When's was the last time you felt a chill?

When's was the last time you felt a chill go down your spine and the hairs of your neck stand up? Not fear, not really, maybe dread of something, anything . . . I’m rambling, because it was so terrible, so inconceivable that anyone could be so cruel and yet it has happened again and again. Why?

I’m not looking to you to answer. I don’t want to hear any reasons of justification for that may give credence to the hideous crime and allow it to happen again and again. That’s excuses for you, reasons to fail, reasons to do the same thing over and over without change. And then comes the forever justifying phrase, but what are you going to do, you’re only one man?

Apathy is an ugly thing. Looking away, telling oneself it isn’t so and still it goes on.


the righteous

Yesterday I was
reading a poem the hairs
on the back of my neck
stood tall mere soldiers
at attention and my iceberg
messenger slid down my spine
. . . my eyes began to fill
I knew his pain I heard of
those with the numbers
carved deep into their
forearms it could
happen again . . .
I cried.

By Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Yours To Share



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My Room to Write . . .

The Good Old Days. . .

Remember when everyone talked to each other. Every house seemed to include front porches with families sitting together talking and laughing. And the neighbors came over to chew the fat and they were always there in those trying, crying times . . . And there was always a rocking chair making a warm loving melody with each word.

There was a time when we weren’t so busy. We keep it locked tightly inside our thoughts. We don’t want to let it out. We don’t want to admit that we were once happy. And we just wonder what happened to the good old days.

The good old days, there was no such a place. It only ever existed in our minds . . . But let me tell you it’s not all bad, because we were all happy once . . . It was a time when you thought everyone else was just as happy, but how could they have been. Life creeps in and well it gets ugly. You were happy . . . Say it out loud. Scream it, shout it. Say it again and again.

Now what do you have to do to be happy again?

Dare to follow your Dreams . . . Don’t settle for something else. Make it happen. Change starts with each of us. If your world has become unfriendly, you become friendlier. If your day has become too full, organize it and go through what doesn’t belong, throw it out.

Unbeknownst to me, I wasn’t happy until I started to write, to follow my dream . . . And now I sing a song to my self everyday. I never know when for at any moment I just smile and sing whatever tune is floating around in my thoughts. That is true happiness. Go find yours . . .

Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Yours To Share



http://www.poemhunter.com/dan-hanosh/

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Caught in a Breeze

Grains of sand,
sift, through
my fingers,

Falling, for a moment,
tiny particles, adrift,
toward the ground,

Instantly, their
destiny, becomes a thing
of chance,

Caught in a breeze,
some spread their wings,
achieving, new heights,

The rest, slowly,
falling, to be with
the others.

By Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Yours To Share


Tags: Poetry writing




My Poetry . . .

A Chill

fills my senses
browns, oranges, yellows
meld into the sky, a
back drop for this
autumn day.

Released,
a leaf tumbles,
slowly
falling, slowly
rotating.

Caught by a breeze,
the rusty fingers
slithering from
tree to tree, branch
to branch.

Floating, plummeting
toward the ground,
its blanket of
velvet leaves, maples,
walnuts, and birches.

Winds catch the oaken
fingers sending them skyward,
rolling them slightly,
across the street,
over the creek.

Swirling them,
toward the surface of the water,
touching, capturing, sending
them far away,
forever.

Dan Hanosh


http://www.poemhunter.com/dan-hanosh/





Tags: Poetry Dreams Are Yours To Share


My Poetry . . .

The World Outside My Window . . . April 25, 2006

Sometimes the poetry
we call Life has to be simplified
. . . and then maybe we can
see its beauty.


The World Outside My Window

Through the trees, opaque
billowy pillows, splash on
an azure canvas, sailing furiously,
beyond my view.

Trees bending, each limb,
each branch, separately
shifting, everything dusted,
by a cold white blanket.

The hard rust road,
emitting bits, pieces,
translucent, behind the gray
dismal trees, now empty.

A picture, it’s beauty, a mere
landscape, unknown to all,
framed by my window where I work,
each day, composing, my words.

The sun breaks, the silence,
momentarily, revealing itself,
another frothy foam drowning
the expressions of light.

The green needles of a lone pine,
dangle, high above, scooping up
the rays of the sun,
today, there are few.

Sounds of motion, rush by,
swoosh, invading
my senses, suggesting
movement, contour.

Another cloud seizes the
sun, insinuating what
will surely come,
maybe not today, but soon.

Cold, moisture falling,
again, from the sky,
clouds, delivering white starlets,
multifaceted inhabitants.
Cumulus, like trees, dropping
their unneeded luggage,
as though aging, as a man
losing his youth.

Today, I understand,
the world outside
my window, a fragile old world,
that’s getting older.
By Dan Hanosh

Tags: poetry
Dan Hanosh
The World Outside My Window
Ramblings on the wires
Dreams Are Yours To Share

For Katie and Nick

My Wish For You
The world
is your playground
. . . to live, to love
to prosper together

your love will grow
as a sensuous rose petal
the most wondrous of orchids
a family to love, to share,

community, charity, compassion
and sorrow . . . but remember
. . . never let anything
in between

LOVE AND HAPPINESS is my
wish for you . . . FOREVER
. . . may nothing ever
take it away.

Link to Katie and Nick's Site

Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Your To Share

The Price Was High

As if platinum
they look down their
long sloped noses judging
with a blink of an eye never
really knowing those they criticize
merely prey we dance the beat
a drum roll of our own making
long hair flowing blowing

I’ve heard their words
felt their stares sting in an
uneasy moment silent forlorn
nobody speaking loquacious
jesters slicing deeply
wounds festering among
insinuations left
unsaid

lazy good for nothing lousy
father dreadful husband their eyes
. . . they turn away angry I’ve
imagined them all old friends
forgotten gone never to embrace what
I’ve become and family . . . just
silence yet those closest
know my love my heart

they see me not as a cartoon
image nor just my faults
they accept me as I am
as I do them . . . I’m not
their judge I follow my dreams
mumbling no regrets I’m
a writer of words . . . the
price was high.

Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Yours To Share

Puppy Dog Dreams

We are the protectors
of puppy dog dreams
. . . with a wee cuteness
he bounces into our lives
his baby like likeness

captures our hearts
our socks become his toys
a rag doll becomes his best friend
while we are away . . . and our shoes
become merely collateral damage

still our love grows
toward the innocent
unprotected child
. . . we make excuses
for his mischievous ways

we say . . . he didn’t know
in truth he’s mended
the ach in our lonely hearts
with his squeak of an
itty bitty bark

he gently nibbles our hand
until . . . we pick him up and
quickly he falls silently asleep
in the bosom of our laps and he
dreams . . . puppy dog dreams.

Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Yours To Share

What War Means to Me

So many years ago, I was a gung-ho youth. To me, war was a child-like adventure and Vietnam held my fascination. I talked to every veteran I knew. Along with the stories, the nightly news and oh yes, the body counts of those fallen soldiers each day. Never did I ever expect to be convinced that war was hell.

I can not forget the smoke of a firefight and the dark rubber bags being shuffled off to a waiting Huey. I still hear the rhythm of its blade slicing in the background as a reporter tells the story . . . We forget the hurts of war, the soldier’s and their loved ones. Pain knows no cause. There are no favorites, only survivors.

I remember a time, a friend and I were having a drink in a bar. Monty got up to get another round. He was gone only a moment. I hadn’t noticed. Two men walked in, causing a raucous. I heard the sound of fists connecting. Turning in my seat, Monty had one by the throat. The other was lying unconscious on the ground. Jumping to my feet, I pulled my friend off the man. It was then I knew, gazing at the Asian youth, war had raised its ghostly head once more.

I am not afraid to die . . . Not for myself. I’m afraid of feeling others pain, which I can not control. I don’t know how to console a child after losing a father, having to grow up alone or a mother burying a child before their own time. I’ve felt the pity for those crippled from a mine and of those living with regret from the loss of a buddy who died when it should have been them.

There was a time when we never would have allowed a woman into combat. I wish we still thought like men. War is hell and our children do not need to learn what we have learned so many, many times before.

I never forgot the promise of my youth . . . Never would I allow another Vietnam, never another needless war, but really what could I do?

Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Yours To Share

Tag: What War Means To Me

Forgotten Land

Burburp brrburr burbrr . . .

gray-brown gray-black
darkness falls free flowing
yellow salt-taffy pulling

stretching eternal lines flashing
slicing straight toffee tarmacs
reddish blues greenish yellows

lazily hazily blinking
no one seeing the black snake
streaking eternally another day

slithering toward somewhere going
no where . . . a man lies on the side of
the road head propped against a pack

long greasy hair blowing beard tangled
blending eyes closed to the brightness
sleep has interfered and . . .

hardly moving few notice
the figure lying on the hardness
under the blue December sky . . .

a wasteland lies ahead . . .
we can’t any more and so
we just continue to roll along

. . . burbrr brrburr burburp.

Dan Hanosh
Dreams Are Yours To Share

Tags: Poetry Author