"Hey, Renee (A Christmas Song)," by Roger Illsley

"Words and Music," by Roger Illsley

If It Hits the Ground

 Words on the side

of a groaning recycling truck:
IF IT HITS THE GROUND,
IT HITS THE SOUND--
Puget Sound, an adjunct
to the Pacific Ocean, which
is choked with plastic.

Studying for an advanced
degree in futility, I pick up
as much as I can. Black forks.
Cracked food containers Massive
clear cups. Straws, spoons, bits,
shards, pieces. Tossed from cars.
Thrown down in parking lots.

Debris from mass insanity, is
what it is. Evidence of lethal
indifference. Effluvia of the
Consumocracy. We, the ones
named the persistence of
the fittest (not the strongest),
make ourselves unfit for our
only niche, Earth. If it hits the
ground it hits

a drain, a creek, a culvert,
a ditch, a river, a lake, a Sound,
an ocean, a sea. See? See.

hans ostrom 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

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

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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

"Lighthouse," by Roger Illsley (Lyrics: Hans Ostrom, Music: Roger Illsley)

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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