"The Spell," by Paul Verlaine

"Have Me," by Carl Sandburg

Bruno Mars, Morris Day and The Time - Tribute a Prince ||Performance in ...

Newborn

wrinkled from mother-water

eyes closed to the Mystery
old person's seaweed hair
fingers thin as tendrils
accepts odors, sounds, dry-
warmth. hears its own gurgling
cry. does it yet ask why?

hans ostrom 2022

*Henry Morgan Ostrom, born November 23, 2022

A Real Mess

pink: wound, blossom, blouse, nipple, meat, cat-tongue

blue: jeans, eyes, ink, tattoo, smoke, bruise

brown: dirt, shoe, shit, hair, nipple, chair
red: blood, light, rose, lipstick, sign, ember

yellow: beach, hair, flame, rose, peach, corn
green: eyes, scarf, valley, mold, tree, broccoli

white: phantom-race, chalk, panties, smoke, paper, cream
black: eyeshade, ink, shoe shadow, hair, cavern

hurl it all, hurl it all I say at a canvas &
make a real mess: the world

hans ostrom 2022

About the Photo

Yes, with my long legs and sturdy feet,

I strode into that arrythmic surf,
which tries to cover tracks.
It left two. Sharp ones, too.

Darling, you may wonder
who took the snapshot
and why in black-and-white.
And perhaps more existentially,

did I come back? From what?
I'd ask in my annoying way.
Did I turn left, did I turn right,
did I float out of sight or into jaws

of slashing sharks? This note
may confirm or deny uncertain
hypotheses. You know me,

I love to tease.

*note: the image is of a "found photo" posted on tumblr

hans ostrom 2022

Arlo Guthrie/I Can't Help Falling In Love With You

Keep It Simple

 "Be quick, but don't hurry." --John Wooden

At the clotted airport cafe, a holiday swarm:
the woman orchestrating sandwiches,
unrushed but quick, wears a hajib--

a scarf that finishes by falling
to the middle of her back. Forest green.
A light-gray top and elegant black

trousers accompany. Llke me,
she's part of this society, I'm equal
to her, except if I worked at

the sandwich station in this
bee-hive moment, I'd be fired,
a mercy. Something

about forest green, light gray,
and black: austere, soothing.
Evergreens, mist rising from a river.

hans ostrom 2022

My Soul's Been Working Out

My soul's been working out,

Lifting nightmares with its snout,
Swimming laps in honeyed air.
Tickling felines on a dare,
Weeping hard at news of war,
Grieving deeply to its core.

It lifts the weights of darkest doom
Jabs and punches with gray gloom.
Hikes great peaks of women's beauty,
Hauls me, tugs me to good duty.

Zen-poses til it aches,
Bellows at my fakes.
Sprints through beatitudes,
Ju-Jitzus my bad attitudes.
Wrestles with me to discern,
Spins and skates to make me learn.

Exhausted, it plops down,
Shoots me a soulful frown.

hans ostrom 2022

betweens

 waves between waves

  beats between beats
clicks between
  clicks, quicks between
slows, knows between guesses,
  yeses twixt no's,
stops between flows,
  goes birthed of pauses,
clauses out of phrases out of
  words between words,
gaps between galaxies, leaps
  between particles, articles
of faith in the face of a wraith
  hanging in the night between days.

hans ostrom 2022

Attenborough: the amazing Lyre Bird sings like a chainsaw! Now in high q...

The News from Inside

Inside me, still,

lurks the baby who could walk
but chose not to
(wanting instead to stand up,
hands grasping the rail
of what they called a play-pen)--
and to watch. It seems

I was born wary
and passively resistant.
And that's who I stayed.
In the 17th month, I walked
because, having watched them,
I noted that they
seemed to want me to walk.

Inside me, I don't
contain multitudes,
and Walt Whitman can
go fuck himself. Inside me
there's the DNA of a woman
living in Africa
160, 000 years ago:
it's inside you, too.

And then inside there there's
a few people who worked like dogs
but not as hard as slaves. Maybe
a failed preacher, certainly
a Skid Row drunk, and possibly
the funniest patient in what
they called a mental ward:
no proof of this.

Inside me, I think it's
population: 12. Or so.
But no apostles. In there,

an old non-descript tree
finally gives up, accepts
a lightning-smash, explodes,
and falls. Deer, squirrels,
owls, a cougar, a bear,
and maybe some hiker with
a bandana tied around
dirty hair mark
the arboreal collapse,
but, god damn it,
there's never a Zen monk
around when you need one.
And Walt Whitman
can go fuck himself.

Inside me, there's
a startling, chronic
mild terror--maybe because
at month 15 or so,
I learned from informed
intuition that very little
in this life-thing makes sense,
although we must pretend
that much of it does.

And Walt Whitman...
was one great self-publicist:
American, that is.

"Sunlight, Morning," by Roger Illsley