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Jan Oskar Hansen, PT
 

 

 

 

Haiku

 

homeless menó
the morgue must be a scary
cold weather shelter

 

 

Free Verse

 

Winter of Discontent

 

The air over Europe is clear and cold.
On my terrace, the parasol is down
óflaps
slightly like the sail on a becalmed caravel.

The pond, near the houses, is frozen solid.
The powerless sun gives the illusion of warmth
and friendliness to a traveler
ó
Postcard Perfect

The pond's depression is hard packed.
The ground I walk on is unyielding.
This is the face of bitter unhappiness.

Amongst the voiceless olive trees
a bird shrieks a warning
and in the stillness that follows
I hear drums of war.

 

 

The Face

 

On my walk along the old lane I came across a tree that
has on its trunk the outline of a sad pastry chefís face,
of one who has just burnt his cakes; and has to open his
shop, now he has to rush out, buy up pastries in other
places; theirs, of course, will not be as good as his own,
but he's got to have something to sell. Heíll grind up his
burnt cakes put the crumble in tiny paper bags and sell
them to children on their way to school, or old folks who
are going to the park to feed the ducks; ten cent a bag.
His wifeís fault, she came to the bakery
óthey havenít
been married long
óthey kissed, canoodled; ok, we get
the picture. He has made it clear that she mustnít upset
him during baking hours; he isnít mad at her, not since
she told him she had a bun in the oven herself.
And the tree, itís an olive tree
ósilvery in winter lightó
is silent but there is a stir of a smile in the air.

 

 

Senryu

 

God created life,
Darwin came, explained it
No big deal

 

 

Lisbon Winter Night

 

From my window I see down into a canyon,
a dry river with cars moored to its banks.
From under one of them a cat runs across,
is it black or grey ? Does it matter?
Where the trash bins are, do I hear a squeal?

From the opposite building a few windows
emit ligh
óthey are kept on for the dying
and for those who cannot sleep.
Eventually the light disappears and as night
continues to dawn only the hum of silence
remains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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