William Butler Yeats goes full gothic!

 I hadn't read this poem until recently. A vampire poem from WBY.  Short poem, with reading and video:

"Oil and Blood" on Youtube

The Bees Work in the Rain

The bees work in the rain. Some climb

Into the orange of poppies, some

Into the blue and purple lavender.

So cold, so wet so late this year.

We have the Winter blues in June,

While elsewhere draught and fire say

The future's now. Do not begrudge the rain,

We whisper to our consciences, which will

Not hear. I dive into the weeding,

Get wet and chill and caked with mud.

But it's all right, as everything

From peonies to roses now

Is bursting into bright, and bees

Work in the rain and don't complain,

Must move the nectar now into the hives.

hans ostrom 2022

Concerning Bob the Bull

         (Lincoln, California)

I'm feeding sweet green clover

to a black and white bull

under powder blue sky. Through

silver fencing, I poke the offering,

a gesture of friendship to Bob

the bull, bedeviled by black flies

and close farm heat. Bob stares

and sniffs. Leans into me, almost

breaks my hand--a gesture

of friendship. I talk, he listens.

He snorts, sucks cud, and grunts.

I listen. I poke more green past

that glue-thick slobber on his black

lips, past his keyboard of square

ivory teeth and onto a pale pink

slab of tongue. Bob accepts

the clover without chewing.

He has a lot going on.

His patience in the midst

of fly-swarms and de-horning

outstrips Zen perfection. I tell

Bob of his greatness. Mourn

with him his lack of cow

companionship. His mucous

drips like icicle melt. We'll not

meet again--a scheduling thing.

I feel a sadness as sweet as

Bob's inner pools of cud.

How fine it would be one day

to hear Bob's story from Bob.

hans ostrom 2022

Abandoned Gold Mine

In the mine, looking at gray 

soil oozing water,

you feel the folly of digging

a hole in a mountain and hoping

wooden beams and air will hold up

all the rock above you. Mining

is faith. You look at rusted

iron tracks and the one tiny-

wheeled ore car no one stole yet.

This is a burrow where the Gold Rush

came to die. Yet even you,

fever -free, son and grandson

of gold miners, look at quartz

around your feet and want

to see deep yellow flecks,

desperately want gold to be.

Building, blasting, mucking,

loading, pushing, lifting. Sucking

rock dust in, coughing it out.

Stripping at end of day to show

you didn't steal high-grade ore.

Cuts, contusions. That's the search,

the work. The mine was not theirs.

Decades later, you stand in the cool

tomb and feel the drive that drove

them all here to lay down tracks

to trek into a mountain's dream.

hans ostrom 2022

Simple Wishes

I wish you warm 

copper dreams. I

wish you iron strength

on hardest days. May

ways you move

through life fit

often with the world.

Let mild rainstorms

roll perfumed breezes

toward your nostrils.

Let tastes of food

on hungry days bless

you with enough; and

send you satisfied

to a clean bed 

in a quiet place. And

may you hear songs

that take you by the hand

and walk you softly over

sweet grass to sleep 

and warm copper dreams. 

hans ostrom 2022

8 Billion Hearts

 At this instant 8

billion hearts pump

fuel to burn for birth,

work, war, talk, love,

joy, grief, hope... and

to keep greed, fear,

faith, and learning alive.

Each heart the same:

muscles, valves,

arteries. Electric

currents. But invented

differences reign,

brainlessly, with terror,

as if each heart were

not of similar design.

It's always a good

time to change, none

better than now. How?

Keep asking. Think of

8 billion hearts, their

syncopated beats.

hans ostrom 2022

Lie to Me, Sun

If we could really see sunlight, we'd see

it as a driven mist of grains--photons so finely

made they move through windows, skin, and eyes

and leaves of trees and plants, which turn them into

life. The photons run the planet while we proceed

with wrecking things, of course. Illusions of mere light,

its nuts and bolts invisible, are fine by me,

especially now, as May behaves like early March,

dark gray and wet and cold. The winter blues 

still thump like Ahab's wood on my soul's deck.

Sure, lie to me, Old Sun, with visible/invisible

rays of light. Light up things and me with little

quantum particles. Hell yeah. As long as you

come in and stay awhile, and save us once again,

and start the growing season and maybe kindle hope. 

The Bay of Today

In a gray bay, white sailboats

curve across what's for their

sailors now and for us past. 

Our Bay of Today is another

matter; it's blue, chipped

by whitecaps. In what seems

to be a sea of quantum

probability, no thing exists,

and all things just keep

happening. The universe

becomes an eventful

occurrence. Well,

everybody's got their

own lifeboat floating

in what seems like

the moment, with 

its carrots, rocks, and sky

and ways of wondering why. 

hans ostrom 2022

In Feral Times

In feral times, brains tear

into propaganda in rabid

frenzy. Brains fill with rage,

which displaces sense

and empathy. Minds want

to hunt mythic stock prey--

who turn out to be people

just like them. Afterwards. 

In feral times, mirages

cloud minds, blind them 

to facts and finding ways. 

Mobs over-run common 

ground because cults

are total. The wicked

trick the deranged to gain

so little--like pickled

ideology or weary greed.

In feral times, reasoners

don't know what to do.

They wonder if they 

should seek a better place

to live. They tend to stay

to fulfill duties. Once

the Grand Wreckers rise 

to unbound power,

a cycle ensues. It

may end in a shabby

bunker but too late. 

The reasoners know

because they've read

and know what to read. 

hans ostrom 2022

"A Prayer That Will Be Answered," by Anna Kamienska

 Short video/reading of a fine poem by Kamienska (1920-1986), a Polish poet who wrote in other genres as well. This poem appears on many websites and blogs. I rather like it, which is I guess why I recorded it for my Youtube channel (langstonify). Link:

"A Prayer That Will Be Answered"

The Simulation

What's my role in

the simulation? About

the same as that of a dust

particle on a stage where

actors strut, stomp, 

and sing. I see--then

fatalism's not really 

a choice. It's--It's

nothing, for a pixel

with a philosophy 

is just a pixel. Well,

now this pixel has to

cook a meal. Is that

part of the simulation?

I'm hungry. 

hans ostrom 

A Desire of Keys

 And the keys said,

"Let us off this metal ring.

We want to lead our

separate lives, travel

our chosen corridors,

try many locks,

and be seized

by an adventure

of unknown hands

in unknown lands."

hans ostrom 2022

The Lizards of Summer

Summer--lizards liked to live

in the Old Man's rock pile,

as he was a stone mason

and I was his hod-carrier

and they were dry and cool

reptiles. They scampered

then stopped to watch me

watch them scamper. They

might do pushups. They 

always slightly grinned,

thinking of lizard jokes.

So gray, so scaly dry they

were, with plump biceps

and thighs. They raised

families in those rocks.

Passed on lizard knowledge

without saying a word. My

mammal eyes and their

reptile eyes regarded 

each other all bright Sierra

summer. Sometime in

Fall they went to vacation

in dormancy, and I drove

down-down the curling

highway to the Valley

to study in the rigid

buildings of academia. 

hans ostrom 2022