Hans Ostrom

Silver Star - 3,834 Points (1954 / California)

Hans Ostrom Poems

321. Sea Monster 10/19/2007
322. El Greco's 'Christ On The Cross' 5/11/2009
323. Memory Unit 2/16/2015
324. Fingernails 11/11/2007
325. Murder-Mystery Poem 4/11/2008
326. Feeling Bad? Try Thinking About Sex 3/23/2015
327. Of The Socks 2/12/2015
328. White Ants 3/25/2015
329. Quiet Whiteness 10/13/2017
330. Read And See 12/7/2017
331. Waking To Baking 11/20/2017
332. Oyster Shells 8/14/2017
333. Sex 9/17/2008
334. Love Poem: The Cherubs, The Harbors 11/1/2007
335. Morphine 11/18/2007
336. Cashier, Hardware Store 11/4/2007
337. April Primary 11/18/2007
338. Homeless Citizens In A Library 11/4/2007
339. High School Football 10/19/2007
340. Door Poem 9/21/2009
341. Democracy Today 8/20/2008
342. Consumocracy 11/5/2007
343. Theology And Banking 10/23/2007
344. Alleys 11/9/2007
345. For Cafeteria Workers 2/5/2009
346. Sestina: The Game Of Baseball 10/23/2007
347. A Photograph Of The Day-Shift: North Star Mine,20 June 1938 10/23/2007
348. Fossil Of A Wing 10/19/2007
349. A Hod-Carrier Reflects 10/19/2007
350. Hello, Gray Salamander 3/17/2018
351. And Now, Whether 10/12/2007
352. For Librarians 2/18/2008
353. How To Be A Cat 5/29/2008
354. Langston Hughes And Barack Obama 1/20/2009
355. How To Write A Poem: A Poem 5/11/2009
356. Langston Hughes 10/19/2007

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Best Poem of Hans Ostrom

Langston Hughes

In a wilderness of reasons
not to write, he wrote. Just wrote.
Each word was the belief
in the possibility of the next.
He kept it going.

Mostly his days and words talk
quietly, though he could rant and rage.
Mention is what his voices usually do
in a world of self-convinced noise.

Truth mentioned is a sweet brass
note you’ll never forget. Writing,
Langston showed writing to be
an unashamed act, one of the few
in a shameful, shaming world. Words

grin. Words reside. Words throw
a meal together for unexpected friends,
make a garden...

Read the full of Langston Hughes

Hands Of The Wind

Inside a pyramid, its reason:
A former king parched like a leaf
And now impervious to grief,
Bacilli, and a shift of season.

Dust of a million builders’ bones
Informs the wind with grit, lingers,
Then scrapes with unbelieving fingers
Familiar blocks of hand-hewn stone.

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