Wednesday, April 3, 2024
Friday, March 29, 2024
Almost All Right
Hiram takes the pills
for lifelong "clinical depression,"which means "often more
than simply sad." When
the pills don't work, he
knows only one way
to try to climb out of the well:
to turn outward & do something
for someone else. Help them.
Connecting again like that:
it's like a rope. Hiram grabs it,
climbs slowly, his feet finding
niches in the deep well's
slick stone walls. Until he's
out, sitting on the ground,
breathing, looking around.
Ah, yes, the world again--
and it's almost bright,
and I'm almost all right.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Thursday, March 28, 2024
Friday, March 22, 2024
Tuesday, March 19, 2024
The Mountains Taught
They protected you with danger,
those High Sierra Mountains.
Cliffs and snakes, rockslides,
flooded rivers, icy narrow
twisting highways, dirt
roads cut casually into hills,
hours between you and a
doctor or hospital. Chainsaws,
knives, guns, lightning,
freezing temperatures.
Wherever you went,
whatever you did, you kept
caution in your pocket
like a talisman. You quickly
came to equate useless
risk with lack of thought,
not with bravery.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Bookshelves
In a musty library room
in a friend's old abode,
dark wooden shelves,
floor to ceiling, look like
rows of secrets, willing
to be opened like gates
and doors and windows
and minds. To reach
for one book, clothbound
with no dust jacket, and
take it from its snug space,
fulfills a desire. For what?
You don't entirely know,
do you? But there it is,
the book, quiet and pliant
in your hands, centuries
of the printing art floating
invisibly behind it. The rest
of the books on all the shelves
and walls look on,
like spectators at a stadium--
but they're the quietest
audience ever. A clock's
bell dings, softly, softly.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Longtime Married
Two candle stubs
in old candlesticks
drown their flames
in wax. A few strings
of gray smoke disperse
in the dim, darkening
room at dusk.
We're both quiet
as we look, together
and separately,
into advancing darkness.
Finally, one of us
says, "Well, . . . ."
and the other says,
'Yes, . . .". We rise
from the table,
pick up the dinner plates,
silverware, glasses,
and take them to
the kitchen where one
of us flicks on the light.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Sunday, March 17, 2024
Wednesday, March 6, 2024
Poet's Musings: Poe Sonnet
Poet's Musings: Poe Sonnet: Poe Sonnet He was so utterly American, Careening through his life deliberately, Addicted to both impulse and ambition. He wrote for art...
Tuesday, March 5, 2024
March, in the Northern Hemisphere
March, a grunting month,
a mound of mud, a floodof flotsam, a stormy brawler
drunk on rain. March, a sentimental
sap, half in love with shapely April,
half in hate with freezing Feb.
We want such a month
because of what it portends
but beg that passes fast
because it only pretends.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Saturday, March 2, 2024
Cinquain for a Spring-Fevered Cat
The cat
seems fevered bythe warmth and light outside
his lair, this house. He yowls and runs around,
Spring-zinged.
Hans Ostrom 2024
Tuesday, February 27, 2024
Procession of Cats
Like a long silver ribbon,
the path from the moon
stretches to Earth tonight. And
down the path come the cats,
striding with their lazy lope.
Thousands of them, leaving
their lunar lair, returning
to this ground with moonlight
in their round unblinking eyes.
Arriving, they take their feline
time to scatter to homes,
hideouts, forests, plains,
jungles, mountains, and alleys.
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