FUZZY BORDERS

The war lingers deep
behind my eyelids, mingles
with the charnel stench
of burning flesh and the high-
pitched snap of exploding
bone that battles the mundanity
of sweeping floors.

Death’s impartial gaze lies
buried in mounds of upturned soil.
Potholes full of freezing blood
ooze noisily with each faltered
step I take.  The ash settles
like a downy blanket thrown
over the bleeding land
as if to erase the evidence
of guilt and responsibility.
My rifle barrel drags
lower and lower behind me,
leaving a jagged trail for my innocence
to follow, a trail disappearing
in the slushy residue.

The wax dries
while I stand shivering
in the early winter snow,
smoking a cigarette.

The serenity of the moment
is shattered by the choking
memory of stick people
too starved to eat, too weak
to cheer, too lost to understand
their freedom.

The buzzer sounds, drawing
me back to the parking lot
entrance, the snow, the second
floor hallways demanding my
full attention.

About Robert P. Hansen:

Mr. Hansen currently teaches philosophy and ethics at a community college. He has had several poems and short stories published.

WARTS

Inspiration is like a toad:  It sits
like the proverbial lump on a log for hours
or days, with nary a peep until it croaks
a deep, bellowing, resounding note.

It draws me to it like a long-forgotten
lover, but when I come within reach
and stretch my fingers out, it jumps
away in one gigantic bound.

I pursue it, running, jumping, skipping,
rushing, grabbing, trying to catch
the elusive little toad that sings
a croaking song of striking beauty.

Someday I will catch it,
cradle it in my palm,
caress it's rough skin,
and it will pee on me.

About Robert P. Hansen:

Mr. Hansen currently teaches philosophy and ethics at a community college.  He has had several poems and short stories published.

SKY LARK

The sky was cracked by two white lines
pursuing a jet.  On either side
of the parallel streaks, a deep
blue horizon met with eternity
and held a brisk conversation.

The sky was cracked by the soundless
sound of peace and tranquility.
The jet plodded forward, slowly,
ever so slowly, evading its pursuers
with the diligence of immortality.

The sky was cracked by the distant
rumble of a sonic boom pursuing
itself like a snake eating its own tail.
Its pursuit is pointless: the jet
creeping through the sky is faster.

The sky was cracked, but it would heal.
The jet escapes the great expanse
of the sky’s cradle and lands, softly
on the unforgiving concrete runway, and
the pursuit ends.  The sky remains behind.

About Robert P. Hansen:

Robert P. Hansen currently teaches philosophy and ethics at a community college.  He has had several poems and short stories published.