"Worrier Blues," by Roger Illsley

Frank Sinatra & Quincy Jones How Do You Keep The Music Playing

How do you keep the music playing? (Legrand) | The Choir of Trinity Coll...

The Windmills of Your Mind - Noel Harrison

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.

Khatia Buniatishvili - Pictures at an Exhibition - The Great Gate of Kiev

The Sonnet is a Puzzle in a Box

The sonnet is a puzzle in a box

That sits there on the shelf of poetry.
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.

hans ostrom 2025

Tepper, LISW-S Trump has put targets on their backs

Caramel and Other Surprises

Each day life presents

several surprises. Canned

peas sit on a different shelf

at the grocery store. About

80 million peeple us their votes

to make a rapist, fraud, and 

white supremacist a president--

and they expect good things

to come of it.  

A longtime companion says

she never liked caramel. Ever.

You accuse yourself of stupidity,

therefore. A friend you haven't

seen in years dies, surprise,

and you look away from the 

informing email and out a window

at gray and sigh--all you can manage.

hans ostrom 2025

You’re not afraid of trans women

"Alive Today With You"

Get Together - The Youngbloods - with lyrics

"Open Your Soul to the Stars, " by Roger Illsley (music, guitar, vocals) and Hans Ostrom (piano)

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

The Princess and the Frog

Busker in the Rain

(apparently, the word "busker" springs from the Spanish "buscar," to seek)

He’s just another busker

strumming 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.

hans ostrom, 2025

Elevator and Bus

With strangers, she stepped

into an elevator to be lifted.
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?

hans ostrom, 2025