Saturday, December 30, 2023
Friday, December 29, 2023
Wednesday, December 20, 2023
A Moment in a City
A seagull in silhouette--
it glides across sky's last light.Unsheltered, a woman stirs
beneath blankets in a shop's
entryway. Uncovered,
her face is leathered and red.
Cars roll by, roll on.
The sound of their engines underlies
all we hear on the sidewalk.
We're among the living today,
the ones cast in this play,
humanity, but local to this moment's
scene. The shapes of moments
shift constantly. None of us passing
helps the woman. Should I go back
and give her money at least?
The shadow of the seagull is long gone.
hans ostrom 2023
A Secret
A secret is like
an egg in a bird's nestthat sits on a limb
in your mind. The
egg will later hatch,
gain strength, and fly away.
hans ostrom 2023
Tuesday, December 19, 2023
Regina
t the Rosewood Hotel, London
Regina, of the hotel's front desk,
I like the way you write your name.
Your printing looks both regal
and tentative. You made the word
you made sincerely. It's your name.
Regina, of the helpful suggestions,
I like your lovely, narrow face,
your way of talking about Portugal,
your homeland, and how you speak
English fast when you come out
from behind the desk to tell us
about an exhibition at the Tate Modern,
and to tell us you're and artist
and tell us your parents encouraged
your art. Regina, artist.
hans ostrom 2023
Lost Motels
On the relegated highways
that tollways and freeways blastpast, some derelict motels still stand--
an American genre.
They're bearded with weeds,
pastel paint blistered,
neon nullified. Oh, how
the salesmen, adulterers,
truckers, con-artists, and loners
lighting out for territories
used to roar in, driving finned
cars, smoking unfiltered cigarettes,
sweat-lines running down shirts
covering their reptilian spines.
The world then was full of
Kodachrome sunshine, cash,
radios, and righteousness. Night clerks
sat in back room like sentries,
sneaking shots of bourbon.
What happened to all those
atlas-thick registers filled
with names in cursive, to all
that red lipstick, all those hats
and wing-tipped shoes?
A jutting metal sign squeals
and rusts. Rats' toenails
click on buckled linoleum.
Presidents Truman and
Eisenhower recline in graves,
and ignored two-lane highways
slumber like cold snakes.
hans ostrom 2023
Tuesday, December 12, 2023
"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
Monday, December 11, 2023
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.
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
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