Originally a New Yorker. Currently a resident of Helsinki, Finland more »
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Jan Sand Poems
Split me in two And spread the gash. There, between the pillows Of my lungs, tangled
The Funny Old Man
There was an old man who was lonely and grim And excessively technically minded. He lived with a cat and an owl that was fat And a fancy new clock. He=d designed it.
Frank In Contemplation
They call me Frank these days And the name implies me many ways. My character is blunt, somewhat unswerving. My features rather crude, I am a creature
A black cleaver In the tropics Severs day from night In one chop.
I am tall in years these days And sway with all the breezes. Weather whistles through my ways, Erupts in snorts and sneezes.
To fold a cat It must be flat So that, one could hope, To put it in an envelope
Somebody Else's Dog
We stand in line Patiently hungry for money At the ATM. All black, he is,
The Means Of Michelangelo
The sculptor once pointed out That his duty to the stone Was janitorial. By removing excess alone
The patterns of the world wash in Across the sands of mind And ripple through the thoughts which drift And scatter unaligned
The waltz of warmth That dances in and out Of each year Is played on instruments
Death knocked upon my door - Asked me to come along. I told him that I'm occupied. To leave now would be wrong.
Let me ride the tail Of the blue-eyed whale, Use the ocean for a pillow, While the cobalt sea
There is cold In the country of the old. Heat of life, Heat of love,
Midnight Wind At the Carnival
The chill air tumbles down from the moon And splashes through trembling leaves Tainted by the icebergs of Europa. Silently, like a frenzied animal,
Comments about Jan Sand
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Split me in two
And spread the gash.
There, between the pillows
Of my lungs, tangled
In my intestines, buried
In the gory gelatine,
You will find my dead son.
Blue eyes like punched out sky.
His mind could cut patterns
From the world more intricate
Than the fretting in a Muslim temple.
At age two, his angers
Could shred the air
With black knives.
At three, an idiot Israeli
Tossed him fifteen feet
With the snout of a red sports car.
He lived thirty years
With a machine for lungs.
His body, twisted and confused,