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poetry and vignettes

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to be the best

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 20, 2019 at 5:45 AM Comments comments (0)

 

To be the best

 

My husband is Europe`s best salesman

she said proudly.

What does he sell? Things, she said.

What things? Well, many different things.

Putin is a good seller of hopes, I said.

Who is Putin? A man who sell dreams

and other things, I have never heard of

him does he sell houses too.

Reflecting upon “things” Brexit came

to mine, people didn`t want to buy it

founds “things” a burden importing stuff

they could produce themselves.

“Don`t look a gift horse in the mouth,” she did

And found it had many rotten teeth

needed a dentist to extract them.

I like fish& chips a man chimed in and for French

Cheese! I never bought one, what`s wrong with

Gouda? (Geography not his strong suit) and for

wine, I rather have a pint of lager.

So it is settled then (never mind the street talks)

we are half out but also half in.

Can we say Theresa May is a great salesperson?

 


yesterday is tomorrow

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 19, 2019 at 5:30 AM Comments comments (0)

Yesterday is tomorrow

 

Ay the first meeting he loved her, and she loved him,

he was jealous of her flirtatious ways, and harsh words

were spoken. She left.

They met again a few years later he was more rounded

and accepted her little affairs, as she always came back

to him. For many years they were happy to the day

she contracted gonorrhoea which took a few weeks

to clear up and they continue their love life.

But it was a pretence they struggled to believe, it was

like a shadow of doom had cast an evil spell over them.

She took to drink and often smelt of gin in the morning

she couldn`t sleep and drink late in the night.

One day she said she didn`t love her anymore, she had

met a man who was like he liked to drink and dance.

Again she moved out, this time for good.

Because of their lifestyle, both fell on a hard time

and moved away to a town where no one knew them.

What he often remembers is when they were young

and he tried to jump from a wall to a flat roof and

she held out her arm to save him from falling.

 

 

titleless

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 18, 2019 at 5:20 AM Comments comments (0)

Titleless

A rock fell

Off the mountain

I listened

For the last echo,

Heard a sigh.

 

 

 

 

 

the cow

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 17, 2019 at 5:10 AM Comments comments (0)

The Cow

 

By the edge of the cliff where the grass is juicy

the cow tried to eat it all the last straw you can say

alas, it tipped over and fell into the sea

and since happened in Dover, it swam to Holland

and joined the Dutch cattle.

This was a good solution till the cow demanded

special privileges such as imported Dover grass,

when it didn`t get it will, it swam back.

On the way across the channel, it was run over

by a Panamanian registered tank-ship.

Children had to go to school hungry no sausages

or milk for breakfast.

The ship, the farmer (not setting up a fence) and

the Dutch got the blame, this wouldn`t have happened

if we had let, the cow gets its own way.

 

 

how it is so insane

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 16, 2019 at 5:10 AM Comments comments (0)

How it is so insane

 

There is a hardening of empathy in the blood vessels

of the Western world has peace lasted too long, if we

regard bloodletting as a natural cycle like the seasons

and now it is blue frost winter in the heart of man.

We have always been killing each other, the USA was

born by eradicating the local population and indeed

in Latin America, the conquistadors killed 90%

of its people and now we have Israel repeating

the long history of murder; not to forget the Rohingya

people escaping being slain by Buddhists in Myanmar.

Now we see a crescendo of mass eradication of plants

and animals, the very foundation of human life it is as

we are at war with self, committing suicide in our quest

to dominate others and thereby us.

There will be no place to hide whether we live in a castle

or in a cave when the world is red-hot bullet hurtling through

space and there will be no history to tell.

 

 

 

happy for some

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 15, 2019 at 5:45 AM Comments comments (0)

A happy place…for some

 

Under the houses on stilt

That had no sewers

And was built for whores

To service sailors in Curacao

A dry, barren Island

In the Caribbean sea.

Pigs lived under the houses

Grew big and ugly.

When one of them was

slaughtered

Its meat tastes of drunk

Seamen`s vomit and

A cheap perfume that hides

The grotesque sex

In the name of need.

 

 

thoughts

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 14, 2019 at 1:50 AM Comments comments (0)

Epigram 3

 

If the universe has a limit, will the limitation

Be a wall, made of elastic a rubber band that

Can be overextended to the breaking point

A balloon that can be pierced at will, or like

The horizon, you see it, but it can`t be reached.

And what is beyond the boundary?

 

 

 

 

beware of colours

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 13, 2019 at 9:55 AM Comments comments (0)

Beware of Colours

 

It was about these flowers, you see,

blue a favourite colour for many they don`t

realise this colour can bring on melancholy

The flowers have long stems were in a vase

day- fresh with dewdrops sprinkled on

their leaf, how beautiful isn’t a goat would not hesitate.

Tomorrow the flowers will still be blue after

seven people committed suicide and a blind

the man could feel their suffering paleness.

Tired of funerals she paints sprayed the bloom

deep red and a war broke out in Sudan.

On the third day the flowers, now ashen grey

in the vase were dumped in a heap at

the bottom of the garden, hunger erupted

in Africa and Yemen skeletal children make

a good copy in black& white.

 

the love

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 11, 2019 at 4:25 AM Comments comments (0)

The Lovers

 

 

On my walks in the interior of Algarve

I followed an overgrown track that once

had been a road for horse and carts.

At a clearing, I found a clumsily made shrine,

and on it with unsteady hands, was written

Pedro and Maria 1912.

I sensed an immense peace sitting here.

Love is enduring and everlasting.

Their tenderness is what I breathe

in the trees and plants.

Later on when I was lonely and sad

I went up there and warmed my soul

on their love.

 

the poverty of self-loathing

Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 10, 2019 at 6:10 AM Comments comments (0)

The poverty of self- loathing

 

The of the cloak of poetry I once wore

does not protect me against my insecurity

the fear of being destitute.

Nowhere to hide when the northwesterly blows

and happy people dance at a restaurant

to the music, I composed in my heart.

Steamed up café windows people eating broth

gesticulate with forks to get me away

to eat their food in peace.

I have enough money for a cup of coffee but

they will not let in the drowning cat.

Never mind I lost my nerves

but it will be better when I write this down

and my notebook is dry of self-loathing.

 


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