poetry and vignettes
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 6, 2018 at 3:25 AM||comments (0)|
Men with sharp axes
the old oak.
out of habit.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 5, 2018 at 3:55 AM||comments (0)|
I was a pilot on a transport plane when
it landed in Chimbote I worked for a small air transport
company “Vanilla Air” who accepted med despite
I wore glasses when waiting for cargo back to Rio
walked around the town. At a café, I met a well-rounded woman
and sparks flew between us, she, Sophia was the widow
of train master who had accidentally been run over by his own train,
The pension she got from the state was paltry.
at the hotel, she told me her dream was to go to America and
I confessed my wish to write like Hemingway.
We had a few lovely days together, but then the company rang
the cargo was ready to be shipped to Rio.
The co-pilot had disappeared, and I had to navigate and fly solo,
the plane was old and overloaded it took long to get high enough
to fly over the Andes. (Douglas 47type of aircraft)
In Rio I had a few beers and thought of Sophie, a love story was
over there no sequel.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 4, 2018 at 3:00 AM||comments (0)|
The Political class
The problem with politicians is we need
someone to represent us and they do for a reward
the power and prestige.
Delegates speak fluently give promises they have
no intention of keeping and a prone to corruption
and will always do the bidding of the haves.
In the corridors of power, they strike deals which
are hidden for us and when called out they lies
and we are often too willing to believe them.
Of course, we have democracy and elect someone else
who say what we like to hear, but they the new brooms
somehow blend in with the rest of their class
and many run their own businesses that, they say, is
because they work hard, I call it skulduggery.
President Macron of France is a good example, silver-tongued
and charming he pretends to want a just society
when the truth is he only represents big business
and doesn`t bother to talk to the lower classes except
for platitudes and when we discover the truth, it is too late
a politician who has no ideology is only in for this
for control and when they fail feel no shame just
go back making money elsewhere.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 3, 2018 at 2:20 AM||comments (0)|
The Genetic pool
I`m my father`s son I carry his genes
He is a part of me this is inescapable
If I hate him, I dislike myself.
Now that I`m older than my father
He is my son you can`t help but loving
Once I saw my father on a bus going
Into town, he reached out to say halloo
I, misinformed, looked out of the window
I saw his tears.
Wish this moment would come back
It is my eternal shame.
My father is my son I think of him gently.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 2, 2018 at 5:00 AM||comments (0)|
The rotting of a socialist
I knew of a young man a rebel who wanted
his country to adopt the Scandinavian model of socialism.
He was elected to great acclaim by the people,
to do what he wanted taxes had to go up especially among
the wealthy and upper middle classes and they rebelled
by slurring him in the newspapers, lurid tales about sex orgies
and a luxury living, people turned against him he was not re-elected
After some years’ people found he was not a bad egg
and he was elected as president again.
Now he was a changed man didn`t care less about the Left
or the right, he just wanted to be president in his self- belief
gave tax relief to the rich prices went up, people
protested they wanted him to go.
He refuses to do so, many people are killed he doesn`t care
turned from a good man into a bloody dictator
who will keep his power at whatever cost and has to
be removed by whatever means.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 1, 2018 at 4:35 AM||comments (0)|
As the Bourdain said a cook is nobody
he has no power no one cares what he has to say
some of them are gifted with a natural talent for food and its ingredient
and flashes of inspiration can fire the spark that is godlike.
I knew of a restaurant which was always full at lunch and dinner,
Where the chef? I asked a waiter. Oh, he is somewhere in the back.
Back of the food place an open door, the chef stood to smoke
a cigarette. I looked at me sourly, but when I expressed
interest and when an order came in of a bacon omelette
he made it with the flourish of a craftsman.
The manager of the establishment said the chef had worked here for
Six years but he- the chef- was impossible to work with.
The chef suddenly quit and drove a taxi. Less stress that way.
The restaurant faltered until the penny dropped, a chef is a star
In the firmament of catering without a flawed genius in the kitchen, it is better
to run a pizza parlour
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 31, 2018 at 4:45 AM||comments (0)|
When we were children, we used to go to the park
that had a small like and feed the duck. A trivial pursuit
a the park was for the benefit of the people
and the local authorities paid for its upkeep.
This couldn`t go on everything has to have a purpose,
so it was bought by a private firm fenced in and a gate
it cost to feed the ducks.
I should know writing poetry which is trivial and few
publishers take me on, then my risk of losing money.
As few poets make money and have few readers
yet poetry is the few places left where one can express
thoughts not accepted elsewhere.
Success is judged by “best seller books”, they might be crap
but reflects the time we live in.
As for the ducks, they have mostly flown away to find
a less obnoxious place to get their breadcrumbs.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 30, 2018 at 4:15 AM||comments (0)|
Alfred on an Island
I got a phone call a rusty voice said he was Alfred,
But you are dead!
I know, I know the voice told like it meant nothing
I`m at the Saragossa Island you said to me about it is nice
Here but a bit damp and foggy, hence my rusty voice.
a lifeboat that drifted ashore had a ship to shore radio
that is how I`m able to talk to you now.
But how do you get along with rough sailors, and their
salty language, not too bad as you know I play the violin
and they sing shanties and do a jig, I miss the piano though
but it would only rust here and I can`t find a tuner.
I miss you, Alfred, of course, you do I thought how to be cultured
and in a way I`m your father, the real one abandoned you
The voice faded radio interference, but he said he missed too.
He had made my day he remembered me.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 11, 2018 at 2:50 AM||comments (0)|
The Grave Stone
Many years ago I went to the cemetery to find
my brother`s grave, but he had not been dead long
and had no stone. I was sent a picture, his stone is big
full name and in loving memory, the whole clan must have
chipped in it looked costly.
I felt slightly envious I can get a big stone too if I pay
for it now, the blue marble will be lovely.
I`m hesitant to invest in my stone, just in case I live
Longer than expected. You never know with people like me
I have all illnesses you can think of, but I keep waking up
In the morning, eat breakfast and take my medicine
and as usual, I`m grumpy, complaining I don`t laugh much
but I`m here to everyone’s chagrin.
|Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 10, 2018 at 3:20 AM||comments (0)|
My foolish heart its colour is blue
and my thoughts are rainbows which I ride
on to a mystical past and it is pastel hued.
Insecurities are blinking yellow.
The spectral takes me to the moon places
I will not go near.
It presses on to go deeper to the swam I’m
a bottom feeder eat trout in the raw
for its colour, I crave the light and lust for
The rainbow that stranded me in silver light
on a planet that has no history,
I was my face in the part of me that is unsullied
soon it will be morning.