"Alive Today With You" (song)

Recording of Roger Illsley performing "Alive Today With You," for which he wrote the music, and I wrote the lyrics:

link:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv6djgQLPEU

From A Diary of the Plague Year (15)

People are making
each other sick.
They're always
making each other sick,
and now the plague.

I'm sure in the lost
notes of Moses and
background material
for other religions
we'll find discarded
commandments,
entreaties, and revelations
along the lines of
Don't make each other sick.

A brainless virus is making
us make each other sick.
Hold the hubris.

After we corral this epidemic
(said the American), we need
a new treaty in which all
countries agree not to make
each other sick if they can
help it. They can help it.

I am convinced (and I
daresay so are you) that
in spite of recent setbacks
we're headed for a healthier
phase of so-called civilization.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (14)

I've been saying
encouraging words
to my body. Telling it,
without evidence (this
is a national trend),
that it will fight the Virus
just fine if things should
come to that. My body

doesn't listen to me. I'm
unreliable. The body
has its own life, writes
its own memoir. It is
a republic of cells
devoted to an oxygen cult.
I'm not privy to the council's
deliberations on this virus.

Many times I have been
told, "Listen to your body."
Well, my body talks
too much. It's my turn
to be heard.


hans ostrom

From a Diary of the Plague Year (13)

Sometimes I'm inside
hiding from the virus.
Sometimes I'm outside
hiding from the virus,
digging in the dirt around
fledgling vegetables
and forming flowers.

Inside or outside,
I also try to hide from
celebrities. Their faces,
peccadilloes, opinions,
and posts swarm. They're
not the norm but the fame
machine tries to make us
famished, hungry for
manufactured news

of celebs. It makes me
febrile, celebraphobic,
vised in by the virus
and the famous. I don't
know who most of them
are but must react as if I do.

Inside, old time reading
helps, hefting a book of words.
Outside, the worms and crows
and trees and fleas are not
famous and I am treated
as just another beast.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (12)

(song)

When I see us back then
We're laughing in the sun
Back when we were young
And thought the other
Was the one. 

Now that the plague's descended
Priorities amended
I thought I'd beat the rush,
Reach out and get in touch
After so long.

Sorry I mocked your favorite song
And broke your bestest bong
You cooked the clutch on
My silver green Camaro
And stole my cherished vinyl
of Ravel's Bolero.
This all seems so funny
After so long, so long ago.

[repeat chorus]

Hey, I'm glad you married Craig
Hey, please don't catch the plague
I hope this letter is okay
If not, I know you'll say
So, love from so long ago
After so long ago
Some days were great, you know?
Some nights so fierce, although
Our futures were not ever
Meant to be together

[repeat chorus]


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (11)

Kangaroos boppin and hoppin
through Aussie towns,
wild boars busting loose
in Barcelona, mountain
goats getting grub in Welsh
villages. O, come all ye
species into empty human spaces
the plague has opened up for you.

Smog clears, the moon's
asthma's under control,
and the sun can dispense
with its monocle. Baby
sea turtles samba down
an empty beach, sand to sea,
small and free.

Rabbits in suburbia rejoice
Eagles monitor impromptu
migrations from CEO chairs
set up on the wind. Pet dogs
and cats form revolutionary
cells, having caught some
scents of rising wildness
from outside.


hans ostrom 2020

From A Diary of the Plague Year (10)

Me, with machete,
chopping methodically at a jungle
of myths and lore,
breaking news and pointless views.
I'm headed and footed
to a village in search of clarity.
I'm told they reach consensus
about facts there. Does
such a paradise really exist?

Magnetic North still tells
my compass needles where
to settle down. My body
still needs water. Facts
are beautiful. Check
them. Check on them.
Cherish them.



hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (9)

A circus of emotions these days.
Under the big top, round and round
the cranium the white horse goes,
his acrobatic rider showing sinews.

The value of worry, like the stock
market, has plummeted. I feel
like a hobo who jumped off a train
of events and watched it

go by and away. Now
what, I thought. Not a question.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (8)

Maybe birds like it
that we're nesting in place.
Their song-jabber's intense
this year. Like they're saying
We like the change of pace!

They're out there sampling
the Spring buffet, gathering
building materials, telling
migration jokes, nibbling
on suet pie, passing anti-cat
legislation. Spring

is bird time, citizens. They
are the bosses. If I make it to
next year, I will remember that.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (7)

I went outside in the dark just
to be out. A warm western wind
tricked me into thinking,
Everything's going to be all right.
It's good to fall for that intuitive
prank sometimes. Softens
the fatalism. I looked out at

cheap solar lights I'd placed
on the perennially flowered
slope, a private bee resort
in summer. Bees, I thought,
if only bees would show up.

I went back inside to shelter
in place, a phrase of our moment.
I held a good thought (useless,
I know) for people forced
to shelter out of place.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (6)

The plague has us hunkered,
crouched socially behind boundaries.
The Scots started using hunker
as a verb sometime after 1700.
They may have grabbed it from
a stash of Norse words hidden
in on a heath somewhere. Hunker,

a swift ax blow of a word,
splits the syllables of
"observe social distancing"
and turns them into kindling.

Useful when, in your exhaustion
from holing up in your worry-den,
you can manage only a few
morphemes of talk or test:
"We're hunkered down. Love, Us."


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (5)

Someone said to someone
as they walked by at the appropriate
pandemical remove, "Why
isn't the inactivity more uncontrived?"

The other person replied, "Is that
really what it said?"

As I was already uncontagiously
past them, I had to make up answers:
"Because we're dealing with actors" and
"No, but that's what she said it said."

Anti-social distancing is turning my life
into a French experimental film
from 1977. I'm grateful.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (4)

The universe occurs
all over again always
now and then. The bustling
biological fuzz on Earth's
crust crackles. Humans
pursue strategies for hiding
from something they can't
see, a maddening minute
enemy. Other forms
of life--birds, fish--
stay busy with their
evolved tasks and necessary
ambitions. I pretend to draw
a box around it all
and call it Today.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (3)

Planting yarrow on a hillside--
glimpsed a lone eagle just overhead.
It locked its wings to an updraft,
parked, scanned. I saw its
head tilt toward me. And the eyes.

I won't say I felt hunted. I will
say I stood up and tried to convey
maximum respect. The bright
white of the bird's head flashed
like snow on the Olympic Range,
also visible today--its sharp
peaks bunched together like a
stone chorus. The eagle

coasted in circles--stiff wind
not more than an obedient
servant. Rotating its body
and wings, it was off to complete
rounds, diagnosing the ground.

Predatory, pristine, supreme,
remote, austere: eagle,
above our clotted fretting
down here.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (2)

The wind wants to play
today, coming in at all
angles. Clouds look weary,
sagging low, slow, spilling
a few raindrops like a drunk
pulling change out of a pocket.

As to the unnatural world:
people seem humbled by
the pall of the plague, as if
their ambition and certainty
had turned into old castoff toys.

Mainly we seem to be doing
what humans do when not
prodded into social madness:
one foot in front of the other, using
one or many wheels moving things,
caring about and for others,
gathering good information,
wondering how long good sense
will last.


hans ostrom 2020

From a Diary of the Plague Year (1)

For the moment plague
appears to us here in headlines,
broadcasts, and rumor. I wonder
if it will visit my lungs soon.
And kill me. My worry spreads

to family, friends, refugees,
homeless ones. By the time
it reaches my minuscule sense
of everyone it dissipates.

For the moment plague
turns gel into a verb and makes me
rub my hands together a lot
like a fly.

For the moment plague's pall
is subtle. Everyone looks
distracted as if they're doing math
problems in their head. Stock
markets stop pretending they're
rational systems. The grotesque
President of the moment
babbles in the high fever
of his stupidity. Crisis crawls
for the moment. It will
get up and start to walk,
to jog, . . . .


hans ostrom March 9 2020