Jan Oscar Hansen


Unsolved Theft

A big black bike, with frugal rubber tires
and an old fashion handlebar, is leaning
against the whitewashed wall this morning.
Someone had nicked it when going home
from the bar last night; so the thief lives in
one of the stone cottages around here.
The bike, that looks catholic, isn’t telling
made of hollow tubes, chains and rubber
it doesn’t really care who rides it.
Homes that look pretty as seen, hazily-and
at a distance- behind flowering almond trees
in the spring sun, have shuttered windows.


The Peace.

The upper village is morning cold, chimney smoke
rise in still air; dogs, that sleeps in sheds, sit now by
the east wall huddled together facing the sun, see
me and there are greetings, a slow wagging of tails.
The air is so incredible clear I can see the houses on
the slopes of the hazy mountain where dogs sit and
face the same sun; I know I’m witnessing a flick of
eternity when other people and their dogs will walk
across the landscape and have the same dreams and
hopes as we had. Pedro is outside smoking, his wife
won’t let him smoke inside, turns the curtain yellow,
she says, the tobacco aroma drifts my way, wonderful.
A peaceful pocket on earth, my valley is; but I do fear
an easterly wind might bring the smell of cordite.


The Philosophy of Loss.

A thief came to our home, said he was
a shop-fitter, stole mother’s heart and
the savings she had in a jar; peed into
the kitchen-sink and left by the backdoor
She cried, not too long and unseemly,
a charming man had entered her dreary
poverty struck life; the money was
only worth two packets of cigarettes.


Food for Thoughts.

Five Spanish tomatoes on a chopping board,
four were used in a salad, the fifth was put
on a saucer and placed in the fridge, behind
a red skinned, well mannered, Edam cheese,
and a cheeky Danish blue.

When found, a month later, it was wrinkled,
shrunken and had grown a grey flecked beard;
flung into the bin with potato peel and curled
up lettuce leaves; where it bitterly murmured:
longevity! What’s the point?


Tanka

God shed diamond tears
When chasing Adam & Eve
Out of Paradise.
His immense sorrow
Glitters on manicured fingers
As the dispossessed cry.