Crowded Mind

The mind: an airport, a stadium. From any place

or time in our lives, people push in & through,
invited maybe, mostly not: memory's
a wicked host. Ah, yes, Billy in
second grade, you were mean to him,
once, and it's haunted you since then
(if alive, Billy has forgotten you, of course).

Brown Lucina, seductive at 17, clouds
of perfume, precocious bust, she took
your arm and waltzed you to algebra class,
summoning an erection. Our

mental space: elastic, stuffed--
guilt, desire, nostalgia & the rest
howl like barkers outside clubs &
you can't say "Get out!" til it's
too late. You don't get to talk
as faces rush in, except perhaps
in some sad revisionist script:
you with your loser's bon mot.

hans ostrom 2023

Turn in Your Keys

The Ministry of Smaller Items
asks you, citizen, to turn in all
your older keys. The large ones
that used to open castles and tombs.

The saw-toothed ones that once
ruled the world of locked doors,
commercial and domestic.
The tiny ones that opened small,
shy boxes and secret handcuffs.

Such keys cannot communicate
through air or make locks chirp,
click, or tick. They cannot read
our thoughts or leave a trail
for our dear algorithms to follow.

As our Premier has said, "Old
is dangerous. New will save us!."
Yes, we are going to need you
to turn in your keys.

2023

Pretender's Odyssey

Seems like every time I tried

to pretend to be someone else,

I was just pretending to pretend.
And I wearied of the effort

fast. I then returned
to pretending to be

me. Which has been very
demanding because the task

is so ill defined & yet I'm
still dedicated to it. I act

like me & then look over
to see how I'm doing &

a me is glancing over his
shoulder, smirking, as he runs.

Sleepy

It comes on like a fog

in a sunny sea town.

It hypnotizes like the gold
watch of an old Vienna doctor.

It bargains on behalf of muscles
that work too hard too long.

It soothes you toward darkness,
promising sleep will love you.

When it goes, it leaves the door
open and slumber strides in.

hans ostrom 2023

Her Lovely Power

Spanish night.
Black hair, long. Black eyes.
My desire meets her choice.
Her power holds me in a
Balance. Night's eyes glow.

The poem is in a Spanish syllabic  form, shadorma: 3\5\3\3\7\5

Winter Chant

Winter shiver, light low.

Winter shiver, snow.
Icy days, crows hide.
The gray skies, wide.

Later Winter. Spring, come!
Pulsings like a drum.
Later Winter, longer days--
What the clock-watch says.

Latest Winter, buds swell:
Spring to ring its bell.
Watch for Winter shiver, though:
Mean frost--you never know.

Nightmare, My Visitor

At age 4, then lasting for years,
a short nightmare came to live with me.
(Sometimes it struck just as I nodded off.)

Me, in a dark oval space--
like a hollowed out eggplant.
I touched the pliant walls & then

a dark shape like a train engine
ran over me, erased me & I
startled myself awake to stay alive.

It visited less often down the years
& finally retired. Somewhere deep
in the mind's damp stone workshop,

a laborer toils to work through
something kept secret from me.
The translation of that bedeviling

dream lies in a vault down there.
I don't miss the nightmare. But if
it came back, I'd think, "Oh, it's you."

Her Lovely Power

Spanish night.

Black hair, long. Black eyes.
My desire meets her choice.
Her power holds me in a
Balance. Night's eyes glow.

Winter Chant

 

Winter shiver, light low.

Winter shiver, snow.
Icy days, crows hide.
The gray skies, wide.

Later Winter. Spring, come!
Pulsings like a drum.
Later Winter, longer days--
What the clock-watch says.

Latest Winter, buds swell:
Spring to ring its bell.
Watch for Winter shiver, though:
Mean frost--you never know.

Agoraphobics' New Year

 

Agoraphobic New Year

published some years ago

(to the tune of "Auld Lang Syne")


Will agoraphobics please

come out and help

bring in the Year?


No, that's all right. Thanks

anyway; we can see from

here just fine!

Pretender's Odyssey

Seems like every time I tried

to pretend to be someone else,

I was just pretending to act

like someone else & I got

tired of it fast. I then returned

to pretending to be

me. Which has been very

demanding because the task

is so ill defined & yet I'm

still dedicated to it. I act

like me & then look over

to see how I'm doing &

a me is glancing over his

shoulder, smirking,  as he runs. 

Like People, We Converse

 We're conversing like people

who converse. A walking
commentary. Opinions
flourish like weeds.

"The way things should be"
and "the way things used to be"
become the engines
that drive our words. What if we
spoke of things we never speak of?--

And grandma said, "I'd like crows
to turn lake blue one year." To which
grandpa said, "I was never eager
to fall in love because I thought of
it as just another chore."

Instead we keep familiar packages
of words moving down
conversational conveyor belts.
Because we're tired. Because
we're accustomed. Because
we get together only a couple
times a year and just want
to get through the occasions safely.

Nightmare, My Visitor

 At age 4, then lasting for years,

a short nightmare came to live with me.
(Sometimes it struck just as I nodded off.)

Me, in a dark oval space--
like a hollowed out eggplant.
I touched the pliant walls & then

a dark shape like a train engine
ran over me, erased me & I
startled myself awake to stay alive.

It visited less often down the years
& finally retired. Somewhere deep
in the mind's damp stone workshop,

a laborer toils to work through
something kept secret from me.
The translation of that bedeviling

dream lies in a vault down there.
I don't miss the nightmare. But if
it came back, I'd think, "Oh, it's you."