Thursday, January 18, 2024
Tuesday, January 16, 2024
Alpine Lake
Sometimes the lake takes sunlight,
turns it into a deep blue
that might make you leave your mouth
open slightly like a child
just awake from a nap.
On some leaden summer days,
the lake quits moving, stays
so still it turns frog green.
Sluggish fish nap. Anglers
take their tackle-boxes home.
Giant bugs come and dance
on the water. At night?
At night the lake puts its colors
in an old drawer. It hums tunes
and talks to raccoons and owls
and hiding water fowls.
In Winter the lake turns white
with ice and snow--becomes
stationery from 1925 on which
you scribble pleas to Spring.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Monday, January 15, 2024
Thursday, January 11, 2024
You Hold the Door
You sometimes think, What
does any of this have to do with me?Everything, of course. You and the
8 billion breathe the same air,
recycled from the air early Africans
breathed before the land
got named Africa. The children
bombs, bullets, and missiles kill
for not one single good goddamned reason
raise your ire, eve if you ire's impotent.
The woman earning her wage
at the cafe knows your name,
and you know hers, and you two
sometimes speak of San Francisco.
At any moment, someone you have
never met may need your help,
and you theirs. Still, a person
knows that others plan the future--
often by refusing to plan, often
with sinister, even evil, habits in play.
No way the future belongs to you.
You ask no one, To whom does it
belong?" You take a last gulp
of coffee bean syrup and watch
the woman pull the wool hat
over her ears and go outside
to smoke a cigarette, check
her phone, and be alone. On
the way out, you hold a door
for a stranger. He says, "Thanks,'
and you say, "You're welcome."
Hans Ostrom 2024
Adjacent in Their Lives
She's pleased to think about the birds
on Earth, in canopies and copsds,
on sidewalks and stone statues, back
yards, blue bluffs. Among the refugees
or crapping on the autos of the ultra-rich.
What if, she thinks, someone could show
some images of Earth and as night comesaround, each bird were represented
by one lit-up pixel--so many birds, so
many lights, they would obscure
the night with light. That's what they do
for her--the common birds she sees
around. They shine a light of life
on her when she's brought low
by grayness sometimes in her soul.
Oh, crows and juncos, hawks or jays,
the pigeons in a city, owls out in
the woods. She loves the way they live,
so pointedly, with such sharpness and
no little bit of courage. They sing and caw,
trill and hoot, shriek and burble--hard
to feel much bitterness when she
sees birds--or even thinks of them,
the many, the few, in trees, on dew.
They're strangers and companions,
she and the birds, adjacent in their lives.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Tuesday, January 9, 2024
Monday, January 8, 2024
Sunday, January 7, 2024
Overheard in an Airport Security Line
"And I'm, like, look! Oh, gross!"
*"Believe it. Reincarnation is real."
*
"Her boss says she needs to learn
more aout what she's selling so she
can sell more of what she's trying
to sell."
*
"When we get to Tijuana, we should
rent a Mazerati."
*
"I'm not sure why I travel anymore."
Hans Ostrom 2024
Saturday, January 6, 2024
Thursday, January 4, 2024
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