On Deciding Not to Become Wealthy

The evidence suggests getting rich
was not one of my priorities.
I studied literature and took up
writing poetry: any questions?

Also, I've always worked. Rather
late in the game, I noticed most
rich people don't work a lot.
Or at all.

Way back in the ago-era,
I ran my own weed- and grass-
cutting business, age 15.

Since then: different wage-jobs--
labor at a gravel-plant, hod-
carrying, washing pots,
writing sports articles, pounding
nails, digging trenches,
reading standardized tests.

Also a salaried job. Professor.
I see now that this was the path
for me.  I think if I were rich, I'd
be very nervous, less generous,
and much more of a fuck-up
than I already have been.

That's my report.



Hans Ostrom, 2012

Poem: A List of Parts

In this package
you will find the
following parts
for the poem
you'll assemble.

Please match the
parts to this list
before you begin
assembly. 

1. Sounds
2. Letters [26]
3. Words  [75--you may
order more]
4. Marks (punctuation)
5. Pictures in the mind
[not included but implied]
6. Space
7. Sample title
8. Sample beginning [2]
9. Sample ending [2]
10. Stanza-templates [6--you
may order more]



Hans Ostrom, 2012

The Last Automobile

Hear that sound?
That's the motor
of the last car
to go over the cliff.

Now the authorities
will roll up highways
and store them in a
desert like old
spools of thread.

Wild horses will
look down on them
from synthetic, pastured
plateaus above.


Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Song (Gone again is Summer)," by Edna St. Vincent Millay

Political Arguments

Nobody knows what they're talking about.
Or, they know what they're talking 
about only because they made it up.

Judging from the noise and heat,
you might think these people
really believe they affect outcomes.

You might even think
the politicians to whom they're
loyal are loyal to them!

These people arguing
are like watchdogs barking
and growling, guarding

a piece of turf no one sees.
Political arguments
are imaginative enterprises. 


--Hans Ostrom, 2012

Bed Linens

Sand from a beach-woman's feet,
crumbs from something I ate,
books, pens, notebooks, socks--

none of such stuff in bed
ever bothered me. Still:
fresh sheets, especially
when a person's gripped
by flu--celestial comfort.

There's something mournful
and small--not rising to the level
of tragedy--about a stripped bed.

It's as if Sleep up and quit
that room and moved on
to another town.

--Hans Ostrom, 2012

"Moving Books into a New Study," by Robert Bly

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.