poetry and vignettes

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Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 23, 2017 at 7:00 AM Comments 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



sink bucket

Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 20, 2017 at 4:30 AM Comments 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


the first flower

Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 19, 2017 at 4:55 AM Comments 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 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.




horse flesh

Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 16, 2017 at 4:30 AM Comments comments (0)

Horse Flesh

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.





when in Rome

Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 15, 2017 at 4:50 AM Comments 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.


the choice

Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 14, 2017 at 4:50 AM Comments comments (0)

The Choice



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 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.





the fatherland

Posted by jan oskar hansen on June 12, 2017 at 4:20 AM Comments comments (0)

For Fatherland


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 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