Hobbies? Poem by Hans Ostrom

When English, just coltish,
was trotting around medieval isles,
a hoby was a small, busy horse
that went nowhere. Ah, then
came the hobbyhorse, a child's
plaything, wicker or wood.
Another horse that went nowhere--
and anywhere in the kid's mind.

Look: we need more hobbies,
as we wait for the revolution
we want or dread. Hobbies
instead of screeching hateful
things, badgering strangers,
firing guns, or guzzling swill
brewed by cults and hustlers.

Yep, carve wood, stitch lace,
raise ancient cars from the tomb
of rust, brood over chess, thump
guitars or keyboards, water
family trees, horde shoe-horns.

More stuff we do should go
nowhere like a hoby. There's
nowhere to go anyway. We're
just here, Earth. Keep it tidy,
settle in, find something pleasant
about which to obsess
like that aunt of yours who
lived in a hive of Elvisiana.
In your hobby hide from
your worst self, advertisers,
and those who wish no one well.