Kind of Blue

 ("Kind of Blue," Miles Davis album, 1959)

kind of blue, sweetly

  sad, tart despair.

kind of blue, like

  you, when you don't

know what to do or

  how to stop or slow

the world's deluge

  of evil but must step

around deep inert

  blue to finish chores,

open doors, lend a

  hand. kind of blue--

like a lonely, thoughtful

  trumpet blown

by a man deep 

  inside the music--

a spirit inside

 an ear-shaped cave.

hans ostrom 2024

Having a Word with It

I'm never quite sure of who you are,
depression. I ought to hate you. I don't.

It's like you're some kind of gray-garbed
circuit judge. You ride into town, glower
down at me, then summon me to a cold

brown room where we sit silently.
You like it fine. I start to stare

into a pit I've hallucinated.
Eventually you leave. Or seem to.
When they finally sort out all
the brain science, your current name,

depression, will seem as quaint
as a Model T. Anyway, . . .


hans ostrom 2016

“On Dürer’s Melancolia," by William Watson

Grief-Bushes

(image: boxwood hedges; the Latin name for boxwood is Buxus japonica, I think)

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Bold Talk

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I buried several sadnesses, not knowing

they considered themselves to be seeds.

They broke through ground and grew

into grief-bushes that shadows fertilized.

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Today, I had about enough of them,

so I snipped and chopped. I yanked

out roots. I stood there like a plow-horse

lathered in sweat, too tired to be sad

or happy, with just enough energy left

to vow never to sow sadness again.

Yes, I vowed. Bold talk.

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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom