Was Here

 in memory of J.L.B., "JImmy"

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."

hans ostrom 2025

A Quick Fog

Today's fog seems like a soul

caught in a purgatory,
shunned by earth, air, fire,
and water but also of all four.

It rises up out of earth,
tumbles from air, fills itself
with water, and imitates smoke.
Today it rides down from hills

in San Diego, cools the brown
young women in scant bikinis
and the young men trying
to impress them. It blocks

the dropping dun. It wants
to befriend the moon's waves,
which ignore it and pound
the beach. Right before dusk,

the fog lifts, leaves like a hobo
hopping a train to Mexico.

At Del Mar Beach

At Del Mar Beach, waves

rush, colliding, hurry-hurry,
riding on high tide. They

nibble and chew at clay
banks below multi-million
ducat mansions. Black-suited

surfers look like flies on foam.
Joggers and cyclists pad and pedal
perpendicular to the sand.

I sit and listen to the ocean's
constant secret speech, never
able to translate it, but

mesmerized, almost absorbed,
by it. An ocean is
the grandest siren of them all.

About the Photo

Yes, with my long legs and sturdy feet,

I strode into that arrythmic surf,
which tries to cover tracks.
It left two. Sharp ones, too.

Darling, you may wonder
who took the snapshot
and why in black-and-white.
And perhaps more existentially,

did I come back? From what?
I'd ask in my annoying way.
Did I turn left, did I turn right,
did I float out of sight or into jaws

of slashing sharks? This note
may confirm or deny uncertain
hypotheses. You know me,

I love to tease.

*note: the image is of a "found photo" posted on tumblr

hans ostrom 2022

Sand

Shapes of accumulated sand
reminded us we live among and are
insconstant forms:
a dune arcs, sags, collapses, reappears,
swells. We're

spending one long shifty afternoon
at a beach. Waves
unload more sand, delivery after
delivery. Land
tries to give it back. Projections

suggest the entire province
soon will be composed of sand.
What is soon? What is
a province? We're delirious

and barefoot. That lump there
used to be a castle. That
ocean there is coming for us.


hans ostrom 2020

Oyster Shells

(near Hoodsport, Washington)

Otters, people, and seabirds covet
the plump valved purse
inside the casing, so every tide
leaves a pale gray rubble

of pillaged oyster shells,
which look like shards
of cloud that fell and
hardened.  Exterior:

rough sculpted, abstract,
ruffled at the edges
like concrete lace.
Some shells still embrace

a stone, creating a tactile
drama of inanimate passion.
It might remind us
that nature's an agony.

Oyster shells seem to ask
to be rescued and given value
in an economy. We pick some
up and carry them around a

while. They're fascinating
and worthless.


hans ostrom 2017

No Answer to the Ocean

It's like this, maybe: A tide comes in.


It brings things you come to believe.


There they are, objects on glassy sand.


They're what's come of all your coping.


A stone, a crab-shell, a worn piece of


wood, a string of kelp. They're no answer


to the ocean. They don't add up to a code.



You keep walking on the beach,


trying to figure things out. There's


nothing wrong with that--walking,


wondering. What are you hoping for?





Hans Ostrom