Friday, February 19, 2021
The Domestication of Cats
Wednesday, February 17, 2021
No One Home
Light lives here, comfortable anywhere,
Especially in darkness. Appliances quibble:
A refrigerator toils
Constantly for cold, a furloughed
Oven chortles with its pilot light,
A furnace mimics a howling wind.
Astoundingly, all clocks here agree.
You aren’t about, except in DNA
Traces, scents in a bed, a crumbed
Dish in a sink. Now emerges a cat,
Walking on hushed paws, Interrogating
Silence for slightest
Noise, sniffing for food at floor level,
Owning the place with power far beyond
Your sad legalities. When your key
Teases the lock, the place gets a little
Sad, as in you’ll stomp with your
Beastly size, baggage, and
Unconscious belligerence.
Wednesday, February 10, 2021
Hope Is the Original Revolution
While I’m waiting for the Revolution,
I’m going to wash clothes,
Turn soil in a vegetable garden,
Cook meals, read books, and sleep.
While I'm waiting for the Revolution,
I’ll clean the toilet, take out
The garbage, cook meals, read books,
Eat, and sleep.
While we’re waiting for the Revolution,
We’ll go to work to earn our pay,
Listen to what people say, and wonder
Whether, when the Revolution comes,
It will make things better, worse, or
The same. I’m not here to buy or sell
Or blame. I’m just saying revolutions rarely
Turn out well because power plus weapons
Make for hell. The revolution isn’t up to
Me. I could tell myself otherwise,
And tell other self-deluding lies.
I get enough of that already. I know
Some people who need clothes and food.
I take them some, so very little, nearly nothing,
Once a week. I’m weak, I’m small, I’m one
Among us all. While I’m waiting, also
Dreading, the Revolution, I’ll do what I’ve
Done ever since idealism got away from
Me. Tasks in front of me. I wish I could do
More, but wishing doesn’t get
The dishes done. I hope you still have
Your idealism. There’s nothing like it.
It opens big spaces in the mind
And in the future. It’s a kind of
Revolution in itself. Even as you
Work and read and sleep and fall
In love, it fires up your spirit
And opens up your hope. Your hope.
Saturday, February 6, 2021
Date Palms in San Diego
[slightly revised]
Wednesday, February 3, 2021
Apertures
Into an aperture
between life and memory
moves the photographer,
who listens to light,
convenes shadows,
constructs position.
In the dark room,
life and memory wait
while hallucination bathes,
inscribes itself on a
pane of white-space,
coalescing like epiphany
and now rising from the
translating pool, prepared
to confess to eyes.
hans ostrom, circa 1990/2021
Friday, January 29, 2021
Ideology Makes Me Tired
Gull Amongst the Crows
the gull's a white viceroy
in pink rubbery footwear,
strolling stiffly
amongst a dozen crows
outfitted in workaday black.
they respect the gull's
size but not its authority.
an improvised contest
for useful slimy stinking
morsels sauteed
in city refuse juice ensues.
the crows of course caw-cuss,
bounce on wire-feet,
wield their gleaming beaks.
gull says nothing,
gobbles great pieces
of anything likely
to nourish. and finally
rolls out a rising shriek,
a fantastic prophetic scream,
an explosive ode to life.
hans ostrom 2021
Yes We Saw the Sea Again
Nobody Beats Tacoma
(reposting one from a while back)
Tuesday, January 26, 2021
"Clarksdale," by Billy B.
Video: Song about Clarksdale, Mississippi, and the blues. Music composed by Billy B, song performed by Billy B. Lyrics by Hans Ostrom. Video by Dan Callnon.
Monday, January 25, 2021
Toad Ode
fists of meat.
they spit
and stink like
grizzled men on a
sizzling street.
they're not friendly
like frogs.
avoid bogs.
don't sing. thing
is, every memo
a toad sends
recommends leaving
toads alone. so
i've done so.
oh, I might say
hello as I go
on my way.
that's most,
that's all. toads
I know, they kind
of hop-crawl.
Sunday, January 24, 2021
Truck Driver's Aubade
Listen: sunrise stirs bugs
in dry grass. The long
whine of a steel guitar
curves into a thin blue highway.
This peace is easy to take, I'll tell you.
We kiss, kick off covers
light as dead butterflies,
and grab each other, laughing.
Your radio drops out a three-chord,
two-minute-fifty song,
too much like other songs,
just like those tin napkin
and sugar dispensers
that look alike always alike
on sticky plastic countertops
at all them truck strops,
where I’ll rest elbows,
the thick roar of sixteen
tires still in my ears. Darling,
if I chat up a waitress
while she's filling my
Thermos with coffee,
know it's only out of
habit and good manners.
You know my heart growls
like a diesel for you when
dawn spills across the hood
of the Peterbilt, and I think
ahead to gearing down on
the grade sloping into
your place here where
the creek sings out back.
circa 1987/2021