Lie to Me, Sun

If we could really see sunlight, we'd see

it as a driven mist of grains--photons so finely

made they move through windows, skin, and eyes

and leaves of trees and plants, which turn them into

life. The photons run the planet while we proceed

with wrecking things, of course. Illusions of mere light,

its nuts and bolts invisible, are fine by me,

especially now, as May behaves like early March,

dark gray and wet and cold. The winter blues 

still thump like Ahab's wood on my soul's deck.

Sure, lie to me, Old Sun, with visible/invisible

rays of light. Light up things and me with little

quantum particles. Hell yeah. As long as you

come in and stay awhile, and save us once again,

and start the growing season and maybe kindle hope. 

The Bay of Today

In a gray bay, white sailboats

curve across what's for their

sailors now and for us past. 

Our Bay of Today is another

matter; it's blue, chipped

by whitecaps. In what seems

to be a sea of quantum

probability, no thing exists,

and all things just keep

happening. The universe

becomes an eventful

occurrence. Well,

everybody's got their

own lifeboat floating

in what seems like

the moment, with 

its carrots, rocks, and sky

and ways of wondering why. 

hans ostrom 2022

In Feral Times

In feral times, brains tear

into propaganda in rabid

frenzy. Brains fill with rage,

which displaces sense

and empathy. Minds want

to hunt mythic stock prey--

who turn out to be people

just like them. Afterwards. 

In feral times, mirages

cloud minds, blind them 

to facts and finding ways. 

Mobs over-run common 

ground because cults

are total. The wicked

trick the deranged to gain

so little--like pickled

ideology or weary greed.

In feral times, reasoners

don't know what to do.

They wonder if they 

should seek a better place

to live. They tend to stay

to fulfill duties. Once

the Grand Wreckers rise 

to unbound power,

a cycle ensues. It

may end in a shabby

bunker but too late. 

The reasoners know

because they've read

and know what to read. 

hans ostrom 2022

"A Prayer That Will Be Answered," by Anna Kamienska

 Short video/reading of a fine poem by Kamienska (1920-1986), a Polish poet who wrote in other genres as well. This poem appears on many websites and blogs. I rather like it, which is I guess why I recorded it for my Youtube channel (langstonify). Link:

"A Prayer That Will Be Answered"

The Simulation

What's my role in

the simulation? About

the same as that of a dust

particle on a stage where

actors strut, stomp, 

and sing. I see--then

fatalism's not really 

a choice. It's--It's

nothing, for a pixel

with a philosophy 

is just a pixel. Well,

now this pixel has to

cook a meal. Is that

part of the simulation?

I'm hungry. 

hans ostrom 

A Desire of Keys

 And the keys said,

"Let us off this metal ring.

We want to lead our

separate lives, travel

our chosen corridors,

try many locks,

and be seized

by an adventure

of unknown hands

in unknown lands."

hans ostrom 2022

The Lizards of Summer

Summer--lizards liked to live

in the Old Man's rock pile,

as he was a stone mason

and I was his hod-carrier

and they were dry and cool

reptiles. They scampered

then stopped to watch me

watch them scamper. They

might do pushups. They 

always slightly grinned,

thinking of lizard jokes.

So gray, so scaly dry they

were, with plump biceps

and thighs. They raised

families in those rocks.

Passed on lizard knowledge

without saying a word. My

mammal eyes and their

reptile eyes regarded 

each other all bright Sierra

summer. Sometime in

Fall they went to vacation

in dormancy, and I drove

down-down the curling

highway to the Valley

to study in the rigid

buildings of academia. 

hans ostrom 2022

Bar Codes

 (revised)

Draperies: and some  folds

bunch together. A tired merchant

tugs them across a whole

window  to hide from retail.

On that day rain came straight

down then wind drove it

into mountains like harp-string

nails. We grew desperate for sun.

Was the wall in that baked town

painted white at first, with black

stripes added later? Or black

first, white lines later?

From my roasting room across

the street, I watched black-and-

white TV. It was a documentary

on geometric zebras. 

"A Song in Passing," by Yvor Winters

 Video/reading of Winters' short poem. Winters (1900-1968) taught for many years at Stanford University. He was an independent figure in Modern poetry. 

"A Song in Passing"  link to Youtube

Earth Isn't Worried

Lightning-boiled, roiled

clouds and con-thunder-cussed

air, & down here twisted wind

drives cars and houses into trees.

However Earth is calm. Strata

& old parched channels

rest easy underground. Deep

roots clutch bedrock

& ride the sphere-spin.

Layers of clay and gravel,

lava, sand, loam, and petrified

wood lie together like siblings

camping out. Earth isn't worried. 

hans ostrom 2022

"Like the Touch of Rain," by Edward Thomas

 39-second recording/video of the short lyric poem, "Like the Touch of Rain," by Edward Thomas (1878-1917), English/Welsh poet:

"Like the Touch of Rain" video

National Anthems

If you're a nation,

you need an anthem,

which comes with a flag.

Xenophobia's optional.

although it may not

seem so. Musicians

grind through the melodies

like millers making flour.

Anthems seem to take an hour

when you're waiting for the

game or match or memorial

to start. Hand over heart,

hat off, stand up if you can,

pretend to sing along

the way children do--all

up to you. In America's,

of course, bombs and rockets

go off in the midst of civil

war--which never ends. 

People treat anthems with more

respect than they do humans. 

hans ostrom 2022

Ice Hockey

(revised)

They're painters on skates

who brush and dab  a cold canvas

they whirl and glide on.

They're sleep-walkers

in pajamas, wandering

on a bright dream's stage--

everyone else in darkness,

looking on, transfixed.

Hornets and wasps

in snarling squads,

swarm out of the nest--

sent mad by one

black fly gliding among

them, a dark dot

playing dead, then jetting off.