"The Peace of Wild Things," by Wendell Berry

From a Diary of the Plague Year (9)

A circus of emotions these days.
Under the big top, round and round
the cranium the white horse goes,
his acrobatic rider showing sinews.

The value of worry, like the stock
market, has plummeted. I feel
like a hobo who jumped off a train
of events and watched it

go by and away. Now
what, I thought. Not a question.


hans ostrom 2020

"Worry Wins"

I have worried about the sky,
which doesn't exist.
I've worried about rain,
which is none of my business.

I was trained to worry,
to give a shit,
as the American colloquialism goes.

Not that giving a shit
ever made me effective
at righting wrongs or lefting
righties or injecting decency
into the smug corpse called power.

Now I'm exhausted. Worry
has done won. I care in theory.
In practice I don't give a shit.
Thus I have energy to watch
the twitter-feed, and that's
about it.

It isn't relaxation. Nor
is it fatalism, for I don't
have the juice even to philosophize,
either. That's some sad shit.
Even despair is asking
too much from me. It takes
effort to give up hope.

I'm an old dog lying on a porch
in summer. I can smell
developing events, and my
neck-hairs might rise. But
I can't-won't get up
when that raccoon waddles
past the place, chirping.

Well, maybe tomorrow. Yeah,
maybe tomorrow I'll write a
letter to the editor. And send
it? Wow. Join a march? Lend my
body to a protest, scrape
together some solidarity?
Tell a racist to fuck off!
Today I can't seem to get off
my ass. The situation is
troubling. I'm worried.


hans ostrom 2015

"Worrisome Quatrain," by Hans Ostrom

Worrisome Quatrain

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Worrisome Quatrain

I like to worry about
things I can't control.
It works as well as eating
from an empty bowl.



Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom

Important Contacts

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Important Contacts

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Talk to the wind, the perfect listener. It

will carry your words with it gladly. Rant

your rage at fire, the perfect anger. Fire

consumes even itself. Worry with Winter,

the perfect concern, the chill-factor. It

will fold your fears into its cold clouds sadly.

Connive with the sun, which loves news

and gossip and tries to get around to visiting

with everyone at some point every day.

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Copyright 2009 Hans Ostrom