My Guest Author This Month

John Hansen

Poet, storyteller, and craftsman of wit and shadow.

John, writing under his own name and the pseudonym Jodah, is an award-winning freelance writer, poet, and short fiction writer based in Australia. He is best known for his extensive work on digital platforms such as HubPages and Medium where he explores a wide range of genres from rhyme-driven poetry to "drabbles" (100-word short stories).

Key Literary Works and Projects:

I Laughed a Smile: A published eBook of poetry available through Lulu.com that features inspirational and emotional poems.
The Creative Exiles: Hansen is the founder and CEO of The Creative Exiles, a website dedicated to showcasing the work of poets and creative writers.
Diverse Writing Styles: His portfolio includes semi-satirical poems, instructional articles on the art of writing, and short fiction often incorporating mystery or fantasy elements.

John’s work is deeply influenced by Australian Bush Poets such as A.B. "Banjo" Paterson and Henry Lawson. He also cites classic authors like Rudyard Kipling and Robert Frost, alongside "nonsense" poets like Dr. Seuss and Shel Silverstein, as significant inspirations for his varied style.

Below is a taste of John's work

The Ink-Stained Shore

A Bleak Testament

Upon a bleak and rugged shore, where shadows stretch forevermore,
The horizon bleeds a crimson stain beneath the winter sky.
I clutch a silver lantern tight, my only aid against the night,
To ward away the ghostly fright that gathers in the eye –
A lonely, swinging beacon for the gulls that drift and cry.

With the lantern’s golden glow, against the darkness down below,
The gravestones stand in testament to all who lie beneath.
I wield the spade, shifting the earth, to give the rotting dead new birth.
This gives my soul no sense of mirth and makes me grind my teeth.
The guilt, regret, and sense of dread, the curse to me bequeathed.

Deep within the hollow breast, a heavy pulse will never rest,
It beats a rhythmic, dull refrain against the coffin lid.
And is it madness, dark and deep, that stirs the ghouls who never sleep?
Or secrets that the soul must keep, in velvet darkness hid?
The wretched, ink-stained poetry of all the things I did.

I thrust the blade through frozen clay, where spirits dance in foul array,
And unearth what the rolling tide has quietly sought to hide.
Between the rocks and sea-smoothed stones, I find the ink upon the bones,
The truth that every grave disowns, and none can cast aside.
A tally of my blackest sins, and repentant tears I cried.

The ink begins to seep and spread, from parchment skin of those long dead,
To stain the guilty hands, lit by the silver lantern’s light.
It crawls like vines up arm from wrist, a cold and oily, charcoal mist,
Into a knot the soul has twist, deep within the night –
A script that writes itself in blood and blinds the inner sight.

I drop the spade and turn to flee, but find no path beside the sea,
For every cross and headstone here, now bears my cursed name.
The grave I dug was not for him, but for the light now growing dim,
As spectres rise above the rim to claim their rightful fame.
I am the ink, I am the shore, and we are all the same.

2026 © John Hansen: All rights reserved.
Australian writer

The Old Man and the Boat (or Mine, Mine!)

A Flash Fiction Story

The old man sat solemnly gazing at the rusted skeleton of the boat. The ‘Point Reyes’ had been part of his life for more years than he could remember. As a fisherman, it had been his livelihood, his most treasured possession, but all that was in the past.

Oh, it was still part of his life, or what was left of it. His body felt like the ship looked … old, worn out, beached, useless.

He came every morning at sunrise, and in the evening when the sun was setting. At those times the Point Revere looked its best, the rusted hull seeming to co-ordinate with the oranges and greys of God’s colour pallet in the sky.

Even an old park bench had found a use. It had been a struggle, but the old man had dragged it to a grassy spot as close to the boat as he could. It saved his aching back and allowed him to sit and contemplate longer. The fond memories were all he really had in life anymore.

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Seagulls flew overhead, shrieking, “Mine, mine!” Where had he heard that line …some animated kid’s film? He smiled as he recalled, “Finding Nemo.” Now, every time he saw the gulls it seemed clear that’s what they were saying. Well, he thought, “The Point Reyes is mine, or what’s left of it at least.”

The boat still stands there beached on the shore where it has sat dormant for years. Sunrises and sunsets come and go with their beautiful displays, and the seagulls still call. But, the old fisherman is nowhere to be seen. The park bench sits there, empty unless some stranger wanders by and sits to pause for a while, wondering briefly how the ‘Point Revere’ came to be where it is and what its history held.

No one has climbed aboard the decaying hull to gaze inside to see the equally decaying body of its once-proud owner, in now his final resting place. Or the small leather journal lying beside him, the last entry:

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, lay me down amid your rust.

Whether the skies be cloudy or fine, Point Reyes’ you’ll always be mine, mine.”

The Inspiration

For The Poem Below

Inspiration comes from many different places and can take a variety of forms. I can usually write about almost anything but find choosing the subject the difficult part.

I was having trouble thinking of a topic for a new article, so I asked my wife could she think of a subject I could write about. She thought for a moment, then pointed to a simple stitchery wall hanging that she had made and suggested I write a poem on whatever was written on it.

The stitchery is of a little house on a hill surrounded by flowers and hearts with the words, “Never Dally in the Field of Vain Regret,” across the top.

It surprised me how that quote managed to arouse my muse from slumber, and inspired me to write this poem.

Never Dally in the Field of Vain Regrets

Never dally in the field of vain regrets
Where the flowers of remorse and guilt are grown
Where the sun of hope is dimmed by clouds of frets
And the seeds of joy are choked by weeds of woe.

Never linger in the meadow of what-ifs
Where the grass of envy and resentment lies
Where the breeze of peace is stilled by gusts of griefs
And the birds of song are silenced by goodbyes.

Never wander in the valley of lost dreams
Where the river of ambition slowly dries
Where the mountain of achievement distant seems
And the stars of aspiration rarely rise.

Never climb the rugged mountain of despair
Where the summit of success cannot be reached
Where the sense of disappointment fills the air
And forgotten are all sermons ever preached.

Never wander through the desert of heartbreak
Where true love exists as only a mirage
Where there is scant forgiveness for mistakes
And love letter stained by tears on every page.

Never try to ride the waves of jealous rage
Where all anger and resentment lurks within
Where all truthfulness and falsehood’s hard to gauge
And stop all the tides of love from rolling in.

Never tarry in the land of wanton needs
Where the road of progress leads to nowhere fast
For new blooms of joy have risen from the seeds
And the future holds more promise than the past.

I Laughed A Smile

ebook By John Hansen

My thanks to John for trusting me with his work this month.
His writing carries humour, solitude, memory, and the quiet corners of the human heart.
I hope you enjoy reading him as much as I do.