poetry and vignettes

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after life

Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 6, 2018 at 3:25 AM Comments comments (0)



They came

Men with sharp axes

chopped down

the old oak.

It`s shadow

stood there

out of habit.

At Sundown

it disappeared.




Chimbote, Peru

Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 5, 2018 at 3:55 AM Comments comments (0)

Chimbote Peru


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.



the political class

Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 4, 2018 at 3:00 AM Comments 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.


the genetic pool

Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 3, 2018 at 2:20 AM Comments 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

Your son

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.


rotting of a socialist

Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 2, 2018 at 5:00 AM Comments 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.

Viva Nicaragua.


the chef

Posted by jan oskar hansen on September 1, 2018 at 4:35 AM Comments comments (0)

The Chef


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 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.



Alfred on an Island

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 30, 2018 at 4:15 AM Comments 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.



grave stones

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 11, 2018 at 2:50 AM Comments 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.



a thought

Posted by jan oskar hansen on August 10, 2018 at 3:20 AM Comments comments (0)

A Thought

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.