The Word Woman

 for the memory of W.B.

She remained available to words
any day of time or night.  Sang
words if they wanted thrumming,
mumbled humbled ones, bathed
others in black ink.  Words
were people in her mind.  Without
them she couldn’t imagine the
something she’d be without them.
Come on, come in, she said when
they arrived.  She fixed a place
for each, knew most of their
morphological needs.  They
knew they might denote, connote,
obscure, shade, or just freely lie
around her home.
Toward words she truly
tried to act the perfect hostess.

"On Our Way, Golden One," by Roger Illsley

Where She's From

She's from Earth. From anyplace

on there where she breathes air,

eats food, drinks local water. Where

she's conversed, slept, danced,

followed customs, chafed against them,

shown respect. Where she's been helped;

and helped. She's from Earth. I think

all of us are. Maybe we should try

the habit of thinking we're from there.

Here. Because we are, and thinking so

might clear away some clutter,

smother some friction-fired heat.

She's from Earth. She likes it

here okay, when people find their

ways to get along. On Earth. 

hans ostrom 2024

Sonnet XXVII: "Naked, you are simple as one of your hands," by Pablo Neruda

Wells Fargo Employee Found Dead at Office Desk Four Days After Clocking In

My feeble hopes embarrass me:

that she died quickly with minimal pain

(define "minimal"). That she found

the tunnel of light pleasing. That

friends found her pets, if any, alive

and saw to their care. That . . . .

She clocked in but didn't clock out.

She sat alive, then dead, for four days

while electrons of her colleagues

who worked from home flitted around her. 

"There are worse ways to go," I think,

followed by "Oh, shut up." Media told

the story only because it

is click-bait. I clicked. Her name

is Denise Prudhomme.

Desafinado - Cover by Arpi Alto

Andrea Bocelli - Perfidia (Live From Portrofino / 2012)

"Ten Reasons," by Roger Illsley

Use Your Imagination

Your imagination uses you

when you use your imagination.
It's like walking a burly, leash-defying
dog. Like lecturing a cat
about excess leisure time.

Your imagination goes
where it will and then slobbers
on you. It will yawn, lick itself,
curl up, and sleep where you sleep--
and hiss if you try to move it.

hans ostrom 2024

August Fires

Smoke from Canadian fires

apricot the morning light.
Asthmatics hope for a wash
of rain or muscled breezes
off the Pacific. August

in the northern half
of our planetary melon
has ritualized fire--
images of charred houses,
cars, schools, towns,

and mountains stomp
steadily into media's flow.
I don't know, I don't know
what to to--what can I do
amdist this burning?

hans ostrom 2024

"The Goddess In The Wood," by Rupert Brooke

"Ghosts," by Elizabeth Jennings

Palms and Paws

He notes that lines cross his hands'

palms like broken hieroglyphs,
dried up canals, or lost roads
in a desert. Creases and carvings.
Clues of use. Scars. Upholstery
stiched after the fact. Sometimes,

he thinks, it's nice to hold a cat's
or dog's paw--those plump pads,
cushioning for leaps, lopes,
and sprints. Something sacred--
isn't there?--about palms and paws,
blooms on the stems of evolution,

epidermal note-paper, tiny
meadows of toil and calm.

hans ostrom 2024