Biography of Hunter Hansen
I am Hunter Hansen.
I invite you to read (and re-read) my work.
Forgive the idiosyncrasies within, but understanding is granted to those who look deeper.
It all becomes clear, eventually. Continue. Find it rewarding. I post very little of my entire body of work. What I do post is released for a reason. Trust me, I throw no intentionally lame poetry out there; give it all a few reads until it clicks. You will find it rewarding.
As for my biography: Like I mentioned before, I am Hunter Hansen.
Hunter Hansen Poems
Having lost myself in wandering Watching one estranged conductor leading Some symposium of roses
Call It Black (But Let It Be True)
Fabrications On a theme And its variants
Vignettes and oubliettes With curios stacked upon a buttered shelf And myself Strolling amid the raindrops on mournful descent
October ushers forth its own fangéd dreams Sinking its sharpened teeth into the lushness of the future, As with cadences of moonlight falling, as do the deceased Raindrops continue to rain over those who in their silent
Edge Of Decaying
As dreamt on the fringe of light decaying Mourning the snow falling in rain Melting in hearts split apart by distance Joined by voice
Of A Beginning
A stunning denouement, a riposte Like flaming posts in the Garden of Eden Left me bleeding And still needing, in need of still
The batteries of powder as they drive Through a clearing; have and have not survive A tale of tempest and tempest’s tale Telling of the trees that stood when the winds prevail
A mellow dramatic shift precluding Anticipation of return To lonely long distances between Horizons spanning wind and wilderness
Arise, My Sun
The dawn anew rose, riding in on a glazed Trumpeting blast: ballast of fury, immolation, Sunlight in gentle slumber hidden within the stars Only slightly, as the earth continues turning
As my body, pierced, stripped and bleeding Dragged on a circuit around my walled city Of indefatigable resolve I lay wounded, dying, hurried
The apple peeler Is a handy contraption and a Knife fighting trick That pains far worse than
In Winter Still
The axe through the wooden piles plows through Cleaving, a wintry fog and dry rain leaving, And chips of timber and clovers left in silence pondering
The First Day
In this you show me I have won With ever so subtle subtleties Unknown to common man The riddle begins
Consider my surroundings; the snow-capped lava stones Freckling the landscape pristine, a whited glassy sheen Glistening with reflections on a sharpened sky of blue And shimmering with frigid stillness, sunshine no warmth bears
If by light divine, radiance doth continue shining
Moment by fragmentary moment
A paradise of slivered shivers chilling from splendor
In diaphanous diadems aplenty
Bowed harmonics ripple paradoxically blue
Nonetheless, the joy of sorrow
Cut to the quick by a lightning dagger sharpened in
Tune to the slicing air