Should Be Forbidden

It is customary
but not mandatory
for the old to say
of the young, "We
know more than they."
It is customary 
but not mandatory
for the young to say
of the old, "Who
cares what they know?"
It should be forbidden
of the old to say or
to think of the young,
"Who cares what
they know?"


Hans Ostrom copyright 2012

Found Poem: The Shit Parents Say

Parents don't notice
that the shit
they say
actually hurts.


alicelock, Tumblr.

I Placed a Blue Man in Tennessee

The wind scars
the surface of the lake.
He's standing there
not quite awake.

The fool stands
in mud--yes that is he,
the saddest man
in Tennessee.


--Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012

Tavern Haiku

"I put the sip in
dissipation," said the old
guy, tasting the rye.


Hans Ostrom, copyright 2012

A Presidential Election and Rhythm n Blues

Rhythm & Blues, that American
genre, holds a tale of USA.

Inside R&B a White
presidential candidate
and a Black presidential
candidate stare
at each other. Listening
to the music, you may
have to move down
many corridors, streets,
and roads before you see
them standing, staring there.

But if you have known R&B
in your life, you know
you'll see them. It is night.

Although they are only
staring, the scene feels
dangerous.  The USA
feels dangerous. If you

have known R&B in your
life, you know you can
hear danger even in a
song that is all about
sweet love. Round and round
you go, USA, round & round.

--Hans Ostrom, 2012

And So It Begins--the Semester, That Is

I'm re-posting a short poem to mark the beginning of the semester or quarter at many colleges.

"Dialogue on a College Campus"

Found Poem: Saloon Note

Hey Philip--about the Felix
THANG--
NO DRINKS until he pays
Miranda 17 dollars--
you dig?

--Hans Ostrom, 2012

Found Poem: Yeah, He Must Have Died

Yeah, he must
have died because
he's trending
on
Twitter.


--Hans Ostrom, 2012

"The Reassurance," by Thom Gunn

"Beggar Woman," by Charles Reznikoff

["Well, Spring overflows the land"], by Lorine Niedecker]

Bats Right, Throws Left

I came down from the mountains
a devout S.F. Giants fan, thanks
to radio and the Sacramento Bee.

I came down from the mountains
never having played pee-wee,
Little League, Legion, or Babe Ruth ball.
I was a baseball immigrant.

I batted left because my brother
Sven, a leftie, taught me to hit. I'd
become what I'd learn was a
dead-pull-hitter.  And
I had a glove from the Montgomery
Ward catalog.  So in high school,

I could hit the cut-off man, catch
a fly, charge a base-hit, and bunt.
At bat I was afraid of the ball:
No, not quite right. Conceptually,
I hadn't found evidence that one
shouldn't be afraid of the ball,
especially after team-mate Eddie,
nicest guy but wild, drilled me twice
in the back.  Still, I went three-
for-three one bright Spring day,
with a base-on-balls, runs scored.

But out in right field, a pasture
made for me, I often drifted
mentally, considered slipping
away ("Slip away, slip away ...").

Someone would hit a liner out
there. Manager, teammates,
and the sprinkling of fans would
say, Hey, where's the right-fielder?

And I'd be lying down with a brown
woman in a blonde meadow, or
taking a midnight train to Rome,
or writing this poem.

--Hans Ostrom 2012

Spam Found-Poem: "Hot Workplace Free"

Hot workplace free!
Workplace condition: your house
Years old: older
Pay schedule: pays for each hours
We are waiting for your reply.