Jury Duty

We passed through voi dir,

my dear, were made peers

of a rococo realm, with its

perched presider and purchased

persuaders.  We nodded at passing

evidence, became a dozen guilty

buzzards asked to shadow

a creature offered on an altar

called The People. We heard

arguments open and close

like shutters banging in the wind.

In a room, our opinions

accumulated like snow.  In that

drift was buried our decision,

which we seized.  The facts had

whispered to us, “He is guilty.”

We listened to them and repeated

what they said.  The defendant

bowed his head.  Shadows

of our doubt followed us outside,

where, greasy-winged, we joined

The People leading perfectly

legal lives.

hans ostrom 2014/2018

Eve's Note to Adam

Thank you for the box
of twigs. How did you come to think
to save them? And the pebbles, too.
Pebbles and twigs, apples
and figs, ah what a summer it was
even though we got evicted.



hans ostrom 2018

The Mouse of Contrition

The mouse of contrition
withdraws to its nest.
I am sorry, I am sorry, says
the mouse. For what, I can't
remember, but I do apologize. 

Wise, the mouse enjoys sleep
more than guilt, and so
in the warm embrace of old
newsprint chewed, it dozes
but doesn't stop the quivering
of its nose, which is agnostic.


hans ostrom 2018

Lizard and Person

A lizard springs out of always and scurries
perpendicular to level across a hot face
of tan granite. Stops. Stares at a person
who stares back with perception larded
with knowledge, free association,
and mind's always frenzied business.

The lizard focuses, grins thinly, sprints
into a crack between boulders, and settles
into shadow to digest a fly. The person's
mind is beset by why.


hans ostrom 2018

Swatting the Rumor

A rumor made the rounds,
gliding slowly like a fat skurzing
fly. Before peaking, my attention
got briefly piqued. I lost interest
and swatted down the rumor.
After wiggling its dirty legs,
it died on its back.


hans ostrom 2018

The Thin Thick of It

Well here we are in the moment's
techno-trend, alone in groups with our phones,
semi-ignoring the quasi-friends
sitting next to us. With our thumbs,
we hammer at glass like chickens
trained to play beak-bingo.

We swim in a river of gerunds--
posting, texting, liking, blocking,
attacking, retweeting, de-friending,
muting, sharing . . . We belong

to fractured unaccredited schools of fish,
unspooling into fractal clouds
of selfies. Masses mediated
mediate masses, sniffing fumes
of toxic gasses. It's all very real
and revolutionary, as well as false plus
reactionary. It's headed toward the only
destination left to us on the map: More.


hans ostrom 2018

This Is Not Just to Say

A plum's uninhibited purple
epidermis entertains a faint
silver mist, you noticed.

Even as you chomped
through the fruit
to eat what you expected,

your abstracted mind
nibbled on a
nebula of thought.


hans ostrom 2018

("This Is Just to Say," William Carlos Williams)