poetry and vignettes
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 20, 2019 at 5:45 AM||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?
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 19, 2019 at 5:30 AM||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.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 18, 2019 at 5:20 AM||comments (0)|
A rock fell
Off the mountain
For the last echo,
Heard a sigh.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 17, 2019 at 5:10 AM||comments (0)|
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.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 16, 2019 at 5:10 AM||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.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 15, 2019 at 5:45 AM||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
Its meat tastes of drunk
Seamen`s vomit and
A cheap perfume that hides
The grotesque sex
In the name of need.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 14, 2019 at 1:50 AM||comments (0)|
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?
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 13, 2019 at 9:55 AM||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.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 11, 2019 at 4:25 AM||comments (0)|
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.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on January 10, 2019 at 6:10 AM||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.