161. Honey-Toned Chair

A honey-toned
rocking chair
next to a hearth
is composed of
red oak, which
used to be a tree,
which used to rock
in warm winds.

The tree's great-
grandparents were
acorns, which sat
together, attached
to a branch, in
presence of leaves
flushed yellow-red-orange
in late October,

when the honey's
been harvested and
the rocking chair's
seasons of seeming
a good idea begin.
Again, agaiN.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

160. Birth Story

My parents, having sex, mixed the ingredients that would eventuate in me. Forgive, Lord, for they knew not what they did.  I know because my mother told me so. I had not been "planned."

I don't like to (and in fact don't) picture them having sex, but one must face the fact that one began to begin when a wad of semen embraced an egg.

Dr. Padgett pulled me from my mother, who lay etherized upon a table, into the rest of the world. And it was done--or begun: accident, miracle, inevitability, propagation, something (something else), nothing in the scheme of things.

My father was two canyons away in the Sierra Nevada, having wearied of my delayed arrival.  My gender allowed him to win a bet from a woman who asserted "he" couldn't have three sons in a row.  He was drinking her whiskey with her husband when the winning news arrived by phone (a party-line, common in the 50s).  I can see him in a red-and-black checked flannel shirt, the massive Swedish laugh--it's after midnight. The color of the scene over-cooked, as in those early Kodak color-shots, the reds and browns so deep.

I see my mother lying in bed, exhausted, wondering, wondering how she will handle it all now with a third son, and with her husband, an implacable mountain man.

The hammer-toe was there from the beginning, the blue eyes and dark hair with multiple cowlicks, and also no doubt the in-born reticent watchfulness: something told me in a sub-conscious secret baby-language to keep an eye on this whatever-it-is--this excess of things, light, motion, people, shadow, change.  Way too much excitement for anybody's good.  I remain suspicious of the whole arrangement.

On the advice of a Swedish great-aunt to whom I would deliver cream weekly five years later, they named me Hans, pronounced hands, Ansgar (beleaguered saint sent to Christianize the Vikings) Ostrom, which used to be Åström.

Birthed and named.  I happened, as did you: Well done.

159. "The Red Wheelbarrow," by William Carlos Williams

"The Red Wheelbarrow"

158. I Give You . . .

Poets, even famous ones, write nonsense like "I give you the sun."  I guess it's their job (our job--okay I'm a poet, too) in a way to write crap like that.

Now I can't even give you these words unless you take them like a moist red pamphlet handed out by a blood-shot-eyed youth on dirty corner of an urbane street.

Poets can't help themselves so they try to help others by means of words, which people need less than cash, food, time, medicine, and rest.

So here it is: I give you your 8th birthday-celebration, when the wild turkey ran through the yard with that flapping red thing under its chin, when your uncle tried to tackle it, cracking his collar bone, and you received a crucial gift that you still keep in a drawer no matter where you move. 

Yes, yes, this didn't happen to you, but now it did, or something like it did, and so I give that to you even though you already have it.  Happy Birthday.

157. Will There Be Anything Else?

"May I get you anything else?" said the waiter to Hiram.

"Yes," said Hiram. "A Turkish carpet, large, woven from silk and cotton; a woman wearing nothing but red copper bracelets; a private room; and then, if you will, send my thanks to God."

"More water, sir?" replied the waiter.

156. "Barefoot for a Scorpion," by Alan Dugan

please click on link to Youtube:

"Barefoot for a Scorpion"



from Collected Poems, by Alan Dugan (Yale, 1965).

155. The Sword Thing

I never wanted to live by the sword. I mean, some swords are nice to look at, and up until about age 6, you can have pretty good sword-fights with sticks.

But swords are heavy, awkward, and up to no good.

I certainly don't want to die by the sword, hacked to bits and splats of blood and waves of pain. Who wants to die by the sword?

I think swords now should be reserved mostly for Olympic fencing, museums, and locked display-cases.  I think it's best if people live and die by other means.

If someone challenges me to a duel, I might agree to play along, but not with pistols, not at dawn, and definitely not with swords. Ketchup-bottles--at three feet, and at around, say, 4:30 p.m.

154. May

May may mean you've come to
the end of a durable winter.
May encourages vines, stirs
hope in the vintner.

In May you might soon see
red buds and blossoms
but also mourn in sunlight
the heavy loss of loved ones.

On May Day if you're a laborer
you may march to a red flag,
which might be misinterpreted
as a communistic gag.

May's a good month for those
who feel they don't belong.
It's neither spring nor summer.
Alone, it listens to bird-song

and withdraws from June and April,
both too garrulous by half.
It prefers to cogitate, may-
be to share a mild, ironic laugh.


Copyright 2011 Hans Ostrom

153. "Childhood," by Margaret Walker

"Childhood," by Margaret Walker

152. "Red Sails in the Sunset"

"Red Sails in the Sunset," Patti Page

151. Painted Rooms

In the green room, you wait to go on.
In the white room, nurses tend to you.
In the yellow room, you're meant to think bright thoughts.
In the brown room, someone's strumming on strings, reminiscing.
In the gray room, there is crime or storage or both.
In the blue room, you feel sad doom.
In the pink room, pink always makes a point.
An orange room makes for one bright joint.
In the black room, darkness is a friend.
A purple room is always gladly too much.
A red room's a fine place to get it on.
A tan and tawny room wakes up at dawn.

150. Treasure-Map

Darling, yes, of course I admire the necklace, with a delicate ruby, that I gave you, because you too admire it, but my eyes drift to that tender hollow between throat and chest-bone, then to the color of your skin--and to lines suggested by your collar-bones.  Then up my gaze goes to your face, a smiling face, which now becomes a slightly suspicious visage.  There's everything to admire there.

And then of course your hair, which now I kiss and sniff--your suspicions verified: I've lust not jewelry on my mind.

It's not as if the necklace is irrelevant, oh no. It's just that it's the starting point on the treasure-map, the map and treasure both being you.  The questions are many.  The questions include what will you decide to say and do, how do you see me, and will you offer your consent to me, your admirer.

hans ostr0m 2018

149.. Rudolph the Rednosed Reindeer (Boogie Woogie Style)

148. Futility Falls

In the town of Futility Falls, the river dried up, withdrawing the falls. The Council tried to shorten the town's name to Futility, but citizens objected. Tradition.

At the high school, sports teams are called The Philosophers. The mascot's meant to look like Descartes but bears more resemblance to a Hollywood pirate.

Over at the Nice Try Motel, you may rent any vacant room except Kate's Room, which is vacant. A nationally known embezzler, Kate stayed in Futility Falls one night while on the lam. She promised to come back and pay to have artificial falls installed. Townspeople still send her letters in prison. Her room, which features red vertical striped wallpaper--a kind of vivid prefiguring of cell-life--has become a shrine of sorts. It's hard to say what it memorializes besides a spirited woman who cared enough and took the time to promise too much while trying vainly to flee authorities. 

Anyway, Kate's tale resonates in Futility Falls.

147. Season of the Horny Goat

In practice, seasons get all mixed up: Sprummer, Wautumn, Fring, Sfall. For weather's a day-to-day thing, and now climate seems iffy, tipsy, and turvey.

If it should be hot, my dear, take off all your clothes and bathe in sunshine and my gaze. Thank you!

If it should be cold, dress warmly, go out, come back in, take off all your clothes, drink hot chocolate or rum (which I shall have prepared), then roll around nude with me in front of the fire, light of red coals flickering on your thighs.Splendid!

Yes, it's true--I note your sigh--there is one constant season--the season of the horny goat, such as I.

146. UB40 ft & Astro- Red Red Wine ( w/ lyrics )

145. Red Seas and Biting Fleas

Red seas and biting fleas. Asthma-wheeze, with four consonances clogging up the passageway from A to a.

Alaska freeze--it does please certain animals.. Red salmon eggs, smooth women's legs.

A search for meaning, a red cedar leaning.

A sizzling mist, from a grimy grill, a red-brown moth on a window sill.

Futile worries for the world, shining red hair, curled.

144. Johnny Cash - Ring of Fire

143. "Susana Soca," by Jorge Luis Borges

143. Tasting Women

Sometimes I must stay away from my friend Hiram, for his mind not only runs in a sexual rut, so to speak--not unusual, that--but it also runs to the bizarre, the outlandish, the silly.
Just the other day he said, "You know, to me a woman-tasting makes much more sense than a wine-tasting."
I sighed. Against my judgment, I said, "Go on. Explain."
"Oh, let's say twelve naked women lie down on beds in a large room, and a taster briefly explores their vaginas with, in my case, his tongue and mouth. You'd rinse your mouth between tastings. You'd note your findings on a card."
"What is wrong with you?" I asked.
"What do you mean, as if I didn't know?" he replied. "What's wrong with me, according to you, is that I'm Hiram, one enthralled and obsessed by women, by the female form, as expressed by individual women-people."
"'Women-people'?"
"Women."
"Hiram, you'd have to hire them. Sex workers. Do you want to be going down on sex workers? Or were you thinking of asking for volunteers among your acquaintances?"
"The latter," he said--in a mumble. "Now I see the flaws. The logistics are impossible. Ah, but what if? What if! Each woman with her own particular taste. I am sucking, licking, and fondling the pudendum of each. Some shaved, some not--perhaps one of them pierced on the labia. I am--I'd give each one a red rose!?
"Very thoughtful of you. I suspect they might want more."
"Indeed," he said, missing my point. "And I'd want to give it to them--sucking toes, licking thighs--kisses, nibbles. Burying my head in there, but gently, giving my all. I'd feel obligated to satisfy each one."
"Hiram, try thinking normal thoughts."
"Only right before I go to sleep, my normative friend. The normative numbs me; it is of our zomboid culture."
"Women aren't bottles of wine."
"I know that, you sententious bastard!" Hiram was animated, to say close to the least. He drew attention from other patrons at the bar. "That's the point--to taste women, a woman, not wine. To taste! I feel as if I can taste them now!"
"Keep it down, fellas," the bartender said--not his first time having to admonish us.
I bought Hiram a glass of red wine, pinot noir, and left a tip whose size was appropriate for our having been admonished.
And here I am, thinking Hiram's non-normative thoughts, imagining myself as the taster. The taster.