Tuesday, January 29, 2019

Sagacious Wisdom

In the sagacious wisdom of foolishness
I study daily -- some teacher has taken
me by the ear hoping my heart can
follow where I'm led, cuffed
my mind with words that make
no sense as they open in meaning
my experience is yet to confirm.
I'm not beyond the rebuff of a heart
pumping gold, red blood mixing
to a blood meridian
as some switch from a silver maple strikes
the back of my calves cracking with the
cackling of laughter and the gasped 
"You think too much!  Logic is a toy
compared to the workings of the  heart,
the great mystery that never gets any clearer
but is better and better the deeper
we go into it."
                    I laugh and the red marks disappear.

-Byron Hoot
Stained Glass Writers of Punxsutawney  

Holding Together

From the rain of yesterday,
the leaves are staying in place
where they have fallen others
still clinging as a slight wind
prophesizes their eventual fall.
Things are in place this morning
and I wonder if I am, if
I have let go, held to 
the seasonality of reality,
the eternal promise of what
has been will be again differently.
Indeed, we don't want to lose
what is worth keeping but
we can't keep what doesn't
change.
             The rain of last night,
              the mist of this morning
are holding things as they are
for just a little longer.

-Byron Hoot
Stained Glass Writers of Punxsutawney  

Cutting A Track


                      I
It was a heavy, deep, wet snow.
The tracks were clear, no ice along the edges,
the claw marks often sharply showing,
the stride unhurried but beyond me catching
up.

                     II
I tracked the bear; it took me
to where I couldn't go and I turned
back, walked slow up the hill through
the slashings, on rock lodged thousands
of years ago to the edge where I knew
the valley below.

                     III
I could have been tracking God the way the sign
never let me see the bear, the way
I could never gain on what I was hunting.
It didn't go through thick places,
once walked a fallen tree as if on a balancing beam.
I stepped in the paw print or just
aside looking down, up, out, to each side.
I never thought about not following
the track adding it to the other
ones haunting my dreams.



-Byron Hoot
Stained Glass Writers of Punxsutawney 

Wednesday, January 23, 2019

Echo of Stac Pollaidh

from the ragged summit of Stac Pollaidh
down to the point of invisibility 
I wish to lose myself here in this sacred place 
which has possessed me

oh, I climbed here huff-puffin a human being 
like all the rest making our way fast
past little bits of gum and cigarette ends
my heart pounding on the scramble

to find this, a place where wolves open the sky
shall you not open your eyes
there's nothing that can prepare you
for the everlasting ken

to breathe like this inhaling water from below
like a fish yet to be swimming among the low clouds
blessed as the stars, yes, of course
yet a Highlander's measure more in the knowing 

that She owns me 
in surrender to be nothing 
I suppose like death's howl takes you
awakening everyone but the dead, being you

or perhaps as the promise of The Way suggests
this crag I know without hearing its word
is beyond the reach of death for death cannot touch it
and maybe as promised ourselves doesn’t touch us at last

be it known we are here together as friends
as heaven is known when you see it
never wish to leave it for the heavy airs beneath
cry like a baby to leave Her arms

to waste away here at what’s been brought to us
having ascended wish the whole earth
to stay and to go on to nothing nothing

to be the echo
~ Girard Tournesol
http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/


Saturday, January 19, 2019

Fright Lenses

Blinking mesa
Becomes flight
Forward tounges
Duty ending oars
Brace beckons
Longing beach wills
Kind village
Stop birds lying

-Cory Tambourine
Summer/Autumn 2017
https://mothlightstudio.weebly.com/

Tuesday, January 15, 2019

untitled villanelle

a dirty little secret toll
with a cost more dear than it seems
weighs so heavy on my soul

it feels as if we’ve lost control
in the shadow of the black seams
dug ourselves into a hole

a mountain moved who can console
burying the truth with the streams
weighs so heavy on my soul

sulfur slurry down the loophole
poisoning our future and dreams
forests flattened by charcoal

how can we help but play a role
within these suicidal schemes
burning both ends pole to pole

a mountain moved who can console
remove the speck to see the beams
a dirty little secret toll
weighs so heavy on my soul


ken ostrander 

Saturday, January 5, 2019

The Harbringer

From a bare branch
The crow took wing,
Black and fringed
Against a sullen sky.

A few beats into
Its oared flight, two
Harassers appeared—
Their dark bodies intent
On driving the Harbringer
Back to its perched murder,
its rightful place.

Relentlessly, they dove
At its head,
One peeling away as the other
Came in
With the bravery and insanity
That must be had
When everything is at stake
And nothing else can matter.


-Patricia Thrushart
www.thewatershedjournal.org/

Wednesday, January 2, 2019

Dream Catchers


We slept together to protect from Dreams

Maybe no one could tell us were real or not
Dear lives clinging to each other by the fir 
Fall through 'till the moist dawn spills
           *** ~ Girard Tournesol http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/

Joanne @ BINGO


Her platinum blonde hair was a firm 

     spunky Irish when she was a kid
And compelled me to wish for time travel
     as I have loved her since she's existed

She says she'll table dance if she wins
All for a package of crackers I'd have 
    never kicked her out of bed for eating
Says if I'm lucky she'll pick Mardi Gras beads

I told her that from her wedding picture 
     Veronica Lake had nothing on her 
She said straight into my transparent heart: 
     "I've had a good life"

. . .and I was lucky


           *** 
~ Girard Tournesol http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/


Forest Spirit

The deer trail is more still than quiet
Scents becoming louder than vision 
Eyes close in deep temple breath

There is no more beautiful rain 
     than forest mist
Sprigs of fog that are at once 
     barely seen and barely felt
Bundled moss like hyssop soaked
     in holy, flicked with urgent intent 
     soft wet sprays make clothes 
     my nakedness
A baptism that fills my lungs 

     with the spirit I belong
               *** 

~ Girard Tournesol http://www.thewatershedjournal.org/



Losing Faith in Disappointment

I have given up being disappointed in disappointment                            recognizing how egotistical it is to think I can know...