He's No Emperor

Well, we have to eat,

even as genocide, rapes,

atomic arsenals, and pious

bigotry persist, destroy, so

I roast beets. With a paring 

knife, I peel off dull hides,

reveal purple fiber of the roots.

Purple ink stains my fingers.

Has anyone painted with beet

juice? Chopped into small

pieces, the beets go in a

hot oven. When they're roasted

soft, I take them out, dribble

honey and shake salt on them,

serve with pasta and a simple

marinara sauce & a green salad,

plus a shared slice of a quick

raisin oat-bread I baked. I like

cooking for me and my wife.

It's a good thing, basic,

necessary. And about all

the influence I have

on the world, for as things

stand, I'm no emperor. 

hans ostrom 2024

Seeds in My Bed

Dark brown seeds
in my bed. From bread.
(Bed is a place for sleep,
books, and sex. Beyond
these three, life does have
a few other highlights.)

The seeds look like tiniest
canoes. I'm going to sleep
beside them because I
am not moved to tidy up.

I won't have the recurring
dream of lying flat in a canoe
and floating down a river,
night, many others floating
in their canoes beside me.

The river rivers me
toward a sunny place where
people seem okay and help
me ashore. Because the

brown seeds made me want
to dream that dream,
the law of dreams will not
let me dream it. Goodnight.


hans ostrom 2019

Unhappy Meal

The soup is thin
and dejected. I console
it while ladling.
The bread is dry, as
rigid as a hateful pastor.
I introduce the bread
to the soup and it
softens. The wine's eyes
are bright with tears.
It misses vineyard
sunshine. I sip it gently.

This is sustenance. I am
grateful for it but
cannot deny it
is a meal in mourning.
Therefore I finish
and leap up, kind of.
I flee in search of
rich desserts or a
witty woman in a red
dress or both.


hans ostrom 2019

"The Anguish," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Bread, Oranges, Cadillac's Fin

*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
At Least I Left Bread and Oranges

At first I didn't think I'd be in
this poem, which set out to accumulate
words representing images neutrally--
blue conifer-hills, black flies pulsing
on a deer's bone, rocking red box
of a medics' truck, mineral-grin of
a Cadillac's fin. . . . The truth is

I didn't have another poem to go to,
so I visited this one. You came in
and discovered me sitting on the old
green couch. --And now there you go,
out the door, slam, and I can't
blame you, but I promise to be gone
by the time that you return, and
I did buy bread and oranges. They
are sitting on the counter.


Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Poem As Very Short Essay; or Essay as Very Short Poem

'Tis the season on many college campuses for students to write many, many essays, a.k.a "papers." Here's a little poem that takes its shape from one shape the essay sometimes takes. The poem first appeared in Willow Springs, a magazine published at Eastern Washington University, which has a fine M.F.A. program in writing.

Bread and Bus: And Essay

by Hans Ostrom

Somebody is always,
always baking bread. It’s
been that way for thousands,
thousands of years.

Additionally, if life
is short, then there is
no such thing as
a long bus ride.

In conclusion, the bus
rolled onto a street
of shops, and we smelled
bread, baking; baking bread.

Copyright 2007 Hans Ostrom

May your day be filled with the smell of freshly baked bread. And if you're working on an essay, good luck.