poetry and vignettes

view:  full / summary

day and night

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 17, 2017 at 4:05 AM Comments comments (0)

Day and night


Light embraced

darkness gave birth

to sweet sadness

and it was dawn.

Morning sun dried

tears on leaves

of grass,

a busy day began.

Hushed in late


waited for the blue hour,

when saturnine

silk mingled with

forgotten thoughts.



the marriage

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 15, 2017 at 3:15 AM Comments 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.

Apocalypse Now!

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.



week end in Cascais

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 14, 2017 at 4:25 AM Comments 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 comments (0)

The Invisible


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 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.



at the surgery

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 11, 2017 at 4:50 AM Comments comments (0)

At the surgery


Here we are at the clinic`s

waiting room,

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,

Electrocardiography doesn’t

mend a tired heart, only tells

us we are mortal




Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 10, 2017 at 3:40 AM Comments 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

dripping heat.

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



dream makers

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 9, 2017 at 4:55 AM Comments comments (0)

Dream makers


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.



the Wasteland

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 8, 2017 at 3:30 AM Comments comments (0)

The Wasteland


Through Gobi

I walked



Smelly camels

A pilgrimage

God and I

In this dramatic


Journey no


Came out of this


Real estate

Knew a lot

About sand

In shoes.


Racism 1952

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 7, 2017 at 4:50 AM Comments comments (0)

Racism 1952


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.