Silver Boat, Golden Sea

hey stray dog: nobody's

going to let you in.

though human, you 

own a sad canine karma.

hope will only mock you

later. turn back to streets,

lots, woods, or a one-room

apartment. enjoy pungence

and meals for one. watch

the moon get stuck 

in leafless branches. dream

you're captain of a silver

boat upon a golden sea,

a faithful friend at your side. 

hans ostrom 2021

"maggie and milly and molly and may," by e.e. cummings

 One by cummings from later in his career, reading and video:

link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cu8Frf5FHNA

Sand

Shapes of accumulated sand
reminded us we live among and are
insconstant forms:
a dune arcs, sags, collapses, reappears,
swells. We're

spending one long shifty afternoon
at a beach. Waves
unload more sand, delivery after
delivery. Land
tries to give it back. Projections

suggest the entire province
soon will be composed of sand.
What is soon? What is
a province? We're delirious

and barefoot. That lump there
used to be a castle. That
ocean there is coming for us.


hans ostrom 2020

Books on a Bed

A small pile of books on a bed.
Six paperbacks, one hardback,
all used, handled. Not so different
from beach debris. Here, says the sea,
here are some stories someone
dropped inside me. They're free.


hans ostrom 2020

Seagulls in Snow

Seagulls in snow step
with authority and bulk
like army officers
from the 18th century.

Their shrieks turn into
mad laughter that shreds
the insulated calm following
flurries. Sometimes

they sit on white
as swans float on water.
In search of food,
they chop at a drift

with heavy yellow
beaks: cutting tools.
The failure of snow
to surge, swirl, pulse,

pound, slap, and leap
like the sea soon bores
them. They jump into
wind then and glide

and fly forthrightly
back to a bay and cliffs
and the raucous, slow
riot of the shore.


hans ostrom 2019

The Sea Has Its Say

Seas always have their say.
Winds and rivers, too.
They're preparing new things
to tell us, even as
we think we've heard it all.


hans ostrom 2018

Off Your Coast

It looks like I'm just off your coast,
cold in a boat. A night sea's no fun.
A buoy bobs like a clown's head.
Let me into your harbor, please,

not because I imagine I love you
but because I'm cold and you
are warm. Simple as that.
Your lighthouse seems delighted

to see me. I'm turning my back
on it now and rowing. I don't
know if you'll be on the beach.
I know how I'll fee if you are.



hans ostrom 2018

I Thought Broth

I'm trying to understand
why I'm writing about broth.
Was it your idea?

I thought broth, and then--
here I am, wrangling
words about it.

Broth is good, right?
It's basic and pays
due respect to water.

The word itself, Broth--
excellent. Could even
represent a Nordic figure--

Broth, son of Erik the
Ambivalent. You know,
I think I'll leave it there,

bring this broth boat
back to port beside a warm
and salty sea.


hans ostrom 2018

Catfish and Koi

There are always women
swimming in the sea somewhere.
To me this is a comforting thought.
Thoughts that comfort us move
into and out of our thinking
calmly, like catfish or koi.
It isn't necessary to catch them.
It is preferable not to.


hans ostrom 2017

Oyster Shells

(near Hoodsport, Washington)

Otters, people, and seabirds covet
the plump valved purse
inside the casing, so every tide
leaves a pale gray rubble

of pillaged oyster shells,
which look like shards
of cloud that fell and
hardened.  Exterior:

rough sculpted, abstract,
ruffled at the edges
like concrete lace.
Some shells still embrace

a stone, creating a tactile
drama of inanimate passion.
It might remind us
that nature's an agony.

Oyster shells seem to ask
to be rescued and given value
in an economy. We pick some
up and carry them around a

while. They're fascinating
and worthless.


hans ostrom 2017

Stingrays

Small stingrays propel floating
as if they were broad flesh-leaves
rising from secret forests on the sea
floor. How can their skin be so softly
liquid to the touch? How can the edges
of their bodies undulate and curl so subtly?
The rays move like intuitive insight
through the mind of the water. They
are a marvelous surmise.


hans ostrom 2017

"Silver Glide," by Hans Ostrom

In the silver car
you're driving, where
did you get it, we snake
gracefully on a highway
that follows the curves
of hills near the sea,
hills embroidered with lights,
lights lining streets
and avenues. And the sense
of the sea in the dark.

And yes I know tomorrow
the car will be stolen,
you will blame me even
though you are my alibi,
and I will sit on a hot
sidewalk, staring
into sunlit murk of mist
and smog. But tonight it
is, will be, and was good,
a silver ride, a generous
glide through oblivion.


hans ostrom 2014

"Four By the Clock,' by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

"Towards Evening," by Hans Ostrom