Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 23, 2023

Crossing the Sierra Valley

Rolling through the scuffed
micro-towns of Vinton and Chilcoot,
we get to a panorama
of the Sierra Valley--biggest
high-altitude plain in these mountains.

Golden light that's slipped past
thunderheads makes the Valley
glow like a cathedral floor. Now
the thunderheads drape blue
curtains of showers on
surrounding mountains.

We'll cross the Valley, then
take the highway's snaking
curves up a thousand feet
to Yuba Pass & from there
weave down to where the giant
blue massif of rock, the Sierra
Buttes, presents itself &
when I see it, I get a home

feeling even though I haven't
lived there for decades. I'm glad,
so glad, to see pockets of snow
up there in August.


hans ostrom

Tuesday, July 11, 2017

Another Old Concept Stopped By Today

Home is a place where you keep
your stuff and almost have privacy.
Could be mansion, could be cardboard
box.  Home is were you live
at the moment.  Is home home?

I have felt it isn't.  I have felt
it is a forgery.  That said, Go home,
said with kindness quietly,
seems to be in every language
always good advice.  Probably

home is where you'll probably
stay instead of going to that
other place to do those sociable
things.  Home might be. With luck
it might be where things are easier.



hans ostrom 2017

Friday, September 21, 2012

This Happens To Be It

All right, thought Hiram,
this happens to be it--
what is real. I am
walking home on a sidewalk,
and I am drunk,
and I am passing by
a twenty-foot boat
that is situated
between the sidewalk
and someone's yard,
and sophisticated engines
driving cars
are passing me,
and I look at my distorted
shadow exactly
as I did when I was seven
years old: it is
that elongated,
legs-go-forever
shadow.  And I am:
so what? And I
am walking home,
knowing the way,
what is home (?),
what is the way (?),
is this what is (?),
and I must go on
as if this is what is,
and I keep walking.


Hans Ostrom, 2012