Saturday, May 14, 2022

Lie to Me, Sun

If we could really see sunlight, we'd see
it as a driven mist of grains--photons so finely
made they move through windows, skin, and eyes
and leaves of trees and plants, which turn them into
life. The photons run the planet while we proceed
with wrecking things, of course. Illusions of mere light,

its nuts and bolts invisible, are fine by me,
especially now, as May behaves like early March,
dark gray and wet and cold. The winter blues 
still thump like Ahab's wood on my soul's deck.
Sure, lie to me, Old Sun, with visible/invisible
rays of light. Light up things and me with little

quantum particles. Hell yeah. As long as you
come in and stay awhile, and save us once again,
and start the growing season and maybe kindle hope. 

Friday, May 13, 2022

The Bay of Today

In a gray bay, white sailboats
curve across what's for their
sailors now and for us past. 

Our Bay of Today is another
matter; it's blue, chipped
by whitecaps. In what seems

to be a sea of quantum
probability, no thing exists,
and all things just keep

happening. The universe
becomes an eventful
occurrence. Well,

everybody's got their
own lifeboat floating
in what seems like

the moment, with 
its carrots, rocks, and sky
and ways of wondering why. 

hans ostrom 2022

In Feral Times

In feral times, brains tear
into propaganda in rabid
frenzy. Brains fill with rage,
which displaces sense
and empathy. Minds want
to hunt mythic stock prey--
who turn out to be people
just like them. Afterwards. 

In feral times, mirages
cloud minds, blind them 
to facts and finding ways. 
Mobs over-run common 
ground because cults
are total. The wicked

trick the deranged to gain
so little--like pickled
ideology or weary greed.

In feral times, reasoners
don't know what to do.
They wonder if they 
should seek a better place
to live. They tend to stay
to fulfill duties. Once

the Grand Wreckers rise 
to unbound power,
a cycle ensues. It
may end in a shabby
bunker but too late. 
The reasoners know
because they've read
and know what to read. 

hans ostrom 2022

Friday, May 6, 2022

"A Prayer That Will Be Answered," by Anna Kamienska

 Short video/reading of a fine poem by Kamienska (1920-1986), a Polish poet who wrote in other genres as well. This poem appears on many websites and blogs. I rather like it, which is I guess why I recorded it for my Youtube channel (langstonify). Link:

"A Prayer That Will Be Answered"

Thursday, May 5, 2022

The Simulation

What's my role in
the simulation? About
the same as that of a dust
particle on a stage where
actors strut, stomp, 
and sing. I see--then
fatalism's not really 
a choice. It's--It's
nothing, for a pixel
with a philosophy 
is just a pixel. Well,
now this pixel has to
cook a meal. Is that
part of the simulation?
I'm hungry. 

hans ostrom 

Tuesday, May 3, 2022

A Desire of Keys

 And the keys said,
"Let us off this metal ring.
We want to lead our
separate lives, travel
our chosen corridors,
try many locks,
and be seized
by an adventure
of unknown hands
in unknown lands."

hans ostrom 2022

The Lizards of Summer

Summer--lizards liked to live
in the Old Man's rock pile,
as he was a stone mason
and I was his hod-carrier
and they were dry and cool
reptiles. They scampered
then stopped to watch me
watch them scamper. They

might do pushups. They 
always slightly grinned,
thinking of lizard jokes.
So gray, so scaly dry they
were, with plump biceps
and thighs. They raised
families in those rocks.
Passed on lizard knowledge
without saying a word. My
mammal eyes and their
reptile eyes regarded 
each other all bright Sierra

summer. Sometime in
Fall they went to vacation
in dormancy, and I drove
down-down the curling
highway to the Valley
to study in the rigid
buildings of academia. 

hans ostrom 2022

Thursday, April 28, 2022

Bar Codes


Draperies: and some  folds

bunch together. A tired merchant

tugs them across a whole

window  to hide from retail.

On that day rain came straight

down then wind drove it

into mountains like harp-string

nails. We grew desperate for sun.

Was the wall in that baked town

painted white at first, with black

stripes added later? Or black

first, white lines later?

From my roasting room across

the street, I watched black-and-

white TV. It was a documentary

on geometric zebras. 

Wednesday, April 27, 2022

"A Song in Passing," by Yvor Winters

 Video/reading of Winters' short poem. Winters (1900-1968) taught for many years at Stanford University. He was an independent figure in Modern poetry. 

"A Song in Passing"  link to Youtube

Monday, April 18, 2022

Earth Isn't Worried

Lightning-boiled, roiled
clouds and con-thunder-cussed
air, & down here twisted wind
drives cars and houses into trees.

However Earth is calm. Strata
& old parched channels
rest easy underground. Deep
roots clutch bedrock
& ride the sphere-spin.

Layers of clay and gravel,
lava, sand, loam, and petrified
wood lie together like siblings
camping out. Earth isn't worried. 

hans ostrom 2022

Friday, April 15, 2022

"Like the Touch of Rain," by Edward Thomas

 39-second recording/video of the short lyric poem, "Like the Touch of Rain," by Edward Thomas (1878-1917), English/Welsh poet:

"Like the Touch of Rain" video

National Anthems

If you're a nation,
you need an anthem,
which comes with a flag.

Xenophobia's optional.
although it may not
seem so. Musicians

grind through the melodies
like millers making flour.
Anthems seem to take an hour

when you're waiting for the
game or match or memorial
to start. Hand over heart,

hat off, stand up if you can,
pretend to sing along
the way children do--all

up to you. In America's,
of course, bombs and rockets
go off in the midst of civil

war--which never ends. 
People treat anthems with more
respect than they do humans. 

hans ostrom 2022

Thursday, April 14, 2022

Ice Hockey


They're painters on skates

who brush and dab  a cold canvas

they whirl and glide on.

They're sleep-walkers

in pajamas, wandering

on a bright dream's stage--

everyone else in darkness,

looking on, transfixed.

Hornets and wasps

in snarling squads,

swarm out of the nest--

sent mad by one

black fly gliding among

them, a dark dot

playing dead, then jetting off.