Traveling Through the Dark

William Stafford reads Scars

A MUST SEE FOR EVERY AMERICAN - A Powerful Interview

"Friends Who Have Failed," by Alan Williamson

"Down Where I Am," by Langston Hughes

"Herman Melville in Dreams, Moby Dick in Reality," by Richard Brautigan

"sorrows," by Lucille Clifton (1936-2010)

"at home," by Carter Monroe

"Henry River Poem 13," by Tim Peeler

Zen Golf

re-posting one from a while ago

Zen Golf


Bow to the ball. Apologize
in advance for striking it.
Hit it with your favorite
club in any direction.
It's all a Hole out there--
the course, the world,
reality. Therefore, you

can't not hit a hole in one.
Going dualistic for a moment,
the bad news is that no one
keeps score. Even if someone
did count the strokes, there's
nothing to win. Good news
on the dualistic scale: You're

outside, the club in your hand
gleams, a bird craps on a
rich man's head, and....


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

Big Guitar Blues

Big Guitar Blues

   Inspired by three works of art (assemblage and acrylic paint) by Becky Frehse:  

Col Legno Battuto, Divisi á Due, and Playing By Heart (2010)

An old guitar enlarges, disrupts my evening, goes

through the roof, and multiplies its frets on up. I fetch

a step-ladder and start climbing between the d

and f strings. In night-air soon wind strums strings

and they buzz me to my bones. It doesn’t take long

to climb past that circular cave-mouth (weird echoes)

and get  too high—nice view of city lights: I feel

as if  I had to mention  that. Knuckles numb,

I start to hum a song I think the strings imply,

as now I hear all six and keep on climbing. Where

does this neck end? Won’t neighbors have reported

this by now? Mist has wetted frets. I slip, barely

hook my elbow on the pipe-sized string, recover.

I’m old, cold, and tired. Now one by one, each string

groans like a different-voiced, mournful beast. Somewhere

in clouds, some picker’s  tuning up. O man, O woman,

I got me some of them gargantuan guitar blues,

and I got my slippers on, not shoes.

Hans Ostrom 2011

Of Time and the Poets

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Of Time and the Poets

While Since was settling its accounts
with time, Then subsequented right on
down the line. Because pretended to be be
more than it was, as Correlation made
a difference and created some buzz.

Later, when Eventually, Never, Seldom,
and Once raided the place, narrative
lost face, story-tellers interrupted each other,
and poets withdrew to a corner where
Not-That-Much happens any time
it desires; where plots are as tedious
as blueprints, and Immediately shouts,
Can I get an Amen? and Might I Have a Beer?

Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

Dusk: Rabbit

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Dusk: Rabbit

Came home from work at dusk.
Saw a rabbit on the grass.
Turned off the car, its lights.
Got out of the car, closed the door.
Was weary. --Long day with humans.
Expected rabbit to run, sound of slamming door. No.
Talked to rabbit, rabbit not having run. Rabbit
Stared. Still. I
Said, "Hey, what's going on?" Rabbit
Hopped. Twice.  It
Nibbled clover. Much to do, little time to
Do it in. It
Kept one big eye in silhouette on me. I
Felt better, for I had
Seen a rabbit and
Chatted up a rabbit in twilight. I
Breathed. I
Looked around, And up. And down. I
Held a heavy briefcase,
Wore a heavy coat,
Saw now darkness settle.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom