Free Verse

 

 

Jan Oskar Hansen, PT   Yes, I Was There   On a flat rock resembling a upended headstone, under a layer of green moss was scratched. “We’re here—1947. No names. Were they a couple on a Sunday trip wanting to mark their presence in a world so immense, a modest attempt to capture time and let it pause for a fraction of a second? “We’re here” It can’t be denied even when everything else is forgotten and tracks are overgrown. I thought of my years as a seafarer, I could not scratch my name on the surface of the ocean. When a seaman leaves his ship it sails on to other ports with a new crew, and no one remembers your name. But I was there and know the enchanting aroma of the seas, also the lonely nights, books read a hundred times. The grey moss of old age can’t hide what I knew and saw... “I was there.”     Yemen   It is awfully poor country, with little to offer but carrots and sand. Come to think about it very few carrots only brush land and dust. People cry freedom but no one listens. A tiny place in the corner of nowhere, mud huts and stones... no oil to lift a jaded spirit. Chew a sort of weed that lulls souls into stupor and brings temporary peace. Yet they go on fighting tyranny despite being ignored by us, we who must be selective in whom to defend. They want to be free in a land where no roses bloom knowing they have little to offer others—sand and stones and a longing to be rid of tyranny. "Help us," they cry to the sky, but the world is full of carrots, dry sticks. Love of one's country is an odd thing— it can be full of scorpions and deadly snakes but it is the land of their fathers they have seen it bathed in a golden hue at sunset and they remember its hidden beauty.     Barfly   Outside a bar, Bella Vista, in the sleepy town of Barranquilla, Colombia—a donkey wears a hat with holes for its ears, dozed. Hot day, its serenity is endless. Around its closed eyes blue flies crawled. I’m kind to animals, waved my hand in front of its eyes to get rid of the flies. The beast saw it differently, kicked. In the street only the donkey, me and the cruel midday sun, everyone else had sought refuge in the dark interior of houses. Looked at the bar’s dark, cool interior, since the beast didn’t care for my sympathy I limped back in there and had a beer.     Gloomy   The saddest sight A bar closed Four in the morning When I just want another Drink Before going home To an empty flat And a stuffed canary In a dusty cage. The consolation is If I walk slowly The Chinese grocer Will be open And he has got cold Beer in his fridge.     When I Met Sir Cliff   I once met Cliff Richard at a newsagent— he bought a conservative paper which, makes sense since he is loaded? Cliff smiled to everyone in the shop, I did not, can’t see why I should smile buying a newspaper. That is the difference between us except he can sing bland songs that are pleasing to the ear and he has got hair. We spoke— he was pleased to have someone to talk to who wasn’t an adoring fan. We drank wine, too much and I walked him home, he lived nearby. He hadforgotten his keys to the gate, but jauntily jumped over the wall. And that was the last I saw of Cliff, a slim bum disappearing behind a wall