Thursday, May 23, 2024
Tuesday, May 21, 2024
Chores
I am what I do, and I
do what I can, so I'mwhat I can do,
which now is watching pale
rose light, dusk, after some
day we had. I used to be
cutting grass, mopping
floors, washing clothes. That
was a long moment ago
when things were so what then,
the grass and mops
and suds a long example.
I bow my head, evening,
acknowledge tasks, which
add up to me,
a who whose having done
is such as he's to be.
hans ostrom 2024
Almost Faith
Good Lord and my word,
Existence seems absurd.Still, if you insist
I’d guess that God exists—
But that—that’s just a guess.
And meanwhile: what a mess.
hans ostrom 2024
Monday, May 20, 2024
Saturday, May 18, 2024
Thursday, May 16, 2024
Wednesday, May 15, 2024
Last Class
All but one of the twenty students
have left, and now she hands me
her exam. I say thanks,
she says goodbye, I add
"Have a good summer" & she flashes a smile.
She goes, the door closes
on a career (whatever that
is) of teaching college students.
I gather the exams & walk
out of the dreary, pale yellow
classroom, take the stairs
a flight up to my office, sit down,
and take a breath. I've always
.
been awful at alleged Big
Moments, wanting to see them
as just another leaf or twig
floating on Time's stream.
I taught for forty years,
made a living. A crow
visits the ledge outside
my office window. I suspect
crows know everything.
Now I'll go home and cook
dinner for my wife, watch a TV
crime show (British, no doubt),
then go to bed and read. And
read: what led me to this
teaching biz-ness in the first place.
To read, to write, to teach, to care,
breathing that special college air.
have left, and now she hands me
her exam. I say thanks,
she says goodbye, I add
"Have a good summer" & she flashes a smile.
She goes, the door closes
on a career (whatever that
is) of teaching college students.
I gather the exams & walk
out of the dreary, pale yellow
classroom, take the stairs
a flight up to my office, sit down,
and take a breath. I've always
.
been awful at alleged Big
Moments, wanting to see them
as just another leaf or twig
floating on Time's stream.
I taught for forty years,
made a living. A crow
visits the ledge outside
my office window. I suspect
crows know everything.
Now I'll go home and cook
dinner for my wife, watch a TV
crime show (British, no doubt),
then go to bed and read. And
read: what led me to this
teaching biz-ness in the first place.
To read, to write, to teach, to care,
breathing that special college air.
hans ostrom 2024
I taught at the University of Puget Sound
for 37 years, also in Sweden & Germany,
and at U.C. Davis
Tuesday, May 14, 2024
Thursday, May 9, 2024
Kind of Blue
("Kind of Blue," Miles Davis album, 1959)
kind of blue, sweetly
sad, tart despair.
kind of blue, like
you, when you don't
know what to do or
how to stop or slow
the world's deluge
of evil but must step
around deep inert
blue to finish chores,
open doors, lend a
hand. kind of blue--
like a lonely, thoughtful
trumpet blown
by a man deep
inside the music--
a spirit inside
an ear-shaped cave.
hans ostrom 2024
Saturday, May 4, 2024
Thursday, May 2, 2024
The Woman in the Pasture
Roaming one of your thought
neighborhoods, you hear a coin
hit a hard floor, listen as it
oscillates its way into settling flat.
You drift into a vast hall
where a shaft of sunlight
pings off the silvery coin:
you go over, lean, and look.
Symbols on it perplex.
Now a horse snorts,
and the hall becomes a pasture
& the coin becomes
a pendant nestled
in the cleavage of a woman's
brown breasts. "So that belongs
to you, then?" you ask. "No,
but you do," says she.
hans ostrom 2024
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