Nearing Seventy-one

I am arriving where I can say, “I see

some sense to my life.”  The past 

making sense in ways that only

time reveals.  The vision a reward,

the reward unabashed in what it gives.

The sense of right and wrong the trail

of a snake leading out through  

some eastern gate of a paradise that 

doesn’t exist.  A tolerance I would not 

have given myself ten years ago.

 

I am ambiguous about the word “regret.”

I’ve had a few utterly true and useful.

I know how moments were fulcrums

opening and closing doors I could not,

like Psyche needing help to overcome 

the tasks Aphrodite had given her.

 

Now, I see my mis-interpretations,

see now what I was blind to,

no longer hearing “this is this and

that is that” that echo forming a harmony.

Something like forgiveness enters,

some alchemical transformation 

changing ignorance into knowledge,

the promise of the beginning of wisdom – 

possibly next year – when I turn seventy-two.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

hootism:  freedom without responsibility is anarchy.

Escape

I drove through the Laurel Highlands

yesterday and was tempted like

Rip Van Wrinkle to go into the mountains

and not come out.  To let time pass 

on some road beyond the mountains,

to not see change but in the cycle

of seasons the words linear and time

untranslatable in valleys and streams,

fog lingering in hollows, caught 

by the tops of trees.  But I was on 

a road taking me to where I live,

where stories have built a home,

a place of refuge, a place to go to,

a place to see my children

pulling into the driveway.  The mountains

receding in the rear view mirror.  

Home only forty miles away.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

One of Those Days

The lake was calm and the blue sky

and slight breeze created a time 

of perfection where everything fits

together and we fished missing strikes,

catching one or two, releasing them.

And we fished as if there was nothing 

else to do.  And there wasn’t, that grace 

of being present slow and easy, deep and wide.  

Later, we left not because we had to but there

were back roads to drive, deer and turkey to watch for. 

Pulled into the driveway, sat on the porch, had a beer, 

listened to the birds, talked in-between the silence of words.

“Think this could be paradise?” I asked.

“Could be, Dad,” he said and smiled.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com