Biography of Jan Sand
Originally a New Yorker. Currently a resident of Helsinki, Finland
Jan Sand Poems
Split me in two And spread the gash. There, between the pillows Of my lungs, tangled
The Poet As Dr, Frankenstein
My floor is littered With corpses. The older they get, The more they stink.
Let's bake a cake for a snake, Fill our jeans with jellybeans, Comb our hair with a rake, Paint our ears with blues and greens.
Foggy, Foggy Blues
There is a morning fog here That rises from the snow To inhabit head-tall space In a lightless glow.
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.
The Master And His Palimpsest
I do not know who I am nor why. I scribble seasons on the earth and sky. I prescribe the heat, cold, wet and dry And watch seas, winds, shells of earth, comply.
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,
In the world of wizards Where words can sizzle, freeze; Where chance remarks Can bring down larks
The waltz of warmth That dances in and out Of each year Is played on instruments
Speeding down the road at sixty klicks, The tires hiss across the mist of summer rain, Water craters, bursting fields of instant flowers Blooming, gone, blooming, gone, blooming -
The eye leads and the mind follows. The ear leads and the mind follows. The touch leads and the mind follows. The hounds of mind go howling down the avenues,
Let me ride the tail Of the blue-eyed whale, Use the ocean for a pillow, While the cobalt sea
Royally he treads the land, The earth, the countryside, The fields, the farms, the dirt, the sand. He howls of these
Old Men Feed The Birds
In all the parks in all the world The old men sit And feed the birds. The old men sit
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
Of many parts, they say, unnerving
In random chaotic fashion. But, anyways,
I function. Admittedly with little passion.
Those hormone fires sparking desires,
That smolders into what inspires humanity