poetry and vignettes
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 17, 2017 at 4:05 AM||comments (0)|
Day and night
darkness gave birth
to sweet sadness
and it was dawn.
Morning sun dried
tears on leaves
a busy day began.
Hushed in late
waited for the blue hour,
silk mingled with
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 15, 2017 at 3:15 AM||comments (0)|
The hotel room in St. Asaph (Wales), was damp
and smelt of spent body passion, I didn’t have a coin
for the gas metre; in the decomposing bed a woman
Snored, and from the depth of my soul
the beginning of an anguished scream.
the morning was ashen as my face and find drizzle fell.
The hotel bar was closed, I walked for bone aching
for miles while the heaven descended.
No such look, when the clouds parted the hills
where green with grazing sheep on.
Dear God, where were you yesterday when I married
a scullery maid, have you no mercy.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 14, 2017 at 4:25 AM||comments (0)|
Weekend in Cascais
On Cascais glittering Saturday bay, slowly rides a rust stripped
bulk-carrier, sailors on the deck look at the town and think it
is Paradise, from the soot hallooed green stacks, whispering
smoke dissolves their dream of ever going home.
Tourists, fishermen and drunks, the eager and the weary and
the sad eyed mills about.
A blind woman sits on a folding chair sings Fado, Portugal`s blues.
her voice is cracked, but full of soul, she keeps score with
a tiny triangle the little plink a feint echo above the crowd.
When footsteps fade its faint sound becomes cymbals
clasped together by men of steel, her voice a storm which
cleanse streets clean.
Every morning Cascais is reborn, a wet pearl is arisen from
the green seas, before sandaled feet descend and drown
the day in a cacophony of disharmony.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 13, 2017 at 4:20 AM||comments (0)|
I`m the old man walking his dog passed your shop.
People see me and they don`t I’m a part of the street scene.
For you, I pause outside to see you looking into the big mirror
adjusting your hair.
You dally a bit, hope someone will come fill your time,
lives alone, no one needs you at home.
Finally, you switch off the light, except the one at
your window display.
You walk passed me see me not, cause I`m
the old man out walking his dog.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 12, 2017 at 5:15 AM||comments (0)|
The club was called the checkers, painted black
and elephant tusk, two middle aged Spaniards stood at the bar
talking to a hard faced barmaid.
The talk was amicable enough, but had an underlying tension,
something about lust and the price of love`s pretence.
Two birds dressed, in yellow feathers came down from the loft
told the Spaniards how much they loved them.
The barmaid asked if I was lonely too.
No thanks, I came here for the beer.
My answer impressed she shut the club for the night.
In the morning I said: I`m sixty today.
she cried a little and gave me a milky coffee.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 11, 2017 at 4:50 AM||comments (0)|
At the surgery
Here we are at the clinic`s
a fat lady with bandaged big toe,
and an old man leans on his walking stick
he lives alone.
An ancient couple from the upland,
dressed in their Sunday best,
hold hands and look endearing,
a youngish woman who keeps rummaging
through her bag, and me.
Six pairs of feet in a slow shuffle,
mend a tired heart, only tells
us we are mortal
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 10, 2017 at 3:40 AM||comments (0)|
The owner of my bar died
his widow opened windows wide
and life flooded in; sun light
in my corner of happy misery.
My glass of brandy paled in a flash
of naked light.
I escaped to the bar`s loo,
but the cleaners were there
smelling disinfectant and soap.
There was nothing for it, but to face
the outside where the sky is molten lava
Black dressed preachers of doom,
at last another bar, a twilight zone
with blinking neon light.
Shield me from the brutal day to a place
where men don`t turn their head
when someone enters, but spend their time
following an echo of a dream
they once had.
I`m safe here and tomorrows will never come,
as I sail in on the sea
of make belief
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 9, 2017 at 4:55 AM||comments (0)|
Through grimy windows, I can see
Santa and his elves blowing
bubbles, goblets and vases heat
and rolled up sleeves
Outside, large flakes of snow
dissolve on asphalt.
From the bar next door
red shadows and empty music leaked
out and into the gutter.
Hard smiles, and much wine, nicotine tongues
meet experienced lips.
Behind the bar a baseball bat,
the cheap scent and fake rings,
loneliness dances with greed.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 8, 2017 at 3:30 AM||comments (0)|
God and I
In this dramatic
Came out of this
Knew a lot
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 7, 2017 at 4:50 AM||comments (0)|
A man had been working on a flat garage roof
jumped into the yard, not a long jump but
landed badly and hurt his ankle.
He picked up a plank and used it to get out
and to the bus stop.
The bus driver wouldn`t let him on because
of the plank, and he lost his balance and fell,
People stepped over him, this black drunk.
The pavement was cobble stoned, so he walked
to the hospital using the road, where he was hit
by a car, an ambulance arrived, the man had hurt
his ankle, but it was not broken, a plaster cast,
they gave him a crutch so he could get home.
The driver of the car which hit him,
picked up the plank it was just the size needed
repairing his house.
We have come to a long way racism is no longer
so ugly but skulk in corners and the judicial system.