Tuesday, February 4, 2025
Busker in the Rain
singing on the corner
down on First and Main.
Seven people listen,
Looks like four will clap.
Look, one drops some coins
In that old black hat.
He’s played like this
Around the world,
Belgium to Berlin,
Paris to St. Paul.
He might move on
To Tulsa, or to
the metro, Montreal.
Yeah, it’s hard to find
A gig in a coffee house or bar.
Well, that’s the way it is
So he’s a sidewalk star.
Folk and rock and pop,
Jazz and country, too.
Someone drops paper money--
Time to nod, "Thank you."
Buskers play like this
All around the world,
Ireland to Spain,
Paris to St. Paul.
They might move on
To Tulsa, or to
the metro, Montreal.
He used to have a dog
But sadly it's has passed on.
The blues tunes made him
Moan. That old dog’s name
Was Don.
A woman listens hard
He can see her sigh.
That feels pretty good,
It’s true—he cannot lie.
If that woman walks up
And tosses in a bill,
That will help him eat:
A different kind of thrill.
The cities of the world
Are the troubadours’ abode.
They’re out there playing now
On this street or that road.
Stand or sit, play and sing—
That is the busker’s code.
Elevator and Bus
Doors closed, doors opened:
onto a bus where she sat
riding with new strangers.
"I didn't want this," she said
to a gray-haired woman.
"No one does," said the woman.
Then everyone began to sing
a song she did not know.
"I'm scared," she said to
a weary, kind brown man.
"It is all right," he said.
"This is the bus we're on,
and all of us are frightened?
Friday, January 31, 2025
The Goddess Dusk
goddess infused with gold
light, luxuriant in liquid
soft warmth.
hans ostrom 2025
painting by Alphonse Mucha (1899)
Thursday, January 30, 2025
Sine Qua Non
for phrasing. Blank stare,
bunched brow, light in eyes--
words stored in neural bins,
plucked out, strung like beads,
then shipped in blood-drawn
carts along nervous roads
to mouth and tongue and
lips: "Sine qua non--that's it."
And the listenerr repeats:
"Sine qua non--right."
Monday, January 27, 2025
Winter Samba
(song lyric)
I find I need to feel my feet
On Ipanema sand
And see the supple bodies -
So lithe and tawny tan.
I conjure up Brazilian heat -
And sense the
sultry sun.
I crave the fiery chill
of
Cold rum on my tongue.
Play
a winter samba
To
melt my soul’s cold ice.
A
soft & sultry samba -
The
sound of paradise.
Play
a winter samba
That
sways just like a palm
Beside
a breezy beach -
The
ocean bright and calm.
Winter wears me down
-
The city’s gray and cold.
The forecast every day’s
The old same-old same-old.
Who are all these strangers
Who sneeze and cough on me?
I spend my evening shivering,
In front of the TV.
Chorus
Buffalo and Cleveland,
Detroit, Ontario.
Winter wants to strangle them.
Winter won’t let go.
Seattle and Chicago,
Berlin and Paris, too.
The rain and snow and darkness
Dye all our spirits blue.
How much are flights to Rio?
Okay - I’ll check
online.
Do I have Brazilian cousins
Who own a silver mine?
Chorus
Sunday, January 26, 2025
This Side of the River
Over many seasons
I waited and waited
for the river's waters
to recede so that I
might safely cross,
perhaps by using
boulders as stepping
stones. Perhaps
by sloshing throw
a manageable
current. The water
never lowered.
If I tried to wade, I'd
drown. If I rowed
a boat, the waterfall's
catract would
devour me. No bridges
in sight. Thus
I announced to
myself that this side
of ther river
is the place I want
to be--my destination,
my desire, my smoke
and my fire. I love
it over here!
hans ostrom 2025
Friday, January 24, 2025
Counter-Invictus
Out of the day that covers me,
Gray as the gray of dull wool,
I think what gods may hang around
To remind me I'm a fool.
When things have gone quite wrong,
I've acted well or badly or okay,
Up to the challenge sometimes, sometimes
Not: One can't predict which way.
Beyond this sphere of our mortality,
Lies who knows what for sure?
Hell, yes, I am afraid to die,
To go forever from Is to Were.
To say you are the Captain of
Your fate is bluster or delusion
For accidents happen all the time.
And Captains sail into confusion.
If there is such a thing as Fate,
Then It is the big fleet's Admiral,
And we, alas, at best passengers.
So how much can we control?