Books on a Bed

A small pile of books on a bed.
Six paperbacks, one hardback,
all used, handled. Not so different
from beach debris. Here, says the sea,
here are some stories someone
dropped inside me. They're free.


hans ostrom 2020

Word Warehouse

He always listened to people. (And
to birds, for that matter.) Now that seems
to be all he does--listens, without talking.
He's forgetting how to converse. So

is society, but that's different. Or is it?
He feels like a worker at a word warehouse.
He opens the loading bay, and people
deliver their words, which he shelves.

Sometimes the freighters hang around,
expecting him to say something, so
he tries, and they leave. He's relieved.
He knows he shouldn't be. He stands

listening to the warehouse quietly.


hans ostrom 2020

Classy Sun

All that light today. So generous
of the sun, the only one.
The shape of objects could be known
without touching them: often helpful

A crow poked at a bone,
which shone pearly gray.
I was witness to this and other
tableaux, as sunfalls

poured down and down
and the sun gave as much
of itself as it could. It is
a dedicated, hard-working star.

I waved my appreciation.
The sun acknowledged this
by splashing some light
on my hand. Classy.


hans ostrom 2020

Clark Terry's Ballads

(recording: Clark After Dark)

Come inside, where it's mellow dusk
and bourbon brown. I can turn it into noon
at any time, then back to blurry twilight. All
right, come outside--look: red, yellow, and blue
blossoms still want your attention.  Listen

to vespering birds, hear wordless
words of traffic, of trees in rustle
and streets in hustle. Back inside
we'll take note of desire, climb a set
of stairs, so easily. We might be

caught unawares by something sweet
smiling there in mischievous shadows.
It could be us in mirror. It could be
a woman or a man or a ghost. Or just
the house itself, itself, listening.


hans ostrom 2020

Under a Roof, Wondering

Environmental doom, catastrophic war: these clots
of syllables squat in my mind when my mind

prefers to ponder cold rain coming in from
the Pacific, coming down with uncanny steadiness,

crackling on roofs and windows like spiders
wearing cleats. I order fresher syllables to arrive

carrying different ideas--rivulets, storm, traffic
rush, water (water!) I offer them a hot beverage,

tell them to let their vowels and consonants
rest a while, because I feel like just hanging out

with some words tonight, under a roof, wondering.


hans ostrom 2020

Scene Blue and Green

The scene is blue and green.
Blue like shadow indigo.
Green like pine and fir tree
boughs. Blue and green cover

tall roughly rounded mountains,
ravines between. Air
is almost too fresh to be
other than cherished. The day

is cold and gray. You are cold,
not gray. You see a mist-fog
rise from a quick narrow river
into mountains and ravines,
into green and blue. You think,

the scene is not officially
beautiful, commodity pretty,
but to you superb. You feel

the scene insinuating sadness,
wielding power. Grief
and irrevocable loneliness
seem involved. You
want to go in and get warm
but not enough to leave
the scene of seeing blue and green.


hans ostrom 2020