Ponca City Poem

Centuries later I'd learn
that Ponca refers to a subgroup
of Sioux and their language.

At the time, the car had broken
down in tornado heat,
vomiting oil. On our way

to OKC, we found a mechanic--
a biker with seasoned tattoos
who lit cigarettes with a blowtorch.

His wife ran the place. She was
stylish, wry, and composed
among the invoices, racket,

and grease. We weren't the first
to wonder how she and the sinewed
man came to meet and marry.

None of our business, her smile
assured us, before we could ask
out loud. I'd bet anything,

except the car, they were happy
in Ponca City, which repaired our means
of transport and gave us an anomaly

to ponder down the years. 

Just Plain Hard

Rooted in Oklahoma's winter plains,
unleaved gray-grown trees
graduate from artery trunks
to capillary branches, final
twigs feathering into nothing.

Here people set hard faces
against hard work. At night
neon blooms, blazes--
a reward for getting through
or going to another shift.

Oklahoma, flat and difficult,
cast iron red ground:
look elsewhere for loam. This
is home if you need it to be.
Your choice, maybe.


hans ostrom 2019

Something It Did Not Used to Be

Especially confused by things he understands,
he finds himself in a recreated sector
of Oklahoma City called Bricktown,
which is cheek-by-jowl to Deep Deuce,
Charlie Christian's ground. Bricks

of the newly restored buildings to him
evince a muted somber red that alludes
to tragic mineral compounds
cooked hard and put up wet with mortar.

Restaurants, bars, and shops:
the holy trinity of tourism:
America, here is your culture,
kind of. He told this to nobody
but himself. And nobody
danced except in clubs, nobody
wove carpets, or improvised
sales negotiations, or read
poetry out loud. He understands
exactly why and remains puzzled.
Oh one more thing: "the martini"
had become something it did not used to be.


hans ostrom 2015



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"Oklahoma Is"