Monday, December 2, 2024

Vienna

 (1980)


1980

How the fuck did I get here? I asked myself.
By train, dummy. Winter. Yes, yes: opera,
history, magnificence, Sigmund. A big so what?
to all of that and more when you're thin

on money, low on rest, and wracked
by mistakes you made. Back "home,"
they'd elected Reagan president. That, children,
was a point of no return. Austria is

of great historical importance. Okay, fine,
but I'm hungry, I thought. So I went out,
and I went out, and I found myself a cafe,
which featured a kind of importance I

required--hot food and wine, buzz of
customers, glowing lights and cigarette
smoke, a blond woman with a wry
smile, and a sense of proportion.

hans ostrom 2020/2024

Saturday, November 30, 2024

You Are Here

 YOU ARE HERE
say maps in museums,
parks, and zoos. You
let your fretting mind

go too far out today.
It strode out on a road
to imagined disaster.
It shook its fist

at doom clouds
overhead. It didn't
let your lungs
take a single easy

breath. Bring it back.
Arm in arm, walk
your mind to a settled
space. A present place.

Make it rest. Let it
look at ground or
stones or grass
right in front of it.

In your body, mind.
In your mind, body.
Tell body, tell it:
YOU ARE HERE.


hans ostrom 2024

Terse Ballad

Hello, you.
Entrez vous.
Look so fine.
Want some wine?

I've spent years
trapped in fears.
How 'bout you?
You seem blue.

Your eyes glisten.
I will listen.
Talk some more.
You don't bore.

Friends so long,
right or wrong.
Stay here, do.
I'll cook for you.

The world's bad:
Why we're sad.
Here you are,
come so far.

Think of how
to survive Now.
Later waits,
dealing fates.

Sure, let's hug.
I'm a lug.
Let's kiss, too.
Me and you.

hans ostrom 2024

Monday, November 25, 2024

Sturgill Simpson's Post-Election Wisdom Gives Hope for the Future | Bulw...

Birds at Twilight

A black murmuration
of starlings surged like a pepper
storm, shifting shapes
against a pallid blue sky at dusk.

And a slow
procession of flying crows
crossed just above
us, a little crowd of corvids

flapping casually
toward a roost in a fir tree.
We wondered
about the hedge sparrows

hunkering down,
and where do juncos nest?
At twilight, birds
move. They migrate from

light to dark.
We find we're rewarded
when we watch
them as often as we can.

hans ostrom 2024

Thursday, November 21, 2024

Wind Advisory

No, a "wind advisory" does
not mean a meteorologist
makes suggestions to wind
about its breezy business.

Here it means driven winds
coming East off the volcanically inclined
Cascade Mountains into easily
offended Puget Sound,

which usually hosts Pacific
winds from West, warm. Something
tonight will rattle, bang, or both
outside this dwelling. We

never can predict what. We'll
listen to the ragged rhythm,
the knocks and ticks, not get
up, wake to debris-filled dawn.


hans ostrom 2024

Reflected Reflections

Lamplight ricochets
off a bit of foil, enters
two eyes, appears in a
brain, in a mind.

Sunlight softly shines
through and on a window,
where two eyes see
themselves in a failnt face.

Here are mirrors and eyes,
illuminated blindness. Skies.
Wet heat in a gleaming greenhouse
rises. A reflecting mind apprises.

hans ostrom 2024