Showing posts with label blues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blues. Show all posts

Saturday, November 11, 2023

One-Year Old Henry's Blues

   ... start with a higher-
pitched whine followed by grumbles
          low, real low: fussy

Sunday, October 15, 2023

Bayou Blues

 Sulfur yellow sky
seals in obese,
humid air.

Just sitting on
our slumped porch,
us, still we sweat creeks.

A sick boat motor
coughs over there
on the bayou canal.

A sedan drives up.
Looks like a Fed car.
Our neighbors scatter

like water drops
on a griddle. We
have to breathe

this air. We have
to breathe this
here hot, wet air.


hans ostrom 2023

Friday, March 24, 2023

Blue Vine

 

Sinister blue vine

In the jungle of your mind

Reaching out to pull you in

Drag you down to blues again.

Sinister blue vine.

 

I am ashamed

To feel so bad

When life's all right

And things are fine.

 

Still sometimes sadness

Smothers me

Like a wicked jungle vine--

A sinister blue vine.

 

It grabs and grips you

On your path

And pulls you off

Your daily way.

 

It wraps you in

Its greasy branches

Sinks you, drowns you

In quicksand day.

 

Sinister blue vine

In the jungle of your mind

Reaching out to pull you in

Drag you down to blues again.

Sinister blue vine.


Grab a machete

Cut and slash

Rip away that awful vine

Find that path

Too feeling fine. 

Damn that sinister blue vine. 


hans ostrom 2023

Wednesday, June 24, 2020

"Phantom Blues"

A couple years ago I posted a short poem called "Phantom Blues," and I made a recording/video of it. So there's that.  Apologies to Taj Mahal, who has an album called Phantom Blues. And apparently there's a Phantom Blues Band.

a link to the video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xT9EzML0zhY

Thursday, October 31, 2019

Bourbon Street Blues

Bourbon Street's a nightmare
the subconscious mind refused
to publish: too obvious. Frat boys,
sorority royalty, and benumbed
conventioneers move through
the neon chute like cattle. Some
of them yell as if yelling had
just been invented.

To thrive, the clubs must be
as loud as train wrecks. Batter
their ears, three-personed band.
At 4:00 a..m. there's a funeral
for moonlight smothered by clouds.

Sex workers and pickpockets
count their wages. Obligato
snarls from a fat motorcycle
finish off kitschy rituals.
Solo buskers and Black kids
who beat on plastic buckets
make the only tunes worth
listening to. People make
a living here. That's the point,
really the only point.


hans ostrom 2019

Monday, July 29, 2019

Dog in the Rain

Sometimes you feel like a dog in the rain.
Right at that point when the dog's
too tired to make its fur
shake off water. When the dog
aches to smell warmth
and what's hiding inside it.

The dog knows that if going
inside will happen,
it won't be soon because
dogs smell time and know
such things. So the dog
lowers its head and keeps
going to where clouds fall
apart and it can lift up its head again.


hans ostrom 2019

Tuesday, January 16, 2018

Dutiful Blues

He saw that she,
like him, was locked
into an acceptable life
that held no interest
anymore. They

exchanged polite
comments, maybe
at a cafe or on the job.
The glances they
shared never found

words because words
can involve truth
and risk. Each had
decided to plod
along their separate,

acceptable paths.
Both were made sluggish
by the weight of
boredom and
frustration. Their

existential crisis remained
bland--never boiled over.
Poignant that both
saw in the other a case
of the dutiful blues.


hans ostrom 2018