Tuesday, March 19, 2024

Longtime Married

Two candle stubs
in old candlesticks
drown their flames 
in wax. A few strings
of gray smoke disperse
in the dim, darkening 
room at dusk.

We're both quiet
as we look, together
and separately, 
into advancing darkness.

Finally, one of us
says, "Well, . . . ."
and the other says,
'Yes, . . .". We rise
from the table,
pick up the dinner plates,
silverware, glasses,
and take them to 
the kitchen where one
of us flicks on the light. 


Hans Ostrom 2024

Wednesday, March 6, 2024

Poet's Musings: Poe Sonnet

Poet's Musings: Poe Sonnet: Poe Sonnet He was so utterly American, Careening through his life deliberately, Addicted to both impulse and ambition. He wrote for art...

Tuesday, March 5, 2024

March, in the Northern Hemisphere

March, a grunting month,
a mound of mud, a flood
of flotsam, a stormy brawler
drunk on rain. March, a sentimental
sap, half in love with shapely April,
half in hate with freezing Feb.

We want such a month
because of what it portends
but beg that passes fast
because it only pretends.

Hans Ostrom 2024

Saturday, March 2, 2024

Cinquain for a Spring-Fevered Cat

The cat
seems fevered by
the warmth and light outside
his lair, this house. He yowls and runs around,
Spring-zinged.


Hans Ostrom 2024

Tuesday, February 27, 2024

Procession of Cats

Like a long silver ribbon,
the path from the moon
stretches to Earth tonight. And
down the path come the cats,
striding with their lazy lope.

Thousands of them, leaving
their lunar lair, returning
to this ground with moonlight
in their round unblinking eyes.

Arriving, they take their feline
time to scatter to homes,
hideouts, forests, plains,
jungles, mountains, and alleys.

Anvil

Bolted to the bench
in the Old Man's workshop,
the anvil seemed to have
a bow and a stern--a ship
of steel that would never see
water. A rock of ages

on which to pound things,
will things into shape. Always
cold to the touch, like a snowdrift,
even in high summer. It had jaws
and teeth to hold things if need be,
but never ate. It was

indestructible and passive
like the blue bedrock over which
impulsive rivers ran. While tools
broke, rusted, disappeared; 
while nuts and bolts came
and went; and jobs and tasks

were asked and answered,
the anvil stayed like an anchored
asteroid, like a god of patience. 


Hans Ostrom 2024

Monday, February 26, 2024

Questions at a Cafe

The 3-year-old sips
his hot chocolate.
His face expresses
pleasure. He tells me,
"Cows make milk."
"That's correct," I say,
as if he needs my opinion.

His grandma, my wife,
is at the cafe counter
getting her drink (I sip
my two shots of espresso).

The 3-year old asks,
"How do cows make meat?"
I say, "Well, cattle, male
and female, eat a lot of
grass and hay to make
their muscles big."

I dread the follow-up
question and in my mind
see abbattoir images,
hear horrific terrified
bellowing, smell blood. 
The question doesn't come,

for he sees grandma
returning to our table
with her drink--a cafe latte--
made with oat "milk."

Hans Ostrom 2024

Monday, February 19, 2024

Collecting Thoughts

In their abode, "I'm going
to go collect my thoughts"
became a code 
for "I'm going to take a nap."

The euphemism's like a cat's
toy or anything a feline feels
like batting around, slobbering on,
and then--before a nap--ignoring. 

Well, there those thoughts are,
spread out on a cloth in the mind.
Not very many, not of the highest
quality. Mostly worries, minor obsessions, 
images of flowers or birds--something
pleasant, maybe, to look at 

as one rolls over and feels
grogginess close the eyes
and fog the conscious mind. 

Hans Ostrom 2024