Mountain Saloon

Darkness in daylight and a sweet

whiskey smell said Hey

to six-year-old me when

my Aunt Nevada opened the door

to the Buckhorn saloon. I

registered a glowing brass

pipe running the length

of a dark varnished bar,

down where feet are. 

An altar of bottles--brown,

clear, green--gathered itself

around a long mirror.

An an antlered deer's head

eyed me. Aunt went back

to get broom, bucket, and mop.

She and Uncle owned the bar. 

After dinner, my dad freshly

showered would fall asleep 

in a chair before going to the

second job: pouring drinks

at this place. Tending bar. 

Caves, tombs, hideouts, 

temples, chapels, dens of

equity, harbors, imagined

carnivals of sex and power:

later I'd learn what dark bars

could become--neon glowing

outside, light in darkness. 

hans ostrom 2021

Competition

competition was a custom

systems craved. you caved

to the carnival of conflict.

sometimes. not your preference.

so now you lean against

an old black oak and watch

them in their ruddy scrums

out there, the promise of glory

palmed long ago by a hustler

who's already out of town. 

hans ostrom 2021

Summer of 2021

Petroleum nightmares sizzle

and burst on smoking sidewalks.

Hurricanes scream at concussed 

cities. Snowflakes fall backward

up to fried skies. Whole forests

collapse into ash, and white zombies

run for Congress, opposing 

knowledge and love. 

It's been quite the summer

so far. To be or not to be

cooked by our dear atmosphere:

that's not the question, but it will

suffice. Mobs chase scientists

across deserts strewn with 

condominium rubble. Coyotes 

watch and laugh. Down the years,

they've smelled our madness.

We condition the air. 

hans ostrom 2021

Ancient Overlap

two crows on a line

watched a man work--

he dug, shoveled, raked.

disinterested as scientists,

the birds sat still, sometimes

taking  mental notes

to add to vast crow knowledge

of their neighbors. sometimes

they lifted a wing and beaked

mites off feathers. now

the man took a break, drank

water, ate a sandwich, tossed

bits of bread on the ground.

the birds dropped softly,

feathered shadows. they 

grabbed a quick lunch, took

their field notes back to the lab

made of sticks. humans,

crows. an ancient overlap

of societies. a relationship. 

hans ostrom 2021

Envy Isn't Good

So nobody's heard your song

yet. It's still a song. When envy

comes to town, trees droop,

crops fail, children in shops

wail for no reason, and traffic

boils. Surprise: you're alive.

And your oldest neighbor

sits in a chair outside, drinks

iced tea, sighs, feels free.

hans ostrom 2021

Detectives

 (homage to Rex Stout and Georges Simenon)

Crime disrespects. It exploits

routine. It is impolite, time-

consuming, and distracting.

Grudgingly, the good detective

identifies those who

should have known better,

most especially the entitled.

Intelligent cooking; sufficient

rest; optional, moderate

consumption of alcohol and

tobacco; solitude; reflection—

these are worth preserving,

even if it means working

for a living, extracting

folly and vice from the milieu.

Hence Jules Maigret and Nero Wolfe,

who would rather be left

alone but are drawn into prose

by their creators, into frays by

fate, necessity, duty. Efficient

plots spring from good manners.

Whatever takes one away from

reading, dining, conversation,

solitude, repose, or—however modest

it may be-one’s enclave must be criminal.

Good manners and good detection

don’t belong to social class but

come from a certain strength of mind.

If only everyone would think things through.

Everyone doesn’t; therefore, detection

is called for, is restoration of balances, is

a bother to be concluded quickly.

hans ostrom 1999-2021

Writer's Sky

a small moleskin notebook

exhumed itself

from a mound of scribbling--

the soft cover sky blue--

except with lavender 

lurking, teasing through.

it reminded scribbler me

of a summer Sierra Nevada

sky on certain days (no

days are certain): cloudless--

a sky that seemed too

blue and weirdly made me

yearn prospectively, wanting

never to leave some vague

paradise in my mind--

known, never visited. 

I recall staring as if sky

were painted like a vast ceiling

above pine trees. and then, yes,

I dropped the gaze, moved on to work

for wages--dust and heat--

pounding nails, digging dirt,

wheeling mortar; & after work

sleeping off a migraine 

in a dark basement,

getting up, sweat dried to shirt,

& scratching in a notebook. 

hans ostrom 2021

Forest Floor

forested canyon, sierra

nevada--we walked

among conifer columns

standing in living lithe

patience. our booted feet

landed quietly on annual

layers of pine needles,

each level a different color

of time, light tan on top,

and a darkening all the way

down to black fusion 

with soil, reabsorption--

perhaps a resurrection 

with water up, back up into

tree through root and cambrium,

bough, cone, seed, pollen--

or needle again, shaking

green in wind, staying

still in snow. 

hans ostrom 2021

House Sparrows in June

house sparrow--chest

dusted rose--lands on a line,

faces west, sings a languid,

bluesy thing, a call, a tune,

a testimony,

also a satire of communicating

wires and the rest of our mess.

a second sparrow lands--

birds beside themselves. 

more singing, sewed

together as dusk grows

lemony, then orange.

the first bird stops

singing and grooms

the second: time

soon to nest, close

up eyes, rest singing

throat and tongue--

one more day

one more day gone. 

hans ostrom 2021

You're Seeing Things

the idiom's "you're seeing things,"

meaning things that aren't there,

things that are not. maybe

a swish of wish fulfillment,

filaments of tropical optical

illusions, fusions of shapes

in the mind behind the eyes.

hope and fear make us tell

ourselves sensory lies. 

in truth (a country hard 

to find), whatever whats

are out there blink in 

and out of form. shiftiness

seems to be the quantum

norm. that's what they say,

the theys that write articles

about particles. we're all seeing--

sensing--things that are/are not

there. every gray boulder's

a bag of flickering electrons.

each crowd of people's an ad

hoc conference of arrivals

and gones. as reality's always

elsewhere, we agree temprorarily

to pretend present forms

can be trusted--can of soup,

freeway loop, chicken coop. 

roosters of routine doodle-do

us awake, and we wake from

one dawning dream into 

another. and another . . . .

hans ostrom 2021

A Thing Nearby

old narrow bookcase,

hand-sawed: pinewood

varnished dark, the grain

flowing like a creek at dusk.

traces of the maker's hand

remain--his keyhole saw

and chisel, sandpaper. 

it's good to see the life

in things falsely called

inanimate--spirits of tools,

trees, crafters, days:

evaporated moments way

before I lived. this bookcase

was when I was not. turn now,

see and touch a thing nearby,

retrieve its history alive in your

mind. imagine its granular past

marked by the form of the thing. 

hans ostrom 2021

Garden's Greens

spinach leaves bring

a green so deep

it looks like an ominous

sea. genial lettuces

foreground more 

light in green, sometimes

whisper blond secrets.

kale makes us think

of Russia--tough,

green without sheen,

unafraid of invading

weeds, partial 

to hot soup. carrots,

always recalcitrant,

offer delicate floral

tops at this stage,

suggest positive 

orange thinking under

dirt. and potatoes,

dear spuds in their

group effort. plain

green tops as practical

as old bricklayers.

such lumpen, golden

manufacturing occurs

down there in Tuber

World, a dark quiet

factory. peas and beans:

what to say? so madly

manic in their way.

pods leap out overnight,

tendrils reach and entwine

with weird desire,

and, friend, you had 

better be ready with 

bucket. oh, greens

of the garden, we

bless you, we missed you

in Winter's gray dungeon,

dreaming seed dreams. 

hans ostrom 2021

Actual Art

Walls of art marching

against sensory perception,

walls exhaust me. Not as much 

as grunt-work at the gravel

plant. Still. Excess of art

fries neurons, sends the self

searching for a burrow.

The Hermitage hit me

like a tsunami. Bus loads

of tourists triggered

a riptide. I ran gasping

to the gift shop. A way

to ease back into reality.

Among postcard re-

productions, I found 

an original print from an

engraving, contemporary

Russian artist. Brown ink.

A simple St. Petersburg

street scene--bridge, river,

stolid building. The cashier,

a lovely woman with Nordic

blue eyes, said, "This is

actually art." "Yes--so glad

I found it," I said. Cold Wars

new and old did not stop

us from agreeing. Somewhere

in St. Petersburg, the artist

toiled at her day job. Outside

the Hermitage with my 

actual art in a brown paper

sack, I accepted September

sun warmth gratefully.

Breathed, the great palace

of art behind my back.

hans ostrom 2021