Friday, January 18, 2013
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
Gothic Fog
He stepped outside
and rubbed the fog,
its pliant hide. What's
inside you? he asked.
No answer. Just muffled
rumblings. Suddenly
a woman's hand emerged,
caressed his cheek and neck.
"Come in," a female voice
said clearly. He entered
the fog. In there, faces floated
like unlit paper lanterns.
A chorus of moans arose.
He turned to escape, but
elsewhere had vanished.
He was inside the fog now.
He moaned.
hans ostrom, 2013
and rubbed the fog,
its pliant hide. What's
inside you? he asked.
No answer. Just muffled
rumblings. Suddenly
a woman's hand emerged,
caressed his cheek and neck.
"Come in," a female voice
said clearly. He entered
the fog. In there, faces floated
like unlit paper lanterns.
A chorus of moans arose.
He turned to escape, but
elsewhere had vanished.
He was inside the fog now.
He moaned.
hans ostrom, 2013
Gardener's Soft Porn
After the first seed-catalogue
arrives in Winter, I paw through
it as eagerly as I gawked
at my older brother's
Playboy when I was 15.
hans ostrom, 2013
arrives in Winter, I paw through
it as eagerly as I gawked
at my older brother's
Playboy when I was 15.
hans ostrom, 2013
Monday, January 7, 2013
Poet's Musings: Torture
Re-posting one from 4 years ago.
Link below:
Poet's Musings: Torture: In a discussion-group recently, we read Poems From Guantanamo, edited by Marc Falkoff. As you might guess from the title, the poems were wr...
Link below:
Poet's Musings: Torture: In a discussion-group recently, we read Poems From Guantanamo, edited by Marc Falkoff. As you might guess from the title, the poems were wr...
Waltzing
Oh, let us hold
each other turning
slowly ‘round
the floor. A waltz
is humorous
and kind, old-
fashioned intimate.
We’re a little high.
Oh, the perfume
of your hair, the
architecture of
your back, the
present of the
presence of
your hand in mine.
Hans Ostrom, 2013
each other turning
slowly ‘round
the floor. A waltz
is humorous
and kind, old-
fashioned intimate.
We’re a little high.
Oh, the perfume
of your hair, the
architecture of
your back, the
present of the
presence of
your hand in mine.
Hans Ostrom, 2013
Friday, January 4, 2013
Over, and Not Over
the big election is over
the most recent atrocity is over
the most recent Winter holidays are over
also the latest predicted apocalypse, over
the morning news, over
cup of coffee, over
cats fed, over
work, work--over
not over is
my lifelong
need to do
things for
people &
worry about
keeping
them pleased so
that i may get
some
sense of my
worth. this search
for worth, not over.
Hans Ostrom 2013
the most recent atrocity is over
the most recent Winter holidays are over
also the latest predicted apocalypse, over
the morning news, over
cup of coffee, over
cats fed, over
work, work--over
not over is
my lifelong
need to do
things for
people &
worry about
keeping
them pleased so
that i may get
some
sense of my
worth. this search
for worth, not over.
Hans Ostrom 2013
Zen Treasure-Map
On a Zen treasure-map,
there’s an X but no lines
or place-names. The four
directions are all marked E.
What you do is, you carry
the map with you at all times
and assume wherever you are,
is X—where treasure lies!
Hans Ostrom, 2013
there’s an X but no lines
or place-names. The four
directions are all marked E.
What you do is, you carry
the map with you at all times
and assume wherever you are,
is X—where treasure lies!
Hans Ostrom, 2013
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Sex in a Graveyard
We were all sinew and youth,
impulse, tendon, and sex.
When we fucked in the graveyard,
we probably didn’t think
of ourselves as fucking…
We didn’t think of desecration.
Or of ghosts. We lay on cool
concrete that topped a tomb.
We heard creatures stir: I
suspected a doe in the sweet-pea
vines that covered the wire fences.
Moonlight made it through
the canopy of old oak branches
and shone on your body as it
arced above mine: rib-cage,
nipples, breasts, neck, hair,
face, abdomen.. . . Afterwards,
you clutched me close, on top of
me who lay on top of corpses.
Young, anyone might fuck
in a graveyard. Later, they’ll
think of the holding-close, the clutching,
the chill on flesh, everything that happens
before, and after.
Hans Ostrom 2013
impulse, tendon, and sex.
When we fucked in the graveyard,
we probably didn’t think
of ourselves as fucking…
We didn’t think of desecration.
Or of ghosts. We lay on cool
concrete that topped a tomb.
We heard creatures stir: I
suspected a doe in the sweet-pea
vines that covered the wire fences.
Moonlight made it through
the canopy of old oak branches
and shone on your body as it
arced above mine: rib-cage,
nipples, breasts, neck, hair,
face, abdomen.. . . Afterwards,
you clutched me close, on top of
me who lay on top of corpses.
Young, anyone might fuck
in a graveyard. Later, they’ll
think of the holding-close, the clutching,
the chill on flesh, everything that happens
before, and after.
Hans Ostrom 2013
Saturday, December 29, 2012
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