Thursday, March 6, 2025
Wednesday, March 5, 2025
Ceiling Fan
slashing at air
but never wounding it.
The room breathes
mild breezes.
Mount Rainier, Morning Commute
snaking lines of pale yellow
lamps and ruby red ones:
commuting traffic.
Immense, the volcano
Mount Rainier dwarfs
our rolling frenzy. This
morning the mountain
appears as a roughly sketched
triangle, all of it a back-lit
blue, two-dimensional, that
little tell-tale notch at the top
where one day, one night,
the molten inner Earth
will travel up and out,
blast ash, spew lava, rain
boiling mud on our busy silliness
down here on this plain.
Tuesday, March 4, 2025
Was Here
Sprinkle some of his ashes
in Mobile Bay. Watch
them float away past piers
on their way
to the Gulf of Mexico and forever.
Sprinkle some more
in Perdido Bay. He found
good trouble there
back in the day.
Take what's left. Say
the 23rd Psalm, sing
"Amazing Grace" with
seven unsure voices.
Watch a marlin too close
to shore leap out of water,
its whole blue-green body flashing
in sunlight. Sprinkle
the very last outside a saloon,
the Floribama, big and loud
and squatting on state bounder-
lines. He loved the place
so much he left his name
there years ago,
and added "was here."
Yes, walk out onto the bright
white sand, past the bikinis
and brown bodies, past
the hoisters of beer and rum.
Yes, drop the last
of his body's dust
into royal blue Mobile
waters as the wind pries
up a few white-caps.
Turn away, walk through
the bars and gift shops,
past the thumping country
cover band, out to the cars.
Drive away and one day, one
night, think "we were there once."
Monday, March 3, 2025
Monday, February 24, 2025
Friday, February 21, 2025
Thursday, February 20, 2025
RABBIT HOLE, by Crystal Ignatowski
I just finished reading Crystal Ignatowski's fine books of poems, Rabbit Hole, from Cathexis Northwest Press. It is a superb book. The poems contain several rabbit holes (a la Alice in Wonderland)--tragic or empty relationships, difficult questions of identity, and unsatisfying sexual adventures, for instance.
The poems have what one might call "edginess," but is hard-earned, not faked, but also not indulged.
The poems come to us in clear, crisp free verse, but they come with maturity, depth, and sophisticated thought--as well as terrific imagery.
I've already started re-reading the poems--that may be one of the truest signs of good poetry.
Crytal took poetry writing from me in college many, many years ago, and she has just kept on writing. She has discipline and patience.
I hope you and/or your library (at your suggestion) will get a copy of Rabbit Hole. You'll enjoy the book. Congratulations, Crystal.
Tuesday, February 18, 2025
The Sonnet is a Puzzle in a Box
Of course the form has taken many knocks,
In part because of its ubiquity.
Indeed, as here, one writes about the form
When writing in it: ah, meta-verse,
It seems, became a while back the norm.
Some think it makes the sonnet even worse.
The sonnet lends itself to poise and pace,
And yet one feels quite rushed to make a point:
Iambic sprint, three quatrains in a race.
The last two lines, however, own the joint.
Well, here we are. This is the thirteenth line.
This sonnet says its feeling fairly fine.
Sunday, February 16, 2025
Thursday, February 13, 2025
Caramel and Other Surprises
Wednesday, February 12, 2025
Tuesday, February 11, 2025
Monday, February 10, 2025
Sunday, February 9, 2025
The Superb Owl
reposting one from 2015
(super bowl)
What is this superb owl
that everyone's talking about?
It sounds fantastic. I would
like to watch it, to see it glide
in moonlight across
a clearing, alighting in a grove.
Well, yes, of course, we may hold
a superb owl press-conference
and attend superb owl parties!
I don't yet know what in particular
the superb owl even better
than other owls I've seen.
I will not quit until I find out.
In the meantime, let be known
that near barns and in woods,
in city parks and gullies,
on plains and in mountains,
I am a fan of the superb owl,
its perfect wingspan cutting
silently, like longing,
through the air.
hans ostrom
copyright 2015
Tuesday, February 4, 2025
Busker in the Rain
singing on the corner
down on First and Main.
Seven people listen,
Looks like four will clap.
Look, one drops some coins
In that old black hat.
He’s played like this
Around the world,
Belgium to Berlin,
Paris to St. Paul.
He might move on
To Tulsa, or to
the metro, Montreal.
Yeah, it’s hard to find
A gig in a coffee house or bar.
Well, that’s the way it is
So he’s a sidewalk star.
Folk and rock and pop,
Jazz and country, too.
Someone drops paper money--
Time to nod, "Thank you."
Buskers play like this
All around the world,
Ireland to Spain,
Paris to St. Paul.
They might move on
To Tulsa, or to
the metro, Montreal.
He used to have a dog
But sadly it's has passed on.
The blues tunes made him
Moan. That old dog’s name
Was Don.
A woman listens hard
He can see her sigh.
That feels pretty good,
It’s true—he cannot lie.
If that woman walks up
And tosses in a bill,
That will help him eat:
A different kind of thrill.
The cities of the world
Are the troubadours’ abode.
They’re out there playing now
On this street or that road.
Stand or sit, play and sing—
That is the busker’s code.
Elevator and Bus
Doors closed, doors opened:
onto a bus where she sat
riding with new strangers.
"I didn't want this," she said
to a gray-haired woman.
"No one does," said the woman.
Then everyone began to sing
a song she did not know.
"I'm scared," she said to
a weary, kind brown man.
"It is all right," he said.
"This is the bus we're on,
and all of us are frightened?
Friday, January 31, 2025
The Goddess Dusk
goddess infused with gold
light, luxuriant in liquid
soft warmth.
hans ostrom 2025
painting by Alphonse Mucha (1899)
Thursday, January 30, 2025
Sine Qua Non
for phrasing. Blank stare,
bunched brow, light in eyes--
words stored in neural bins,
plucked out, strung like beads,
then shipped in blood-drawn
carts along nervous roads
to mouth and tongue and
lips: "Sine qua non--that's it."
And the listenerr repeats:
"Sine qua non--right."
Monday, January 27, 2025
Winter Samba
(song lyric)
I find I need to feel my feet
On Ipanema sand
And see the supple bodies -
So lithe and tawny tan.
I conjure up Brazilian heat -
And sense the
sultry sun.
I crave the fiery chill
of
Cold rum on my tongue.
Play
a winter samba
To
melt my soul’s cold ice.
A
soft & sultry samba -
The
sound of paradise.
Play
a winter samba
That
sways just like a palm
Beside
a breezy beach -
The
ocean bright and calm.
Winter wears me down
-
The city’s gray and cold.
The forecast every day’s
The old same-old same-old.
Who are all these strangers
Who sneeze and cough on me?
I spend my evening shivering,
In front of the TV.
Chorus
Buffalo and Cleveland,
Detroit, Ontario.
Winter wants to strangle them.
Winter won’t let go.
Seattle and Chicago,
Berlin and Paris, too.
The rain and snow and darkness
Dye all our spirits blue.
How much are flights to Rio?
Okay - I’ll check
online.
Do I have Brazilian cousins
Who own a silver mine?
Chorus
Sunday, January 26, 2025
This Side of the River
Over many seasons
I waited and waited
for the river's waters
to recede so that I
might safely cross,
perhaps by using
boulders as stepping
stones. Perhaps
by sloshing throw
a manageable
current. The water
never lowered.
If I tried to wade, I'd
drown. If I rowed
a boat, the waterfall's
catract would
devour me. No bridges
in sight. Thus
I announced to
myself that this side
of ther river
is the place I want
to be--my destination,
my desire, my smoke
and my fire. I love
it over here!
hans ostrom 2025
Friday, January 24, 2025
Counter-Invictus
Out of the day that covers me,
Gray as the gray of dull wool,
I think what gods may hang around
To remind me I'm a fool.
When things have gone quite wrong,
I've acted well or badly or okay,
Up to the challenge sometimes, sometimes
Not: One can't predict which way.
Beyond this sphere of our mortality,
Lies who knows what for sure?
Hell, yes, I am afraid to die,
To go forever from Is to Were.
To say you are the Captain of
Your fate is bluster or delusion
For accidents happen all the time.
And Captains sail into confusion.
If there is such a thing as Fate,
Then It is the big fleet's Admiral,
And we, alas, at best passengers.
So how much can we control?
New Retail
Walking in Snow
that you're heaving breath,
that your feet sink with each step,
that your face gets raw from cold.
Watch your lungs make clouds.
Listen to wind stir trees
and see it tease
boughs into dumping snow.
A deep blue, black-headed
Steller's jay lands on a liberated
branch. And cack-cack-cackles.
This small unclothed, unshod
creature finds hilarity in snow
You do not.
Do not.
Just don't.
Thursday, January 23, 2025
Today, In Its Way
On this street, by that purple tree.
With those birds,--black, blue,
speckled, gray. orange.
It leads me to eat this daily bread,
not bread made of promises or dread,
of regrets, threats, or plans, but of
Now's flour, water, yeast, and salt.
Today softly slaps my face
and tells me what people
I must help, what people
help me. Don't go messin'
around with other days,
you dumb ass, says today.
In its way.
Cloud Honey
like fine sunrises. In squadrons
bees took off from every land
to fly up there. Later in the season,
bee hives rose like temples.
Honey drizzled down on us.
Sweet rain. Was it sticky,
golden brown, and sweet?
Was it problematic? Oh,
yes, oh yes it was indeed.