Tuesday, December 3, 2019

A Simple Woman

(Poem for Ann) A simple woman. Simple in the way a shell is simple In all its translucent curved beauty, Delicately shaped by mathematical order, Echoing the spirals of the galaxies Spinning in the darkest skies, Or the whorl of the sunflower’s face, Under the shimmering wings of the bee, Legs laden with golden pollen. Simple in the way a leaf is simple In all its verdant, veiny sheen, Its synthesis hidden from human eye, pulsing with the green miracle Of captured sunlight, The same elements as in our very cells; Forged in the crucible of the stars, Born when the universe was born. Simple in the way that love is simple, In all its warmth and grace, Its language that of the Divine, Wired in the brain of our forebears, Living deep in the synapses of thought, Lauded in word and song, Ever sought by humankind. 

-Patricia Thrushart

Friday, November 22, 2019

That Thing Called Time

There is little enough holding of what
there is of that thing called time.
What is left of  it  -- always less
return the longer one is in it --
we seek a grip, a grasp trying to understand
how it wants to be held.
                                       This, of course, presupposes
our ability to change, to sense that what
is is not as it has been -- no easy thing
as we often think, though know better,
that we can slow what cannot be stopped.
So learning what can be held,
what is to be released becomes the mantra
to greet the day --  a matter of knowledge
no words can hold, no grip can grasp,
that sense of having been given
what you could not have imagined
                                                       to ask.

-Byron Hoot

Thursday, November 14, 2019

The Modesty of Light

Light enough to see the cold in the sky,
the east with that mix of pink-blue
clouds that may be the clouds
of cold
           the color beyond category,
the clarity chilling outside and in.
How can such a scene  be seen
without seeing, at least somewhat,
inside ourselves?
                           We are dust and water
and air, blood -- that divine elixir
of life clearly points emphatically 
here, emphatically there.
                                    And now a little
more light arises, breaks, shows
not yet shinning
                         perhaps, as we mark atime,
an hour before the sun fully shows
         That modesty of light I think about often.


Monday, November 11, 2019

Forest Madrigal

They deserve your close attention. Distant wails in the forest. Here we hold hands with shadow and light.
The passion always precedes the glory. The passion is fleeting while the glory endures. Like the fallen timber shrouded in moss, glory breathes in butterfly wings.
I say go until you stop and surely don’t quit. Never give up. You think that hemlock gave up? Covered in rot and what-not and it’s still not giving up. Just getting glamorous actually.  You never know what this place is all about so it’s good to stick around for what might happen next. A pileated woodpecker might show up to tell you your whole life may give birth at any moment. 
Promises are fragile things but the forest never breaks her promise. The forest is always faithful.  Is there also then a promise of heaven? Repeatedly witnessing promises kept proves they are alive but how could I ever know if a promise of heaven is kept?  I walk in the forest. Oh, I guess on this hike through God’s country I could fancy meeting a “psychic-friend” or “prophet” or “time traveler” who’d tell me. In reality it’s more like waiting patiently thousands of years just to see a single person who’s been convincingly dead for three maybe four days get up looking like hell and order a pizza. And so any promise of heaven and therefore friendship, love and forever are held gently in the heart. Probably. 

Is Longfellow Trail getting steeper? I don’t think about death, much.  Although I do think we are genetically able to tolerate mortal thoughts in small spurts at a time and in this way thoughts of death are a lot like flatulence. Ok, or as my bride would probably have told you, death thoughts somewhat more tolerable than my flatulence. As I see it, death is pretty much exactly like the infinity of
blankness before I was born—an interval of time for which I couldn’t give an 
“at’s rass” about.  No, the game is life and the point of it all has always been life. You’ve got to believe in it no matter how glamorous it gets. So, if you live here long enough or let here live in you long enough, you’ll feel the blood of life flow through you.  You’ll hear its swish-swish-swish as the wind in the trees and scamper of little feet crinkling crisp leaves.
If given an ounce of thought about it the promise of life is unquestionably known, felt, understood. Like huffing and puffing on this hike.  It can’t be related in mantras, rally jingo or similar gobbledygook. As men keep calling this; 
“The Forest Cathedral,” tells me they do not know her. In spirit, sense and flesh they do not know her. That giant root-covered boulder over there knows more. So does that fern dancing in a ray of light.
At the risk of repeating myself as I have been known to do more often as I grow older; men, and I suppose a fair number of women, will compare it to holy places on earth when it’s no such thing. This is heaven begging to be accepted in your heart as such, as love accepts love.

Acceptance greatly aids your walk here and fills the spirit with a sorta helium
that lifts you, though not like you’re some cliché walking on clouds but as if you 
are a cloud permitted to walk as lightly as possible fulfilling your dream of walking. It’s like holy hiking boots, shepherd’s staff optional.
Excuse me while I shake this bundle and take a breather here. Whew, it’s not the heat but the humility that gets you. (Thank goodness for Yogi Berra!) Everyone is always searching for the meaning of life when it’s the totality of life that is meaning.  This is easier demonstrated than defined, like the way nobody can define blue. But will ya take a look at that sky? It’s like that.  
Of course the cool water is the best you’ve ever tasted, a quenching satisfaction without the pre-existing feeling of thirst. Could it be any other way?  I resist the impulse to re-baptize myself considering this a redundant redundancy. 
There is nighttime and daytime both considered equally beautiful yet different parts of a whole day.  There is no darkness, which is difficult to explain, so I won’t.
You can see and hear bad things from here if you want, especially if you are one of those hanger-on types.  Frankly, I don’t know why anybody would want. Your mind is drawn to the sway and rustle of tall brush. A kingfisher will bolt by with the blessing of Now on its wings and all is forgiven, forgotten, free.

My friends tell me I’m delusional about all this heaven business and they might be right.  I mention since they aren’t here much it may also prove my point and in one fell swoop the existence of that other place the kingfisher keeps trying to distract me from.  
. . .or then again, they may be right and I may be that personality type their nickname for me implies.  Spreading your bride’s ashes somewhere—at her request of course—plays with your mind somewhat. And my friends are rather convincing when they point out she’s nowhere to be found as Herself.  I tell them they are full of what my nickname produces and they reply that it’s what I have for brains. I begin to use quotation marks when referring to them as “friends.” Heaven is as heaven does. Probability and therefore doubt is woven into the fabric of the universe of which heaven is a part, so — maybe so.
When I’m lonely here like today I call out her name, call to her and none too softly either.  The echoes help, help me. Men whisper or mutter only when they’re being polite. Men wail, wail, wail when we feel and when we mean it and so I do, I do, I do because every fall of my cloud-feet tells me she’s here, here, here with me.  So, if the rains aren’t my tears mixed together with God’s then this could possibly not be heaven. Instead I believe she’s probably here, with only a little doubt, here, because we promised each other forever, forever, forever
. . .though we never said how.  And if this isn’t heaven, God has a very high bar for impressing me as she is here as promised in this place with me, with me, with me . . . with me . . . and. . . 
I know her.

~ Girard Tournesol

Friday, October 25, 2019

Molecular Time

In the molecule of a minute so much
is impossible to believe something
so little is so full, whole, holy.

It's a natural progression from
full to whole to holy for me
the fullness of time a sure sign of divinity.

Which by its nature, presence demands,
commands all logic to be dropped,
metaphor picked up and the flame of the heart lit,

the burning tongues of Pentecost
must be where they belong --
the inner regions where song is made

and dance is danced and water turned
to wine every day and resurrections
occurring even as we speak.

In the molecule of the moment
all this and -- yes, of course love --
is occurring.  No wonder we need

bread and wine to sustain
us in the presence of one another
where we can be who we are.

-Byron Hoot

Tuesday, October 22, 2019

After and Before

There will be an after, a before
But nothing will ever be
the same anymore

-H. Lenschow/The Ghost Of Words, 2019

The Door

I am the door
The all you're longing for

I think I'll haunt you a little more...

-H. Lenschow/The Ghost Of Words, 2019.

Monday, September 30, 2019

That Problem, Again

I am doing the math again
and the sum doesn't come out
the way I want it to,
nor the value of the integers
as I would want them though
on that matter there's the wiggle, 
room of experience, the unknown
holding what I cannot know.
But the numbers, however, don't
lie -- not even to me who is not
good in math:  adding, subtracting,
carrying over.
                     I'm 67, that's the base
number for the year; it'll change,
 as always, again, in June
and the addition to what has been
and the subtraction from what will be
will be done again.
                              That's the quandary
I find myself in -- not to be or not
to be but how to be knowing I can't
change the numbers only the value 
not wanting to cheapen anything.

-Byron Hoot

Saturday, September 21, 2019

A Simple Step

 The first step outside in a late
September morning says all
that needs said about one season
ending and another beginning.

Dawn tells things no other part
of the day can and the fact year
after year this sermon with variation
is given speaks of its endurance

in, through the beauty of changing
seasons.  In our lives seasons
change more rapidly, more slowly
the cycles of fullness and emptiness

not as predictable as Spring, Summer,
Fall,and Winter though just as real,
though more often unnamed 
often lacking the beauty Nature doesn't.

Perhaps if we knew how to make blooming,
or lushness, or autumnal splendor or the beauty
of an utter nakedness ours we'd
be less resistant to change.

How I would that I could take a step
inside and know what stepping
outside this morning has told me.

-Byron Hoot

Friday, September 13, 2019

Story Time

The stories I once told about myself
now no longer mean much.
                             It's not as if I've
created a new me, but chapter after 
chapter has closed: footnotes sometimes
arise, some enhancement or smile
proclaim the strength of remembering.
Though I, by and through, implications
of my acts consequential have, do live
and still have stories to tell but
ones closer to my end than my beginning.
Because that is nearer, of course;
and anyone who  has ever written
a story knows how hard it is to get
                                                 the end just right.

-Byron Hoot

Tuesday, September 10, 2019

September's Sun

September’s sun wanes, slanted, weakened, leaving morning dew longer, lingering to reveal the spider deep in her lacy funnel lined by luminous prismed drops as countless as her eyes. I walk to pick the morning’s herbs and see ‪the shining‬ threaded webs woven among the sorrel, the bent bladed grass. I step carefully. How many times have I wrecked something beautiful without knowing?

-Patricia Thrushart

A Simple Woman

(Poem for Ann) A simple woman. Simple in the way a shell is simple In all its translucent curved beauty, Delicately shaped by mathematica...