Thursday, June 1, 2023

Good Cover

Palest green spider, color
of vichyssois, a droplet of fog
with 8 legs: it was under one
of my garden shoes outside.

Kicked out of its room,
it walked a while in that
hovering, syncopated way,
always amazing.

I put the shoe on and wished
the spider well, hoped it would
reach dirt and plants--good
cover--soon.


hans ostrom

Deion Sanders recalls being stiff-armed by Bo Jackson

Wednesday, May 31, 2023

To Have Been: Old Letters

To keep old letters,
or to throw them away?--
much more difficult
than Hamlet's question.

Letters from my mother
in her neat handwriting--
to me when I taught
in Germany. Letters

from former girlfriends--
& "girlfriend" now seems
as antique as ink missives
crawling along mail routes.

I hate to destroy someone's
writing. I see the people
sitting at a desk or a table,
taking time to shape sentences,

to somehow slip news
and feeling into scrawl....
sealing the envelope....
attaching stamps....

Words, preserved--
a pickling of thought.
Eventually we all have to
wreck evidence of our lives:

To have been, or not to have been.


hans ostrom 2023

Saturday, May 27, 2023

A Pixel in the Picture

Trying to be enough
in others' eyes, you got used
at working at life too hard--
performing. By

accident you discovered
that it's better
all around just to do
your part--

whatever that is. Those
tasks. Cook, tidy up, listen,
work, care, remain rational.
Just doing, not

performing. A pixel
in the picture
of the common good.
One day someone

said she was impressed
with your kindness. She
may have added "sweetness."
You were surprised.

A bit grateful.
But not tempted
at all to start doing
tricks.


hans ostrom 2023

Of Roses, Again

Just as castles want
nothing to do
with other buildings--
roses don't desire
the company of other flowers.

They wield thorny branches
like maces, defending
their center. Buds
and opened roses
emerge like wise,
gorgeous princesses.

And the colors. My
God--as vivid
and stirring as flags,
as various as whims.
A gardener cultivates
flowers. A gardener
negotiates with roses,
which define their property,
own it, become green
monuments with spikes.


hans ostrom 2023

The Burst

Garden's
green about to
burst into pink and red,
yellow, purple, lavender, white.
Late May.


hans ostrom 2023

Thursday, April 27, 2023

Assessing an Evening

What evens at evening?
A dog's barking takes bites
out of quiet. In their buildings,
people cook, drink, take medicine,
talk, give up, rage, look at screens.

Outside, birds have returned
to nests and perches, warming
each other, silencing caw, shriek,
whistle, and song. I decide to use
all this information as evidence

of local equilibrium at dusk,
something that's fine by me.
I'm more weary than optimistic.


hans ostrom 2023