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Palestine sorrow poem

JanOskar Hansen

I sit in my kitchen the wall clock

Ticks ten past seven evening time.

I feel at ease and doves of peace

Cross a distant sky.

The unchanging hum of the fridge

Accentuates my inner harmony,

Perhaps there will be peace too in

Palestine where a child, newly born,

Died in a senseless war and became

A bitter memory long before she

Had a memory herself.

" We're so very sorry, we apologise,

But we have the right to defend our

Settlers of this land."

…And from the dispossessed, a cry

Of revenge echoes through ravaged


I sit in my kitchen and the fridge 

Hums a lullaby of everlasting sorrow.


Sweet Dreams?

Dreamed of you last night, the ease 

of our embrace, not wanting to break 

free, or be alone, the dream ended 

as it began us entwined, in the grip 

of eternity; woke up to a calm 

bedroom and your vanishing smile. 

My wife breathed evenly beside 

me the pain of lost love and 

the sadness of not loving her, 

the way I still adore you, kept me 

trapped in a melancholic 

mood till released by a new day.


On Getting Old.

It's a strange sensation, being sixty.

Feel as I have won a battle

struggling up a mountain of years,

Now that I've captured the high 

Grounds I can look back and smile 

sans regrets. 

Look ahead and see a new 

beginning, 'cause I now that I'll be 

a flower on an almond tree.


The Real Meeting.

We sat in a circle fourteen of us,

pointing knees at each other, drinking

coffee and trying to look relaxed.

Sweaty palms discretely dried on

trousers leg 

One of the six women in the group

began talking - women are better at 

airing their feelings than men- she 

went on, a great length, about a life

of endless cocktail parties around 

a swimming pool, posh wine in

expensive restaurant, of which I knew

nothing; fiddled with a lighter, 

a sign on the wall read NO SMOKING.

Then the other five spoke in turn,

they all seem to have sprung from

the same glamorous background.

Ten minutes left when the chair asked 

if any of the men had anything to say, 

we mumbled something about feeling

fine; a short prayer, meeting over and 

could go outside lit a fag and the real

meeting began.


The Lost and Forgotten 

Working Class Generation.

We who left school in 1968 without 

Honours and degrees, had dreams when

We filled factories and building sites 

With youthful laughter which soon 

Stopped when run over by the juggernaut

Of life, marriage and a high rise flat.

Later when work dried up, no skills no

Education and too old for a new job,

Divorce, queuing at the dole a flight 

Into booze, walking the streets of rue,

Fuck it all and waiting for tomorrow.

Lady of Mercy, only one dream left,

That of coming up on the pool, quid's 

In, a round of drinks for the mates in

The pub and self-respect; we know it 

Won't happen but dream we must, or 

Be flotsam in streets of regrets where 

It's always gloomy and eyes have lost 

The sheen of hope. 

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