Brick Road Poetry Press

poetry made to entertain, amuse, and edify

The mission of Brick Road Poetry Press is to publish and promote poetry that entertains, amuses, edifies, and surprises a wide audience of appreciative readers.  We are not qualified to judge who deserves to be published, so we concentrate on publishing what we enjoy. Our preference is for poetry geared toward dramatizing the human experience in language rich with sensory image and metaphor, recognizing that poetry can be, at one and the same time, both familiar as the perspiration of daily labor and as outrageous as a carnival sideshow.

Poetry by Danielle Hanson from Ambushing Water

Order it here!

About Danielle Hanson



The rain wouldn’t stop;

it came inside

the mind, like the sound

of canned laughter over music,

like hundreds of chickens

gone crazy

after so many generations.




The bird is almost touched

by shadow and begins

to close up

like a tulip.

It starts with the wings

pointing straight up at sky,

then tucking under and into her body.

The beak is next,

curling until disappeared.

The head follows,

a slow vortex slowing.

Finally the entire bird

has folded in on herself,

simply dissolved,

leaving nothing but a vague black perfume.

A leaf falls.  The whole of night clings to that leaf.


After the Tree


After the tree was felled

it took a week

for its shadow

to leave the root.

Longer still for the shadows of birds—

and so it was,

they hovered mid-ground,

preening, chirping, hopping absurdly

into nothingness.

Cats pounced until bored.

The birds woke with the sun

until fall came.  It was months

before the shadows of their songs fell silent.


He Beat Her


And her back fell open

like a moth finding its wings.

He beat her and her back flew

open like a bird rising.

He beat her and her back

flew to a tree—

a tree was sketched

by the markings on her back.

He beat her and her back left

running so hard

it left its feet behind.


Red Nail Polish


You asked me to paint my nails red

and so, of course, I did

even though I hated the way

they stalked the eye.

My hand was suddenly not my own.

It was five cherry bombs

waiting to go off.

My arm was the shadow

of a red light district.


I should have gone but it was too late.

Fire ants were marching,

the sun was red and multiple,

the blue was red, the green, everything.


I wanted to cut my fingers off, escape,

but that would only let the color run

to the counter, the floor,

multiply like cockroaches and hide in the dark.

I couldn’t get them all anyway.

What would I do when one hand was only a stub?

I needed them.  How could I sever them from you?




Tonight the goddess of love and war

is spitting the wind in our direction.

Regardless, you light candles

as if to lose some sun before tomorrow,

as if to hold the past as a smoldering match.

I am watching you hunt for the right words

and not to take you out of context

but someone has to take you

down this river.  It’s been more times

than I’ve stood on the shore feeling the earth move,

feeling the mountains being exhumed.

I looked to continental drift theory,

discovered the heat, the radioactive decay,

feeding those peaks of lava,

tearing the ground apart beneath us like a hawk.

I know that I’ve looked into those chasms and seen you,

that losing you is forgetting love,

that it’s the sharpest blade you cannot feel.


Bad Boys


Ever since

the slingshot boys

shattered the streetlight,

darkness has been collecting

bits of itself

into a lonely corner

like a homesick



After a Nap and Groggy


I have done so little.

Today is aggressive, short. 


I’ve lost something,

forgotten something. 


The flies have carried away our dreams

to build nests on cliffs too windy for memory. 


They circle overhead like the fan

echoing:  Come over.  It’s late.  I am alone.


Order it here!

About Danielle Hanson