See You Tomorrow

The body ages and my hope is 

so the heart and soul ferment 

existence into an elixir

only ageing can possess.  

Something to do about the speed

of living simultaneously increasing

and slowing down, something about

remembering the unforgettable and what

is still being found.  A fellowship of a few.  

The conversations slipping from aches

and pains into the metaphysics of rain.

Sipping that wine that was a moment ago

water until someone says, “It’s time to 

 go” and we look over our shoulders,

laugh, say, “See you tomorrow” as if

it’s a fact and not a prayer with yesterday the answer.

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com  

What’s The Matter

The problem is the birds won’t stop 

flying from tree to tree,

songs and silence with no rhythm,

the sun constantly in incremental

motion, the growing of shadows. 

Before I can say, “I am” I am not,

that my body and soul follow 

different timelines, that my heart

and mind are antagonistic,

that I’m always missing 

the fullness of time,

a fine four-lettered word both

sacred and profane and sometimes

sacredly profane and profanely sacred. 

And what I don’t see is if this is how

things are, then what’s the matter with me?

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Art by Zach Baker

Pride #1 2024

Untitled 2024

Nearly Gone

The trees in my yard have a clarity foregrounded

against the thinning fog.  The winter grass looks

ready for spring.  My heart’s discontent is a love 

song.  There is nothing I can do to change this scene,

this time, this longing in its blessings and curses.

That is what longing is – Jacob clinging to the angel,

the blessing, the wounding not letting go gives.

The poetry where everything fits – every step 

a dance step, every stumble a fall.

The low growling harmony of love songs where

every moment is a honky-tonk, all the music blues.

My discontent a hesitant redemption, a promise

that only I can break.  The fog is nearly gone.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Near the Time

It is early evening.  The sun has reversed its rays

from the west to east side of the landscape.

The predawn now the twilight

and that equally strong sense of an ending

beginning without the fanfare of first light.

It is a melancholy mood.  Subdued like a monk

lost in prayer streaming into meditation

where nothing is asked for because all 

has been given.  A slow, shuffling dance

of ecstasy, that silent promise of tomorrow,

the refrain that never changes though

the verses never remain the same.

It is near the time of gloaming. 

Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com

Insanity Rules by Cory Tambourine

 

'    

From Artist Cory Tambourine

http://mothlightva.weebly.com 

Art by Amy K.

Art by Amy K. @ https://www.instagram.com/picsbyamynow/ 

Art by Zach Baker

 

From Artist Zach Baker @https://www.instagram.com/studio.zachlectic/

ON HEARTSONGS

Remembering Philip Church & Mattie Stepanek

Thank you Jeni Smith Stepanek for reposting this poem

ON HEARTSONGS

Dedicated to Poet Mattie J. T. Stepanek

PHILIP KENT CHURCH

~

There’s a wondrous place, when seen in context,

Which exists and then passes, before the speaking of a word,

It lies just beyond what’s occurred, and what happens next,

And if one listens carefully – it’s where ‘heartsongs’ are heard.

The notions of past and future are merely what we insist,

Both the last moment and the next are beyond our affect,

The truth is, this moment is the only time we actually exist.

And only have the here and now where we can have effect.

Vain-glorious pursuits can become so self-defeating.

When a heart’s songs are recorded, be wise as sages,

Bearing in mind - both riches and fame are fleeting.

Heartsongs must be inscribed to stand the test of ages.

Be still and listen in your heart for the echo from above,

Listening close in a peaceful moment of no fear or panic,

You can hear the heartsongs - recognized for their love,

And join the ranks of ‘peace-makers’ –

Like MATTIE STEPANEK!

https://www.facebook.com/Philip-Kent-Church-1409887615889348/

The Problem With Mirrored Images

I am becoming an old man 

right before my eyes sometimes

hardly recognizing the image

in the mirror.  The voice remains

the same so if I call out, “Help!”

someone will say, “That’s Byron!”

probably die before they get to me.

Might even have to yell telepathically.

Sometimes, after I shave, I ask,

“Is that you?” no reply is a confirmation

the reflection is true though I wish

it was a lie remembering Sir Francis 

Bacon saying, “A lie doth enhance

the truth.”  I do what I do so that tells 

me I am who I am.  I wish the logic

more flexible.  But then I’m not.  Why 

should the logic be?  I don’t shave 

everyday.  No need to see who isn’t there.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com

Art by Cory Tambourine

“Indian” 2024 by Cory Tambourine

https://mothlightva.weebly.com