Saturday, August 10, 2024

Just Alive

It's midnight, you're standing in a room
looking out at darkness, you're
sipping water from a glass,
and you muse: If I weren't thinking
of me, no one in a world of 8 billion
would have me in mind. It's a

pleasant thought--to be on no one's
mind, as unremarkable (and unremarked)
as a weed in a meadow no one visits--
but alive! Just alive.

hans ostrom 2024

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