Primary Colors

In golden light yellow

hay made me sneeze,
wheeze.

I don't see many women
nor even men nor trans
wearing red lipstick anymore.

The 1950s kissed
with thick crimson lipstick, kicked
like a mean horse full
of bad yellow hay gas.

When an alpine lake,
I say brothers and sisters,
if an alpine lake
turns truly blue,
you must pause in awe
your fishing or kayaking,
your known rowing.

As the fog began to thin,
the sun looked like a flat,
cool yellow disc.

Bombs, bullets, missiles,
rockets, shrapnel, make
bloody death, dead bloody
children, babies, their mothers,
fathers, lying in blood
because Power does not
want in its red fury, its
ruinous hatred, to share.

Hans Ostrom 2023

"Winter Moon," by Langston Hughes

from "New Year Letter," by W.H. Auden

The New Pope 1x09 - John Paul III Speech

The New Pope: How Are We To Love (Season 1 Episode 3 Clip) | HBO

MC Lyte, Monie Love, and D-Nice perform "Ladies First" for Queen Latifah...

A Moment in a City

A seagull in silhouette--

it glides across sky's last light.
Unsheltered, a woman stirs
beneath blankets in a shop's
entryway. Uncovered,
her face is leathered and red.
Cars roll by, roll on.
The sound of their engines underlies
all we hear on the sidewalk.

We're among the living today,
the ones cast in this play,
humanity, but local to this moment's
scene. The shapes of moments
shift constantly. None of us passing
helps the woman. Should I go back
and give her money at least?
The shadow of the seagull is long gone.

hans ostrom 2023

A Secret

A secret is like

an egg in a bird's nest
that sits on a limb
in your mind. The
egg will later hatch,
gain strength, and fly away.

hans ostrom 2023

Regina

 t the Rosewood Hotel, London

Regina, of the hotel's front desk,
I like the way you write your name.
Your printing looks both regal
and tentative. You made the word
you made sincerely. It's your name.

Regina, of the helpful suggestions,
I like your lovely, narrow face,
your way of talking about Portugal,
your homeland, and how you speak
English fast when you come out

from behind the desk to tell us
about an exhibition at the Tate Modern,
and to tell us you're and artist
and tell us your parents encouraged
your art. Regina, artist.

hans ostrom 2023

Lost Motels

On the relegated highways

that tollways and freeways blast
past, some derelict motels still stand--
an American genre.

They're bearded with weeds,
pastel paint blistered,
neon nullified. Oh, how

the salesmen, adulterers,
truckers, con-artists, and loners
lighting out for territories
used to roar in, driving finned
cars, smoking unfiltered cigarettes,
sweat-lines running down shirts
covering their reptilian spines.

The world then was full of
Kodachrome sunshine, cash,
radios, and righteousness. Night clerks
sat in back room like sentries,
sneaking shots of bourbon.

What happened to all those
atlas-thick registers filled
with names in cursive, to all
that red lipstick, all those hats
and wing-tipped shoes?

A jutting metal sign squeals
and rusts. Rats' toenails
click on buckled linoleum.
Presidents Truman and
Eisenhower recline in graves,
and ignored two-lane highways
slumber like cold snakes.

hans ostrom 2023

"Homage to Saint-Exupery," by Stuart K. Calderwood

 A link to a superb villanelle, an homage to the pioneer pilot, lost war hero, and writer ("The Little Prince") Antione Saint-Exupery by a fine poet originally from Yorkshire, now teaching at Harvard, Stuart K. Calderwood:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/17517188-Homage-to-Saint-Exupery-by-Stuart-K-Calderwood

If Trump Wins: "Inviting the Dark Ages Across the Planet" | Amanpour and...

Piano Tuning

It creates a long, slow, aimless

tune, a dirge for a labor, blues

of the piano itself. Vibrations

that have wobbled and warped

get hauled back to pitch and harmony.

The tuner cranks a ratchet--

he's a melody mechanic,

an interpreter of intervals.

After a long slumber, 

the highest and lowest

notes wake up. The musicking

of tuning fills the room

with foreboding, making

a nest for songs that hands will

ask the piano to play later.