"Homage to Saint-Exupery," by Stuart K. Calderwood

 A link to a superb villanelle, an homage to the pioneer pilot, lost war hero, and writer ("The Little Prince") Antione Saint-Exupery by a fine poet originally from Yorkshire, now teaching at Harvard, Stuart K. Calderwood:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/17517188-Homage-to-Saint-Exupery-by-Stuart-K-Calderwood

If Trump Wins: "Inviting the Dark Ages Across the Planet" | Amanpour and...

Piano Tuning

It creates a long, slow, aimless

tune, a dirge for a labor, blues

of the piano itself. Vibrations

that have wobbled and warped

get hauled back to pitch and harmony.

The tuner cranks a ratchet--

he's a melody mechanic,

an interpreter of intervals.

After a long slumber, 

the highest and lowest

notes wake up. The musicking

of tuning fills the room

with foreboding, making

a nest for songs that hands will

ask the piano to play later. 

"The Magi," by William Butler Yeats

Inward Sea

Remembering's such a liquid world,

as if what is recalled swims out of murk--

the mind diving to meet it once again--

and then the memory waggles back to depths.

But what's down there, down deep,

forever, never to swim up again?

There, not there, what weird forgotten

creatures or shards of little shipwrecks

might emerge? You think this as you lean,

look past the edge of now, the present moment

rocking like a boat. Remembering, or not,

you look into that inward sea of yours. 

hans ostrom 2023

Redlining in Tacoma

Aspects of Living in the Moment

I tried to "live in the moment,"

as recommended

& found that moments stuck

together like hard candies

in hot sun. Other moments

seem to pour in and out

of life like red ants out of

a sizzling nest. Some

moments just evaporate--

gone before I could 

even knock on their doors,

let alone live in them. Which

can be okay, as for instance

that moment in the dark

when I stubbed three toes

on an old oak chair. 

hans ostrom 2023

Rhiannon Giddens - Wayfaring Stranger

Broken Airport

 The terminal takes its name literally,

is a disintegrating destination.
Flights cancelled, transport stuck.
Even a nun mouths the word, "Fuck."

Inside haggard people and swollen luggage
congeal like snow outside. The enraged become
resigned; the patient, stupefied. Jabbed
and punched by questions, employees
in company colors look like boxers
in late rounds. Everyone begins to resemble

everyone else. Distinctive personalities
melt into smeared canvas of weariness,
smothered rage, drunkenness, and hysteria.

People become their uncomfortable bodies.
Quickly clothes and hair get greasy.
Clean diapers become Black Market
currency. Bartenders become celebs.

Some people stand at windows,
achieve Zen peace by staring at airplanes
now ridiculous--aluminum sculptures
on tiny wheels, their cruising altitude
a myth beyond the lid of sky
that's been dropped on the airport.

--hans ostrom

The First Irish Joke Ever

PETE SEEGER ⑫ Raghupati Raghav Raja Ram (Live in Sweden 1968)

"For the Holiday," by Roger Illsley

From the African 6:8 rhythm to the American shuffle