Wednesday, July 31, 2024

River Rocks

 River rocks rolled,

current-rubbed, grit-buffed, &

for now in this garden


hans ostrom 2024

Brown Rabbit in a Meadow

 

Rabbit, still as stone.

in profile--one brown eye stares.

chewing jaws move, work.


hans ostrom 2024

In Times of Fire

I looked at photographs
of a California wildfire. One
showed remnants of a house--
scorched black beam lying
down. In the background,

black pine trunks stripped
of limbs. Foreground: ash
and a clothes dryer & a clothes
washer, side by side, leaning
on each other, their doors
melted off. They looked

back at me like vacant
eye sockets. In the past
they churned and spun
garments a family wore
as they laughed, ate,
quarreled, slept. In this

present, a cyclone of fire
struck them, vaporized
their dwelling. Now they
seem to gaze blindly
into a hellish future.


hans ostrom 2024

For One Night Only

I dreamed books,
the pulp and paper kind,
floated overhead like circling
birds. They

opened and words
tumbled out, came down
like dandelion seeds.
I grabbed what words

I could and put them
in a pail. At home
I dumped them
onto a table,

arranged them
into lists and phrases,
sentences, paragraphs . . . .
I cooked and ate, washed up,

spoke prayers into empty
silence, got in bead, read a book,
and fell asleep knowing I'd never
have the book-dream again. 


Hans Ostrom 2024

Friday, July 19, 2024

Superstitions

If you shed some, they seem
ridiculous but dear,
like that paisley garment
you wore long ago. Spill

salt, toss some over
your left shoulder. Express
hope, knock on wood. Avoid
seams between sidewalk
blocks. Lucky underwear,
coin, pen, numbers? Soon

superstitions amass drifts
like snowflakes & your mind
gets stuck, so let a factual
sun melt some away. You'll

feel like you just moved
to a fresh new town. Until
you spill salt on the new table.


hans ostrom 2024