Conductors, You and I

Me and you, protons

and electrons through and 

through atoms that compose

our noses and toes. We

give off light and heat, you

know, of course you know,

oh omnivorous power plants

are we as we with our flows

of energy, heating each other

up in beds and other close

quarters, which is why

windows of cars and buses

fog up and sweat and even

trickle tears. Conductor

of electricity, today I shall try

to sluice my energy

appropriately in public and in

this wired-up, copper-webbed

abode, this wireless, fireless

cave. It's kind of exciting

to my neurons to have a bit

of lightning coursing through

what one calls one's brain,

which rewires itself in sleep to dream.

Hans Ostrom 2024

All Electric Poem

This poem used to sound

like a gargling dinosaur,

for it ran on petrol. Now

it's all electric and whirs

like an old cat's throat.

My friend rode with me--

she said, "You know, 

the poetry rush hours

will soon go quiet, will

slither soundlessly along

like traffic pythons."

Home now. I've plugged

in the poem to solar

power. It's sipping electrons,

blithely ignorant of

Daytona, of Monaco. 

hans ostrom 2021

Found Towns Lost

In daylight tiny
rural towns pretend
not to feel foolish
and depleted. There's
activity. An enthusiastic
conversation or two.
Errands and repairs.

At night streets
(such as they are)
become empty corridors
because people give
up, go inside, and
refuse to be towns-
people, too ridiculous.

Some shops weep,
others moan. If electricity
goes there at all, it
races through power
lines hoping not to be
used there. Before

dawn, animals file
through in a loose
parade.  Raccoons,
stray dogs, feral
cats, owls, and sometimes
a coyote. The stoic church
bell sweats rust, and
all the glory's in ornate
tombstones on a hill.


hans ostrom 2017