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

Unhappy Meal

The soup is thin
and dejected. I console it
while spooning it up.

The bread is dry
and rigid like an
angry pastor.

I introduce it
to the soup,
baptizing it,

and it softens.
The wine's eyes
are bright with tears.

It misses sunshine.
I sip it gently.
This food is sustenance,

I must not complain.
But I cannot deny
that this meal

is in mourning. So
I leap up, kind of.
I flee in search

of a rich dessert
or a witty woman in
a red dress, or both.


hans ostrom 2018

"Spuds"--yes, a potato poem