A Night of Bluegrass

 [revised]

Go on and cut the top off-a that mountain

to get your coal, Mr. High Pockets. You

can't cut that high-pitched wail out of the air

where the mountain was

and shall ever be, in God's eyes.

And all them strings get picked and strummed,

chorded and teased, til here comes a

tightly braided tune, careful and true,

like the long gray hair

of a matriarch reading her Bible in blue

moonlight, rocking and praying She's

as heart-broken and reconciled as a ballad

about some young'ns gone too soon. Music

of the hills distills sadness, strains it

through an upright tradition

that Nashville goddamn tried to ruin.

But could not. And will not. 

The Old Cloud Con

 [revised]

A "magician" came to town.

He explained what information was--

different, he said, from our tools,
animals, and plants. He asked

where we kept our information.
The usual places, we said:
Boxes, pockets, minds.
Oh, he said, give it to me,

and for a fee, I'll keep it
in a cloud for you!
In a cloud? we asked.
Yes, in a cloud, he said,

and for a fee! For me! We 
then kept the "magician" under 
guard for a while after
that exchange because

he was so obviously a
scoundrel. Soon we let
him go, unharmed.
We gave him information
A "magician" came to town.
He explained what information was--
different, he said, from our tools,
animals, and plants. He asked

where we kept our information.
The usual places, we said:
Boxes, pockets, minds.
Oh, he said, give it to me,

and for a fee, I'll keep it
in a cloud for you!
In a cloud? we asked.
Yes, in a cloud, he said,

but for a fee! We then
kept the "magician" under 
guard for a while after
that exchange because

he was so obviously a
scoundrel. Soon we let
him go, unharmed.
We gave him information
about where to travel
from here and 
options for 
a new career, 

in a cloud. 

Almost Blue in Chicago

Between Michigan and State,

she was caught without a coat

among wrought-iron intricacies

of histories.  Her sheer blouse

panicked in cold air.  She was

going somewhere.  Her schedule

showed a route of escape.  Not more

than a block from State

and Michigan, she again seized

a grip on fate, held on, got back

in the swing of the thing, yes,

back in the sway of her days.

hans ostrom circa 1990/2021

seagull in time

seagull high

up on a pole

sees dawn come 

early enough 

today to face

fully, light

dyeing white

feathers pink.

to me, it's still

astounding how

this whirling

sphere (which we

don't own) 

sidles so slowly

up to its local

fireball this

time of year,

this time of 

time. I itch

to dig in muddy

soil, the tip

of my old

shovel worn

into a concave

crescent line. 

Silver Valley Vision

 

this river swims in time.  this sky

flies through emptiness.  we live

forever every moment as love

falls into people.  fuel consumes

fire, and rain drinks Earth.  I saw

a thousand angels moving through

a silver valley.  low clouds

picked them up, changed them

into snow, conveyed them over

mountains, let them go. oh, let them go.

hans ostrom circa 1995/revised 2021

 

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

Snapshot

 [second version]

[1860 HERSCHEL in Photogr. News 11 May 13 The possibility of taking a photograph, as it were by a snap-shotemof securing a picture in a tenth of a second of time.]
(Quoted from the Oxford English Dictionary online)


Snapshot

By any means, steal an image,
mark an instant's interplay between
light and facial shape. Shuffle it
off to memorabilia, through which
someone may rummage some day
not soon, in boxes or in Cloud.

Whoever it is will wonder
whose image got swiped
back here, where at the gathering
we think we know who's here, what
they're wearing, what they show. So
yes, of course, seize a sample
the flow, stabilize it in one of
the ways we know. Store it, for it
may be of interest one day, could be.

hans ostrom 2014/2021

Watching Bach Played

 [second version]

Each string ensemble player

leaned, turned, and swayed

in chairs differently as

they played. The women's

backs looked strong in gowns.

The men's feet in black shoes

stayed fixed to the floor.

Sometimes violin-bows poked

straight up as if reach for unseen

clouds just above the players'

heads. Portly cellos had to be

held up like friendly drunks.

They mumbled low genial

gratitude. One man stood

above the players, waving

his arms and a stick as if

to try to get someone's

attention. The violinists

may have glanced at him,

I don't know, but mostly

they cuddled their polished

wooden instruments, and

let their bodies feel the music,

and let us feel the vibrations

that they herded in the hall. 

hans ostrom 2015/2021

Attempts Become Gestures

[second version]

the man wearing a thin sweatshirt

and no hat stands at an uncovered

bus stop in freezing rain. he isn't me.

he's trying to light a cigarette. his

attempt becomes a gesture--

ludicrous but noble, less than

tragic but not bad at all.

he's inside whatever being alive

is for him, and i'm inside what

being alive is to me. i see him

from a warm place out of the weather.

if i were like jesus i'd go to the

man and perform a miracle--

like getting that cigarette lit,

or giving him money,

or giving him my parka, or

embracing him. he might

like all of that. except for

the embrace. he might

bite my nose off for that.

i don't do any of these things,

because it's easier not to,

and it's acceptable that i

think i'm not his keeper.

at moments like these, i

think of Bukowski,

who--i gather from his

words, i never knew

the man--thought like

jesus sometimes, i mean

with a similar toughness.

tough on everybody--

including, let's say especially,

the reflective, ignoble fuckers in

warm parkas out of the

weather.

Cinema Complex

 [second version]

This complex isn't simple: boxes

within boxes within boxes. Figures

stroll across a neon-glossy floor

toward dark caves, bathrooms, or

sugar and salt: they and I

are already dead--like people

photographed by cinema in 1939.

And we've been replaced by others

who move about here just as we do,

we did. Maybe one of them

is morbid, at least fatalistic,

and feels for a moment that time

has already departed, leaving

behind only ribbons of  light

that spool images 

flickering imperceptibly

on screens

and kernels of corn explode

into tiny thunderheads. Before

going into the movie, I think

this scene I've been in

may have been the better movie.

Toes

 [second version]

They're pudgy, failed claws,

private nubs that often

go public. We encase them

like jewels, divas, or prisoners, 

let them out for fresh air

only sometimes. The curling

of toes, one knows, is 

a practice that migrated

from branched peoples

hanging around long ago.

When people say, "Kick up

your heels," they seem

to mean nothing.

Heel/toes, heel toes:

onward the masses walk hard

on hard urban surfaces.

It's the economy, stupid.

Our dogs is tired,

our gods are remote,

this is the greatest age

of toenail paint, 

and I am the owner 

of a hammer toe,

a hard name for a

soft undertow. 

hans ostrom 2015/2021

Aristotle on Euboea

an old man,

interested in the world.

a teacher. 

kicked out of Athens

by Alexander:

not so great. oh, well.

ignorance drags

tyrants to Hell.

a fine island.

water. light on water.

dry hills, birds in air,

students who care.

who cared enough to

follow an old man here.

good memories of quibbles

with Plato,

whom the con of idealism

hustled. like Socrates,

he looked too often

for reasons not to know. 

drink the hemlock?

highly impractical. 

death's efficient enough

as it is. better to live,

if only a year more.

living is learning,

a chance to know more

until you know death.

Chalcis is a fine town

on this island named

after a nymph. 

it smells better than Athens.

round and round goes

the dance of perception,

the music of the spheres.

heartbeats in ears. 

It's Up to Us

it's up to us,

people who in this age

are seen as "white,"

although in truth

we're all just a mix like everyone

of human genetic soup; 

it's up to us

to erode White Supremacy,

the great World Lie,

the longest American 

evil, until it 

breaks, dissolves

into dust

and final impotence. 

it's up to us, 

you know. why?

because we have the influence,

each

in our own small spheres;

because we can,

we must. 

oh, yes, I know,

most of us must serve

so many duties.

most of us are weary.

that's all right. 

don't let 

the distractions,

excuses, 

rationalizations,

confuse you til you

do nothing. 

just

do what you can

to advance the erosion.

use your influence

if you can,

when you can,

how you can.

and you can. 

it's up to us, you know.