AndrewHanson - Hello Poetry

At Ellis Lake, an overcast Sunday afternoon. A lake divided into two, oddly shaped bowls in the middle of the city, surrounded by a constant stream of birds, wind, and traffic. A spotless white swan cleaning herself on a grassy knoll, ferretting out whatever filth lurked deep within her feathers, then smoothly sweeping her sideways bent head across her back, as if to remember the long forgotten affectionate touch of an absent lover. A gaggle of four grey geese combing the lawn for food, waddling in unison side-by-side. A line of five mallards barreling down the hill into the water. A multilateral crescent of black and white pigeons receiving harsh dictation from a trio of angry snow geese strutting before them. A red-faced duck slowly approaching in the quiet expectation of food, then the arrogant acceptance of the lack thereof.

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Jan 28, 2015

Jan 28, 2015 at 11:13 AM UTC

At Ellis Lake

At Ellis Lake, an overcast Sunday afternoon. A lake divided into two, oddly shaped bowls in the middle of the city, surrounded by a constant stream of birds, wind, and traffic. A spotless white swan cleaning herself on a grassy knoll, ferretting out whatever filth lurked deep within her feathers, then smoothly sweeping her sideways bent head across her back, as if to remember the long forgotten affectionate touch of an absent lover. A gaggle of four grey geese combing the lawn for food, waddling in unison side-by-side. A line of five mallards barreling down the hill into the water. A multilateral crescent of black and white pigeons receiving harsh dictation from a trio of angry snow geese strutting before them. A red-faced duck slowly approaching in the quiet expectation of food, then the arrogant acceptance of the lack thereof.

7

Eleven years ago A Saturday afternoon Warm Movie on the couch The phone rings Mom is crying We drive quickly The hospital seems small Aunt and Grandma are there already Grandpa is hurt He's not in the room We're alone Waiting A doctor comes He's emotionless, stoic He talks with us Grandpa is gone Dead Hope crumbles, ceases We weep, wail, embrace I'm angry, enraged, betrayed I leave But Solitude yields no better solace I return Still angry Dad comes in He's crying Dad never cries I cry, too The sheriff comes He talks about paperwork He talks too much We go see Grandpa He's just lying there A pillow beneath his head A blanket pulled to his chest Still Silent Sleeping? He's gone But still here The next day Sunday morning In church We sing We sing about standing Standing in heaven In heaven praising God Grandpa had trouble standing His legs were weak But that morning He had no problem standing No problem At all.

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Jan 28, 2015

Jan 28, 2015 at 11:06 AM UTC

My Grandfather's Death

Eleven years ago A Saturday afternoon Warm Movie on the couch The phone rings Mom is crying We drive quickly The hospital seems small Aunt and Grandma are there already Grandpa is hurt He's not in the room We're alone Waiting A doctor comes He's emotionless, stoic He talks with us Grandpa is gone Dead Hope crumbles, ceases We weep, wail, embrace I'm angry, enraged, betrayed I leave But Solitude yields no better solace I return Still angry Dad comes in He's crying Dad never cries I cry, too The sheriff comes He talks about paperwork He talks too much We go see Grandpa He's just lying there A pillow beneath his head A blanket pulled to his chest Still Silent Sleeping? He's gone But still here The next day Sunday morning In church We sing We sing about standing Standing in heaven In heaven praising God Grandpa had trouble standing His legs were weak But that morning He had no problem standing No problem At all.

55

It tends to be dark at night When the shadows move quickly About your door, Following you with eyes That you feel But can't see. Alternating between worry And calm, your heart Speeds and slows Until you walk inside And realize you're alone In more ways than one. When you thought You found love, But it was acquaintance Instead. Then you Turn on the light And sit in the darkness.

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Jan 28, 2015

Jan 28, 2015 at 11:03 AM UTC

A Darkened House

It tends to be dark at night When the shadows move quickly About your door, Following you with eyes That you feel But can't see. Alternating between worry And calm, your heart Speeds and slows Until you walk inside And realize you're alone In more ways than one. When you thought You found love, But it was acquaintance Instead. Then you Turn on the light And sit in the darkness.

18

There is an opera singer Of Friday morning parking lots, Whose soft solo soars Over empty spaces, Through sleeping trees, Past dimming lamps— And then flutters Between your ears. All is still for now: The wind holds its breath, The birds stop their wings, The trash drops its odor— All is still Till she stops singing Her sweet, slow melody. Now the sun can rise.

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Jan 28, 2015

Jan 28, 2015 at 10:56 AM UTC

The Opera Singer of Friday Morning Parking Lots

There is an opera singer Of Friday morning parking lots, Whose soft solo soars Over empty spaces, Through sleeping trees, Past dimming lamps— And then flutters Between your ears. All is still for now: The wind holds its breath, The birds stop their wings, The trash drops its odor— All is still Till she stops singing Her sweet, slow melody. Now the sun can rise.

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