be released “Cicadas” (4/1/2018)
Thoughts?
Comments are appreciated!
Also, stop by my new website and feel free to subscribe to my email list. No junk just good stuff!
Here’s the link to my site:
Thanks for stopping by!
E
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, outdoors, Poetry, Publishing, Self Publishing, Writing
Hey all! It’s been a while I know; I’ve been super busy getting Cicadas ready and writing several short stories at the same time.
I did manage to get the new website up and running and you can find signed paperback copies of Compass there at a discount!
Also feel free to sign-up for an email subscription and I promise not to bombard you with junk but only good stuff!
Filed under Creative Writing, Diversity, Edges, fantasy, Fiction, outdoors, Philosophy, Poetry, Publishing, Reality, science fiction, Self Publishing, Short Fiction, Short Story, Writing
Grass grows up
between sun bleached
ribs and pelvis
Leaf litter lays
obscured by its insistence
New days rise up
upon the bones of the past
rejoice
in your moment
before the moment has passed.
© Erik Hansen 2016
Filed under Creative Writing, Edges, Poetry, Writing
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
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
Edges 