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Jan Sand

Jan Sand

I was born in Manhattan, New York, grew up to the age of 12 in Brooklyn, and resided until the age of 36 in Manhattan. I took a degree in industrial design at Pratt Institute and worked in New York until I was designated field man for a New York firm for an exhibition by the US Commerce Dept in Helsinki, where I met my wife. Since then, I worked in Berlin, Paris, Tel Aviv and in the USA.
 
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 Midnight Wind At The CarnivalMidnight Wind At The Carnival by Jan Sand
The chill air tumbles down from the moonAnd splashes through trembling leavesTainted by the icebergs of Europa.Silently, like a frenzied animal,The nightwind pokes its nose
 The Master And His PalimpsestThe Master And His Palimpsest by Jan Sand
I do not know who I am nor why.I scribble seasons on the earth and sky.I prescribe the heat, cold, wet and dryAnd watch seas, winds, shells of earth, comply.
 DurationDuration by Jan Sand
DurationThe crack of dawnThrough which dreamsLeak away is
Badboys Radio Show Ovi Gallery Le Meteque Ovi Exhibition Ovi Bookshop
 Mariner's ReportMariner's Report by Jan Sand
Mariner\'s Report I still struggle not to sinkDown to docile death.The music of the minutesFills my spinnakerFor direction and for hope.The seas a
 SeeingSeeing by Jan Sand
The Sun which cedes the day to night does not vanishBut plays peekaboo with the planetWhich spins the universe to displayThe cosmos comprisedOf other su
 Getting OlderGetting Older by Jan Sand
Getting OlderClocks unceasing in their stomp on minutesCrushes past into fragrancies of memories,Stains, sometimes rather bloody, on that long wall of time
 In AppreciationIn Appreciation by Jan Sand
In AppreciationThe dead are with us nowWho will, in five years or ten,See time swallow up the universe.They can still enjoy a Summer wren,Become enc
 Temporal TacticsTemporal Tactics by Jan Sand
Temporal TacticsTime does not respond to curseOr even worse, disdain.Daily events make it plain
 This BrainThis Brain by Jan Sand
This BrainThis is where I live,A place, situatedFive and three quarters feetAbove the street, or floorGive an inch or more,
 The BurningThe Burning by Jan Sand
The Burning Time is fire.Flames touch and contemplateThe whiz of is,The fleeing nowAnd render it to dust.One must allow
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