poetry and vignettes
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 28, 2017 at 2:40 AM||comments (0)|
Fleece a dream
The man with thin shoulders and a sack
slung on one of them, used to stop outside my house
open the bag and strew a handful of feather light dreams,
and some dreams landed on the window ledge.
I remember she said, be careful don`t fall out when
trying to grasp a flake of a dream so easily forgotten.
The man with the thin shoulders has disappeared from
the street no one knew where he had gone, so I went
out looking for him all I found in an empty pond with
a rusty tin of castor oil a product long since in use.
I left the can in the garden in the hope enticing the man
to return with his sack of visions.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 27, 2017 at 4:05 AM||comments (0)|
I have been invited to the golden coast of Spain
White beaches blue sea, cooling in the sun.
The Mediterranean postcard beauty, tempting
It is also full of thousands of dead bodies.
On days after storm, it is possible to walk on bodies
From Tripoli to Lampedusa and not getting wet.
The sea that crashes ashore on coastal Portugal
Is green, refreshing I will stick to the Atlantic sea.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 26, 2017 at 1:55 AM||comments (0)|
The moment when the cacophony of voices,
at the railway restaurant,
became one, no longer
dusty gibberish mixed with cigarette smoke,
but a real, clear human accent making an utterance;
alas, the voice spoke of mortgages,
the price of heating homes, electricity and food;
the only true
the issue in our civilised world.
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 Vilamoura that sells 21 flavours of ice cream,
now isn’t that nice to know and giggle about?
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 25, 2017 at 2:00 PM||comments (0)|
No milk for babies
I have lost track of who is fighting whom in the overlapping endless wars
in the middle- east, but that is beside the point today.
I was standing in supermarket`s till a woman in front of me had bought
a litre of milk and now she looking for loose change.
I was amazed she looked like human dairy; she could bottle her milk
in small flasks and sell it to health freaks.
In the vastness of her bag movements, it was her husband Carlos smelling
Like the inside of a purse
I always like to take him along when shopping and know where he is and,
He has got the car keys.
The Americans have been bombing again making sure there is no milk for babies
because they want to build that pipe gas line across Afghanistan and the Taliban
or is it the Pashtuns are saying no, from my home I see for me a giant in uniform
with a belt full of bombs bestriding the world.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 25, 2017 at 3:30 AM||comments (0)|
Walking along a long road in a 1950ish industrial park
high walls and closed down factories; dark brown,
And no green weeds in pavement cracks.
At the docks all ships had left, cranes stood in silence each one
ensconced in the terrifying loneliness of the soulless that knows
of no existence.
I found the office I was looking for, needed someone to stamp
a document, it was empty I waited till light faded from pictures
of stern-faced men on photos on walls.
This place had no real sunshine; a haze hung over here
making summers a pale affair, only in August did sun
penetrate drowning shadows in a white unpleasant light.
Outside, in the street going south, there were many me,
young ones, middle aged and some were even older than
I, which I thought was a good sign and secretly smile
For a moment I felt nostalgic wanted to look back, but
desisted we had, all of us, agreed that we must walk on
Never look back as the past holds a fatal attraction.
sooner or later the road must end and open up to a vista
of olive and almond trees, lemon coloured straw, faraway
blue mountains and pastel painted summers.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 24, 2017 at 2:25 AM||comments (0)|
The daughter of the dead police officer was polishing his riding boots.
They were so shining he could use them as mirror which used to do and slapping
her if the boots were shining enough, he needed glasses but refused to wear them.
Now in his coffin knocked by a car she had to put them on his cold feet.
She was feeling sad but also, she was ashamed of her own thoughts, quietly relieved.
Free now to go out and be a lap-dancer, if she so wanted; heaven forbid,
tomorrow she will dress in black and then she would be free of his tyranny.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 22, 2017 at 3:55 AM||comments (0)|
When I write of a rose should
I add the adjective beautiful
I have never seen an ugly rose. Therefore, all roses are stunning
But we can argue about whether we like red or white ones.
When I kissed her tender lips was
It since she had kissed a lot before?
I held around her waist tenderly- a new adjective- and she gazed
At me likewise well I`m not a Russian given to bear hugs.
Her vulva was like a fairy- tale
I ask you, not a moist ulcer then.
Fairy tales is about sex starved princess`s with long hair in a tower
A prisoner of her father`s idea of chastity and no knitting needle
The curvature of her lower back
Struts out like ski-jump in the Alps
Petals falls of roses one by one and blinded by irrational by love
We see again after an operation cataract and daylight seeps in.
The road surface too potholed
No one asphalts my road anymore.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 21, 2017 at 3:15 AM||comments (0)|
The girl I fell in love with years ago when summer
was excellent, and we bathed in
the lake I didn`t ven kiss her but patted her shoulder.
I wanted to embrace and kiss her making her mine
but feared to ruin our friendship which was for me
a costly gift in my new life in a foreign land.
I had written about it before she was so young,
her bright, lovely smile I could not risk that with my
clammy hands around her slender waist.
There was more I had lost someone like her before
I had lost her in lust and forgotten her friendship she
had been my mate till she tired of me and left.
She is still there in the village, divorced now with a son and a daughter who treat me
like a grandad, they treat me well ring and bring me gas bottles when needed,
and it strikes me by not making love to her, I got the best friendship can offer.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 20, 2017 at 3:55 AM||comments (0)|
Underneath the lamplight
There was a time I danced under street lamps
The music was in my head and pole dancing
had yet to be invented
I didn`t dance in moonlight the sky overcast
Or I was life sober and in bed
My jubilance over life sometimes tired me out
Even a clown needs his rest when not blowing
His trumpet and take his funny trousers off.
I never dance anymore seeking no audience
My stepping was better than Fred Astaire.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on April 19, 2017 at 5:40 AM||comments (0)|
Time is churning us in a mass of confusion
But something is forever the need to side with the downtrodden.
Two of my uncles, ordinary working class lad,
Spent time in jail and tortured because they helped the Jews
because they were in need.
Israel today doesn`t want or any use for men without education
Help was not political it was just human.
When I see the endless cruelty committed by Israel, I take side
With the Palestine people and try if not by heroic deeds but by words
To help the oppressed people, not for a political agenda
But a human one.