Hans Ostrom

Silver Star - 4,005 Points (1954 / California)

Hans Ostrom Poems

161. Busker In The Rain 1/2/2017
162. The Schedule Of Time And Space 1/2/2017
163. A Graveyard In The High Sierra 1/18/2017
164. Summer Carpentry 1/18/2017
165. Ego Insurance 1/20/2017
166. Transformation: Dentist 1/20/2017
167. Transformation: Lawyer 1/20/2017
168. Black's Beach 1/20/2017
169. In Old Palm Springs 1/20/2017
170. Quarter To Five (A Zombie Poem) 1/20/2017
171. Adam And Eve Evicted By Landlord 1/23/2017
172. Sleeping Seaside 1/23/2017
173. My Diary Went On Strike 1/23/2017
174. Buttons 1/23/2017
175. How Are You Enjoying The Dictatorship? 1/29/2017
176. The Idea Of Disorder In A Garden 2/1/2017
177. Flooded Farm 2/1/2017
178. Nevada 2/8/2017
179. Note To Shelf 2/9/2017
180. Grendel's Agent 2/9/2017
181. Collecting Time 2/9/2017
182. Vampire Blues 2/9/2017
183. The Risings 2/9/2017
184. Bible And Rifle 2/9/2017
185. Those Weren't The Days 2/10/2017
186. Regrets 2/10/2017
187. In Unjust Spring 2/10/2017
188. Schooling 2/10/2017
189. Curve Of Life 2/13/2017
190. Identifications 2/15/2017
191. Night Train In Fog 2/19/2017
192. Plain As Day 3/8/2017
193. Lime Cove 3/16/2017
194. Locked Up 3/28/2017
195. Unfinished Books 3/29/2017
196. Penelope Calliope 3/29/2017
197. Our Task 3/29/2017
198. Partial Report From Childhood 3/30/2017
199. Stolen Thread 3/30/2017
200. Concerning Fools 3/31/2017

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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

A Hod-Carrier Reflects

Stone walls get the last word.
This wall, my father built. He’s dead.
It stands. He hefted each rock, troweled
mortar, composed High-Sierra granite,
quartz, diorite, mariposite, slate. Made
the thing true, good, pleasing, and useful.

I mixed and wheeled the gray “mud, ”
cleaned tools and rocks, etched

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