More Money Than God

Anyone who has any money,

even a thoughtless penny,

has more money than God:

in what universe would God

want cash, coins, credit, creepy

crypto-grift, currency, micro-

change, stocks, bundled bonds,

bullion, or any token that smokes

with agreed upon mullioned

meaning? I swear to God, 

billionaires have become 

like Zeus and his merry band

of psychopaths on a celebritized

Olympus. Metastatisized wealth.

Yes, excess morphed into abscess.

hans ostrom 2022

Preferable Dusk

Do Parisians still call dusk

l'heure bleue? I should ask

the internet gods. At sundown

in the Sierra Nevada, green

pine trees seem gold, sift

mild breezes. You sense

raccoons, deer, and coyote

getting ready for the night-shift. 

Rustlings in the brush. I've 

always felt more dread at dawn

than dusk. Jaws of jobs I hated

waited then. Fresh evils

and the cackling of the pious

lurk in morning headlines. 

Dusk equals After Work, a time

to cook and think, to hear

jazz or savor silence, to sniff

the darkling air--like a coyote. 

hans ostrom 2022

Beside a Farm Pond

On the green pond

faint ripples roll slowly,

just kiss the bank. Beside

this quiet water, you don't

have to pretend to know.

Unseen fish snooze

in mud. Frogs--they grunt

and chirp. Birds flit and fly

and riff their trills. It isn't

nature out here. It isn't

anything you have to name.

Eyes wide open, you sit

in nowhere. You're here, it

seems. What seems? It. 

hans ostrom 2022

"Small Poem for April"

This small poem honors

smooth blue pebbles,

waking up to a local

bird chorus each day,

the price of pollen

(sneeze-blasts), stalwart friends,

more and more and more light,

fair wages, and rest.

hans ostrom 

2018/revised 2022

"What Survives," by Rainer Maria Rilke

Recording/video of a short poem by Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by A. Poulin, approved for use for educational purposes, taken from allpoetry.com site. Langstonify youtube channel. 

https://youtu.be/YGlrJDLcZKQ

The Rose Robe

(La rose robe [1864] painted by  Jean Frédéric Bazille)

the rose robe glowed,

holding its own light,

as last sunlight shone

on white buildings

down there in the town.

she sat on a broad

stone ledge, taking

a break from house

and people too self-

involved to care about

a mild breeze 

that each evening 

met her and teased trees.

she rested her long, strong

brown arms, letting hands

lie on a night-black apron.

What she thought

was no one's concern

but hers. cool air

found her neck 

and shoulders. her tired

feet in gray house 

shoes napped on stone

like two cats.

she'd sewn the pink

robe's sleeves herself

before summer settled,

knowing how they'd 

sit above her elbows

on evenings just like

this one. like her,

women down in town

longed to linger outside

stuffy rooms,

to think, and to listen to

sparrows sing 

themselves to sleep 

as stray charcoal clouds

drifted across

a chalk-blue sky. 

hans ostrom 2022

Trust and the Old Tree

You can rely on certain

people until. Until. 

An old tree knows

in its fibers that sky

giving rain and sun

might one day blast

with lightning. That

the mountain holding

soil and root-anchoring

rocks might one night

smash with a boulder-

brutal landslide or

a roaring avalanche. 

Trust is always contingent,

temporary. Is really not

to be trusted. It's the

sturdiest kind of hope.

Sway with it as it lasts. 

hans ostrom 2022

it seems you fainted

you felt yourself going,

which might describe life.

or death. a wobble & brain-light

switched off. started to crouch,

hoping to . . .

then . . . ?  you woke

slowly, with such calm,

like dawn in fog,

into a mild dream, 

a viscous stream-creek.

imagined you were

in bed--no: a table leg,

cords of some kind. so,

you got up: a fiction.

woke again.

cold ceramic under your

neck. will, a boss,

ordered you to get

up. wide-stanced, you

lurched toward a factual

bed, found it, lay down.

slept, woke to a person

telling you, "your forehead's

bleeding." you wanted

some blood to  trickle

in your mouth--a child's

thought chugging

by in awareness

like a slow catfish in 

a warm honey pond. a

chat ensued. and

old technology--

blood pressure cuff,

flashlight in eyes. fingers

on wrist to receive telegraph

message. a tuning in to your

heartbeat as if it were

espionage radio. blood

cleaned away, gauze

like a dry loveless kiss.

a diagnosis of low blood

pressure, a kind of bad

weather, and dehydration,

a kind of bad climate. water.

back to sleep, no dreams

      allowed. fainting, what a thing. 

hans ostrom 2022

Useless Despair

While a dictator's second-best bombs

blasted people in Kjiv, I

shopped for groceries

not far from a massive volcano

wrapped in snow like an ermine-coated

queen with a molten temper. 

Privileged beyond measure,

I gulped big  breaths of iced air,

indulged in despair, uselessly

fretted for fellow humans,

imperfect lovely people 

a half a planet away. 

How evil finds a way 

to fill little rage-addicted men

like pus until they burst

in a death riot, I can't say.

Why so many shocked children

and their parents have to die

before such a small box of rot

finally dies from his own mad

virus, I can't know. So:

I looked into a set gray sky

in some region named

the Pacific Northwest,

couldn't cry, took my sad 

bags into a store and pushed

a little wheeled cage around aisles. 

hans ostrom 2022

In Praise of Plodding

I don't sing the praises

of plodding. I mumble them.

Praise for slow striders

and taciturn toilers.

For persons who lay gray

mortar for red bricks.

Who plow fields for

food-to-be, who teach

students who arrive 

foggy from hunger or

adolescent hormones.

Who nurse the ill, who

must listen and endure in

their jobs to the squawk, squeak,

shriek of opinions. I

celebrate ones who watch

where they're going, who

produce the correct tool

at the proper time. Who follow

facts like meandering creeks

until a decisive lake comes

into view. Humanity seems

always in need of the prepared

and careful,  the appropriately shod,

citizens scrubbed of narcissism.

Thank you, plodders. Steady on.

hans ostrom 2022

Creeks

where seas start:

springs leak & snow swoons 

under sun & soon trickles

become inklings of headwaters

off spiked hills 

spasms of water splash, crash,

& make thin loud brash nervous

streams skating over slick slate.

off peaks proper creeks

leap in white waterfalls,

smash into crescendo pools,

lounge awhile,

then amble, then race & riffle

around boulders til they fall

again            listen:

there's a jazzy rhythm 

to high country creeks,

syncopation of gurgle,

trickle, rush, splash, & knock

see shadow and sun, eddies

and pebbled edges, deep

black pools, glassy sheets

under which fish shadows dart.

carved into loamy meadows

and farmland, catfish creeks

won't be rushed (hush, now),

quietly they tread over 

fine silt floors.

desert dry creeks--

ghostly impressions,

molds of pool & streambed

asking for water. lizards

scribble graffiti on 

parched sand. but then

sky attacks one day 

&  the memory of water

comes roaring back

creeks give themselves 

over to rivers that give

themselves over to bigger

flows & who knows?

maybe the big river can't

resist a coast & runs to a 

bay, to a sea, where

all the banks of rivers vanish

& all creeks sing together.

hans ostrom 2022

Far Away Sponges

Under Antarctic ice,

portly white sponges 

filter frozen secrets.

Fifteen thousand years

old, they look like huge

flabby white jars.

Like bears and us,

they are omnivorous.

Landlords of a sort,

they host crustaceans

and worms and never

charge rent or evict.

Generous, they donate

bits of themselves 

to feed sea stars.

Like soft boulders

or plump packages of time

mailed from the moon,

they fluctuate forever.

Some call all them giant 

volcano sponges, others

Anoxycalyx joubini:

mere syllables, bubbles

bursting in viscous salt

currents. It's said you can

dive down and see them. 

Please don't. A few photos

suffice, and their niche is

in no need of us. For sponges

are sisters of all other animals. 

hans ostrom

And All the Ships at Sea

Ships groan. Moan. Even shimmering

yachts know, deep in their blueprints,

they shouldn't be at sea. Commerce

and war disagree. The sea is ours!

they cry--like drunken sailors

on shore leave or rabid dictators

with shrinking brains. Ships

at permanent anchor--mothballed:

uncommanded, they slightly sway,

serene in their bay. At night, 

ghosts howl in bones of the hulls,

conjuring nightmares of reefs,

hurricanes, missiles, and mad captains. 

hans ostrom 2022