Avocado

And here we have 

a globular gem

encased in a clear

sunrise over bright

green hills. All is 

finished in fine,

pebbled leather

that ages toward black.

The name became

hybridized, starting

as the native plant

ahuacatl, shifting into

aguacate, settling

into avocado, 

which resonates

with the sound 

of a secret and just

society.

After disassembling

and devouring one,

we always wish to do

something with the hard

sphere surviving--

perhaps invent a sport

around it, such as

avocado billiards

or symbolic soccer.

But we feel a bit 

lethargic after ingesting

yellow and green.

Waking from a nap,

we notice once again

that the little brown

planet has left our

solar system. 

hans ostrom 2020

Garbanzo Opera

When I was six, garbanzo
beans felt like grainy
mud-pebbles to my mouth.
They tasted like a menacing

nothing. When I picked
them out of a salad
and marched them to the edge
of the plate, a parent's

order became inevitable:
"Finish them." Finishing them,
I gagged. They became
soft bullets of

esophageal assassination.
Now I love the little
bastards. I bathe them
in olive oil, bequeath

unto them garlic and pepper.
I now know their nom de
guerre: chick peas.
People may not

change, but their taste-
buds do, and I would pay
good money to go to
see a garbanzo opera.



hans ostrom 2013

"Spuds"--yes, a potato poem