poetry and vignettes
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 23, 2017 at 7:00 AM||comments (0)|
It was a moment when the cacophony of voices, at the railway restaurant,
became one, no longer dusty prattle mixed with cigarette smoke, but a real,
human accent making an utterance; alas, the voice spoke of mortgages,
the price of heating homes, electricity and food; the only true issue in our
civilised world that has imprisoned us with their gilded promises
So should one be shocked, isn’t that what we have worked towards too?
A life that is mundane that doesn’t tax you with any political philosophy,
any ism of this and that only leaves you to worry about the ordinary
things like the ice cream parlour in Parkgate that sells 21 flavours of ice cream,
now isn’t that nice to know and snigger about we can call it a democracy of
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 20, 2017 at 4:30 AM||comments (0)|
A sink bucket
Today I forgot to buy milk, black coffee in the morning it is so
easy to remember the past it shines like jewels lost.
It was the winter of 1964, it was dark my brother carried
a big sink bucket and I a smaller one, we were on our way to
the coal depot to- if we found a hole in the fence- to steal coal.
We were caught by a man who wore an armband of the new
people in command and they were taking no nonsense from
anyone least of all seven years old thieves.
I have often seen that you put a uniform on someone who
who never had power and they behave like little Hitler sprats.
On the way home with two empty buckets, we came across
a wooden fence that had partially fallen down we took as many
planks as we could carry and had a warm Christmas Eve
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 19, 2017 at 4:55 AM||comments (0)|
The first Flower
The first winter after a long war was cold
but today the snow was slushy the beginning of spring
It was a poor street house had not been
painted for years, not much food and the ice was
reluctant to let go of its pale grip.
It was then I saw it along a wall of flaking cement
a small solitary, yellow flower the colour so bright
it blinded me it was like I had a moment of clarity
I understood and saw it all.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 17, 2017 at 4:10 AM||comments (0)|
On the train going west, a snooping man asked questions
asking about other peoples but saying nothing about himself.
I told him a tale so violent he paled and left at the next stop.
Believed in my story when the train stopped in Liverpool
had few pint looked at my visit card stating I was a bookseller,
but that was a ruse; I was a Russian assassin sent to kill some
agents that had turned and they sat in the pub.
When the smoke from our revolvers cleared, they were dead
and the landlord refused to serve me, and the game was up
Yes, your Honour, I’m in the book trade.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 16, 2017 at 4:30 AM||comments (0)|
The mare in the yard is almost a pony it used to be
the falling horse in western movies.
She got old and Hollywood has no use for slow horses
It had performed in Lima Peru where the cowboy fell off
and I bought it on the roundabout
took it home and painted it yellow but as got older she
ended up in my garage,
together with my scooter and other useless toys.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 15, 2017 at 4:50 AM||comments (0)|
When in Rome
In the Fontana Dei Guattro Fiumi in the piazza Navona
I had a cooling dip after coming out of a smoke filled
bar, I stripped, but modestly kept my underwear, on and
watched over by an elderly patrolman, who wasn’t looking
for promotion, he knew everyone on his turf and when
needed he didn’t see a thing which was good for keeping
The peace. Dawn and the local market opened, I had oven
fresh bread and cheese; coffee, also a grappa to stave off
A slight chill after my shower I sat with my eyes half closed
listening to the voice of humanity and it was good to be alive.
Walking back to my little hotel I saw the police officer
again he was spoken to a prostitute she smiled and said good morning
I did like-ways; it’s handy to have a friendly lawman on my side.
I went to bed, a window open and white
curtains moving the breeze, listening to the outside noises,
and drifting on the ocean of dreamy sleep, I knew I would wake up
at noon by the aroma of Italian food.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 14, 2017 at 4:50 AM||comments (0)|
She was a lovely middle aged woman,
who mostly only shared her vanity with the mirror.
She is watching her weight
having the strange believe that a man does not like
women of Ruben like dimension
nevertheless through her modest education she as
able to meet people of economic status as she had
the ability of sit on the greenest twig.
But she must pay the prize of living away from here nearest
In a town that makes her feel perturbed.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 13, 2017 at 4:25 AM||comments (0)|
The landscape of my dreams is a Pampa
with occasional trees,
Like commas stretching to the horizon and not a full stop in between the extreme
I was born in a gorge between dark mountains
that was ok till the got a tunnel and Indonesian got work cleaning floors,
we`re now patronizing and multinational.
Then an Arab arrived and many joined NF, except the teacher how refused
to write anything with semi-colons and the swelling rank of neo- liberals.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 12, 2017 at 4:20 AM||comments (0)|
In a country to near the Arctic Circle
every new generation -men and women- had to
throw pebbles into a lake,
until the lake was full and you could wade over,
Alas, a bridge was built,
so futile the pebbles.
Now they are learning how to throw a hand grenade in Afghanistan
and draw funny pictures of Mohammad,
pity about the bridge.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 11, 2017 at 4:55 AM||comments (0)|
The dogs barked hysterically in the night
Not a normal warning of a dog trying to sneak in
Dog do not know charity unless thought by man
to show sympathy.
Light came on people of faith crossed themselves
something like a wave had passed through the village
it was the ghosts of soldiers who had fought
and killed many civilian, now seeking redemption.
Unforgiven forever marching trying to find a sanctuary