Hans Ostrom Poems
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...
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