he likes the licking, among other things

among other things,

I like to lick when she prefers
the licking. I like the licking part.

I like to lick that part of her, those
parts. I like the part where
I lick her--I like it a lot. a lot
of licking I like until and maybe
somewhat after the lick-assisted

crescendo, which may crescend
with some lively, calling out, including
perhaps a shout. most of all,
I like her liking the licking. her
liking the licking's the point, after

all, crescending or not. playfully,
lovingly, artfully licking: I like that
a lot, among those other things I like.

hans ostrom

American Tibetan Singer

North East Ska*Jazz Orchestra - "Take Five"

"Tenorman," by Jack Kerouac

Dancing Freely Away From the Fire

Phone-videos show

women waving hijabs
in the air as they dance
toward a fire, throw
the cloth in, dance away,
lifting their arms freely,
their black hair whirling.

Apparently these adult women
don't want to wear the hijabs.
In which case I would not want
them to wear them
and would feel like a combo
of bully and clown presuming
to tell them what to wear. Me,

I'm an American, looking on,
knowing the Iranian-American
history and thus not eager
to shove swaggering opinions around.

I'm an American married
to a woman with deep Sicilian roots,
so I've had refresher-courses
on not telling women what
to do. And I'm a human being

who knows what exhilarating
freedom looks like when I
see it on a phone-video:
that's enough for me. Naively,
a spectator with no effect,
I hope this is the start of
something big for Persian women.

My Father Wading Toward Me

My father was from that generation of men

who always wore a hat outside.

After he died, I dreamt repeatedly
that he was wading up a small river
toward me, looking to me for help.

We didn't speak. I feared I was
failing him. He wasn't wearing a hat.

Where was his hat?

hans ostrom 2022

"All Hallows," by Louise Elisabeth Glück

"The Waning Moon," by Percy Bysshe Shelley

"True," by Charles Bukowski

"Love is a Fire that Burns Unseen," by Luís Vaz de Camões

"I, Too," Beneath Your Moon, Almighty Sex," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

 Brief reading/video of poem:

Millay poem/video

Some Fable Days

 Sometimes I fall into a fable state,

human-into-animal. Once I walked heavily
away from my job, wagging my heavy head:
elephant. Cackling minions threw pebbles at my
wrinkled buttocks. I could have turned
and run over them. Didn't. Another day--this:

Somebody was talking at me in front
of a group, apparently scoring clever points.

But I'd lost the topic. Wordish noises
from her mouth might as well have been
wind. I was Cat--dozing in the pride
of my mind, not hungry, a little
sleepy, there and not there. Someone
elbowed me when I started to purr--
and before I hissed.

I've spent many days as a badger, digging,
fretting, rooting around, growling to myself,
making a worried mess of my mental
burrow, getting lots of badger-writing done.
Dog, snake, the classic fox....

I tell you, friend, some fable days are sometimes
what I need--to stay human.

(revision) Hans Ostrom 2022

More Popular Than the Beatles

When you visit an abbey,

remember to ask to meet
the Abbess, not the Abyss.

Maybe Hell is the Abyss Mall:
Over a trillion shops, all of them empty.
Hey, they say Jesus, he came back

from the Abyss. I guess he did.
The Comeback Kid--
more popular than the Beatles, for sure.

hans ostrom 2022

Well, Languages?

well, languages, you surround

the world as seas and oceans do,

so where will you take your poets today,
as they get into their homemade boats,

each anchored in a private bay? they will
sail and row into  your currents, tides, and storms.

languages, let them find the words they need
before they go back to their shores and take

what words they found, arrange and rearrange
them to compose the poems made out of them,
                                                  made out of you.

hans ostrom 2022

Her

slightly crooked grin

bright eyes wise

radar for lies
a way of
moving with/under
well chosen clothes

hans ostrom 2022

Entrepreneur

Think of this poem as a new business.

Welcome! How may I help you?

We're running a special sale
on images, including a swollen
big toe, the variegated fur of a
domestic cat, and a freckle
on a woman's lower back. Will
that be cash or credit?

Alas, this business fails
to turn a profit. Isn't that
just like poetry? --Always
thinking of itself and not
the bottom line. What

was Andrew Carnegie's
favorite poem?... Oh, dear:
Thugs sent by this poem's
venture-capital investors
have arrived. (I lied to them,
like a poet.) They want
their money back, plus
the vig. We must escape.
Thank you for your business!
Let's meet up later in a bar--

a bar. Now there's a real
business: trading vessels
of distilled and brewed liquids
for cash, listening to failed
entrepreneurs--and poets
of every kind--tell their woebegotten
tales, wiping the gleaming
dark bar clean. "Last call!"

hans ostrom 2022

Ashes, Ashes, After All

I'm made of ashes,

after all. After all.

If my spirit hangs around
after the party, Life,
it will visit creeks
and forests--and bookstores,
if any should remain.

It will spend time, secretly,
with birds and women.
It will listen to old tales
told by foxes and herons,
horses, wildcats, turtles.

Always cold, it will long
for the heat and the light of the fire.

For after all, I am made of ashes.
I am made of ashes after all.

Fulfillment

 fulfillment

    full feel met
fundamentally filled intent
  not fulfilled until
under moon you two met

one full moment sent
    one filled moment's scent
one full feel you meant
    one too soon full feel

one moonlit dune until
    one due moment, too,
you two duly felt
    loved true
              to
fulfillment

hans ostrom 2022

Homage to Film Noir

The arthritic ceiling fan turns slowly.

Its dull blades cut air, which drips humidity.

The second hand of an old clock
behind the bar grinds minutes
into neon-lit sand, which piles up
in hourly dunes. The jukebox

in a shadowed corner coughs out
brassy swing from brittle records
spinning 78rpm. At the bar, I tip

my hat's brim up, then sip
a shot glass full of rye. As
I swallow the burn,

she walks in from the night.
Black dress, red lipstick,
luxuriant blond hair--tucked back
with a glinting diamond barrette.

She said to meet her here,
so I meet her here and let her
hire me to find her husband
whom the cops won't seek to find
in a city full of persons
missing and presumed....

Of course I know already
she had a hand in killing him
and will try to seduce me
into killing the man who
killed him--who now blackmails her.

She kisses me and leaves her
lipstick brand on my stubbled cheek.
She touches my holstered gun.

The plot will unspool over
a grubby week of shadows
in which I'll get beat up
and legally kill. She'll
coo, then shriek, before the cops
haul her off in rusted cuffs.

I'll keep the cash, which keeps me
going--and coming back here
to sip my rye, and wipe my brow,
and talk to salty dames and broken
strangers about nothing

in this flat sizzling city
built on nothing but a dead dream.
And the ceiling fan keeps turning.

hans ostrom 2022

Artistic Woman

She did and was art--might make and wear

a nurturing kerchief, let's say, or transform
with shears and thread one old dress into one new
shawl. Often she carried a purse full of verse.

Ears and fingers teased light with rings. Food:
not baked or boiled into submission, no:
She concocted it like magic, revealed it with
a flourish, delighted in delicious noises guests

might make while eating. She listened artistically,
seizing well said words. Even with pain,
propped with a cane, she turned a walk into a
subtle scene. Envious dull ones liked to accuse

her of showing off. They were right and wrong.
Off? Not so much. Showing? Sure. For her notion
was that life, a surprise, came from darkness,
showed itself, revised itself: a pageant,

a play, a making, a day to dramatize night,
a quip to set off laughter before darkness fell again.

Alas, the Smokers

I grew up when thick blue

atmospheres hung in diners,
bars, and living-rooms. My
Old Man smoked cigars
and pipes in the house.
The mad uncle I worked
for at a rock-crushing plant
chain-smoked cigarettes
and chewed tobacco
at the same time.

To be ladies, women held
cigarettes a certain way,
blew the smoke straight up
to a ceiling, left red lipstick
on the crushed butts.

Men stubbed out butts
in ashtrays or stepped on
smoking remnants
in the dirt to punctuate
an arguing point: smoking
as rhetorical trope.

Professors smoked cigarettes
in class. My teacher Karl
Shapiro tried to quit
the cigs, took up
a pipe but couldn't keep it
lit. The cardboard matches
piled up as we chewed on
poem-drafts and he looked
on, sometimes waving the pipe
in a flourish like a failed wand.

Smokers look furtive now,
as if they were on parole.
Even in rain, they herd-up
against walls, a regulation
distance from a work-site plinth.
Although I'm not a smoker
of tobacco, I feel sorry for them.

Collaborators of Sex

Whether shameless or shameful,

sex, like a spy agency,

employs collaborators:
such as patience:

you crave to nibble
the flushed apples
of September but must
wait for the sugared
ripeness of October.
Yes, you must get know
and gain the trust of
the one after whom you lust.

Later, urgent desire
arrives and contrives
emergency, thus sirens
of blood
rush to alarmed
sectors of
the body, where engorgements ensue.

Lust and sex: wily composer,
practiced dancer: their coupled
arts tease bodies to arrive
at the frenzied rendezvous
(the show must come-on).

And so, there is crescendo,
a supine peaking, wreaking
the loveliest havoc, coaxing
moans and gasps and extra-lingual
expressions springing from
primeval lessons.

And, of course, those immortal
partners: love and sex:
who concoct and cook,
ladling tenderness,
sprinkling wit--so that
lusty but listless giggles
sometimes spice the act,
as a matter of tact.