Poem: Not Safe For Work?

Not Safe For Work?

I'll tell you what's
not safe for work,
says the waitress dead
on her feet;
the roofer in 104 degree
heat; the
truck driver, fire
fighter, soldier,
foundry worker,
heat-vent installer.

I'll tell you what's
not safe
for work, says
the warehouse-worker, the
unveiled woman, the
veiled woman, oil-
driller, welder,
seamstress, factory-
worker. What's

not safe for work is
work.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Found Poem: Followed

the new sexy
you
is following
you

would you
like to follow
the new sexy
you?


hans ostrom

Found Poem: Content

your content
will
return
shortly.


--hans ostrom

"Could Be," by Langston Hughes

"Swift Month," by Denise Levertov

Commissioned Sonnet

Going through old computer-files and -documents, I found a sonnet I'd written that had been commissioned.  Someone from the Politics and Government Department where I teach (U. of Puget Sound) had asked me to write a poem to be read at their departmental graduation-gathering.  This was in 2008.

About all I can say for the sonnet is that it is worth at least what they paid me for it, nothing.

I thought a sonnet--or some traditional form--was appropriate for the occasion. Every so often, I like to write a "commissioned" thing.  It's an interesting challenge.

Commencement Bay is the name of the harbor next to Tacoma.


Sonnet: To Graduating Seniors in Politics and Government

We’ve been the captains of your classes here,

The admirals of your splendid senior theses.

Today we are mere ensigns of good cheer

As you depart these arches, bricks, and trees.

Your learning is your cargo. Politics

And Government’s the dock from which you sail.

The world out there is one we hope you’ll fix.

May warm and fairly traded winds prevail.

Now, after several years at Puget Sound,

You’ll voyage from your own Commencement Bay

To ports where possibilities abound.

With pride we raise a toast to you and say:

In governing your lives, be politic

And always vote for wisdom—that’s the trick.

Hans Ostrom, 2008, 2012

"One," by Langston Hughes

"the area of pause," by Charles Bukowski

It Means to You

It means to you, whatever
you're thinking now
as you sit in a chair, in
a seat, on a bench, looking
at the screen in your
hand, on your lap, on
your desk, on a wall.

It means to you, what
you're thinking
of the noise around you, of
your anxiety, of this
indescribable warren
of ideas, memories, neurons
firing, appetites, instincts--
all of it in its all-at-onceness:
mind.

It means to you, the taste
in your moth of coffee or beer or food
or smoke or your own mouth,
or someone else's. There's
the ache in one place, resentment

in another, in nerves and brain.
Are the unsatisfactions worse
than the dissatisfactions? Are
you comfortable enough
but still bored, angry, afraid,
frustrated? Are you looking
at someone now? It means

to you, it is meaning to you,
and you have been meaning, too.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

To Aging Friends

Oh, my aging friends,
what illnesses and
infirmities await us?

We hope to sail
along indefinitely
in these bodies.

We know we'll
be intercepted
and boarded by pirates.

The rigging creaks.
Boat-loads of young
women pass.

At best, they ignore
us, at worst laugh
at our sad crafts.

The aging are
a patient armada sailing
under a tie-dyed flag.

Ah, my aging friends,
let's drink wine in moonlight
on this our rolling deck.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Midnight Dancer," by Langston Hughes

A Few Moments in the Comparisonator

Her eyes were as blue as not
sky or sea but, but, uh--
cornflowers.

The moon looked like not
cheese, a face, a balloon, but
a flashlight shined
on
varicose veins.

My love for you is stronger
than my breath
after I've eaten
raw onions and Limburger
cheese.  What? You don't
eat raw onions or
Limburger cheese?

A sadness enveloped me.
Like an envelope. Right?

When you take off your
clothes, baby, I don't
think about comparisons.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

Consciousness, This Space

This customary space, consciousness (as you hear
the hiss of evening traffic): a pliable, warped
sphere with membrane boundaries. Sometimes

the activity called thinking permeates
the membrane. And there you are,
situated in a non-view. 

Not so much detached as unbounded.
You see a gleam for a while without
knowing or naming it; it isn't gleam.

....Chrome....toaster....fender...glass...?
Utterly receptive perception . . .

You settle into out-settledness.

Sounds. Blurs.  What is there
enwraps you loosely like
the lightest fabric. There's

the merest hint of, well,
forever (as you hear the
hiss . . .)


Hans Ostrom, 2012