Red Sky In the Morning

I am trying to understand my parents’

life from their point of view 

and keep overlaying it with my experience.

I am haunted by what they had,

by what I’ve lost and what I’ve found

so similar but for the language I cannot 

speak.  Their causal-serious acceptance

of mystery in all things great and small

and what they grasped from those moments

that could not be held for long never

weakening their grip.  I think of whatever

strength I may have as a gift.  The way 

they thought of life.  The way the red sky

on the horizon is this morning – 

being awake at the right time and place

to see such beauty and natural order.

They lived awake in the dream

of grace and salvation.  I admit to resurrections

in my life; another mystery

they embraced as if breathing.

They are three decades dead.

The hymn, Love Lifted Me, haunts.

The red sky of morning warning is now blue.

It is Sunday morning.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

The Monarchical Confederate

From Tudor’s blood,

the son of God appeared

when the crown was torn to pieces,

a regent limped in the rear.

 

Under the crown with Jacob

went Frederica’s daughter,

and Jacob created the church,

forty – year peace finally reigned in the state.

 

The duels quickly stopped,

the plebs reconciled with the baron,

justices of the peace appeared,

the stronghold of small landowners prevailed.

 

From lethargic sleep

The Royal Customs Service came to life,

The Hebrides islands first saw people

in time when white smoke was coming from the factory.

Canadian land will know «Nova Scotia»

the colonists swear for Irish fields,

Macdonald’s mutiny sank suddenly.

-Vyacheslav (Slava) Konoval

Black mouth Prophet

Black mouth prophet growls vaguely

in the languishing silence,

destroying the peace

of a sleeping homeless person.

 

He conceiving a grudge against sparrows,

an old assessor of a million city,

shoots a passer – by’s dog by eye.

***

A prickly scout

in search of forest truth

glistened with little eyes,

He raises a sharp nose.

 

Having limped on the dorsal spears

of red – cheeked apple prey,

the prickly animal disappeared from the horizon.

-Vyacheslav (Slava) Konoval

Conjuring

The wind moves the leaves.

The sun rises.

A scout crow caws.

A bluejay squawks.

I am trying to conjure

up a deer in my heart

to put before my eyes

so I can take a shot

but I think the pauses

between the words

of the incantation

are too short, do not

allow for the elongation

of meaning to seduce

the moment in its fullness.

My shaman says, “One

incantation a day.  Tomorrow’s

another day.” Grins. 

And I sit in a natural

blind starlings overhead 

in the branches, know 

sometimes the magic

works, sometimes it doesn’t.

Think I may be caught 

in some other incantation

the way I’m so hesitant 

to leave the spot I’m in.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

Redemption

The first felt air on the body

is a baptism, the way the sky,

foregrounded by horizons –

north, east, south, and west –  

is holy communion, the whispered

urgency – “Take me as I am or lose

me forever!” the holiest of holy language.

The world and time are sacred

and we are in both offered

the only salvation that makes 

any sense -- Nature never saying, “Guilty”

but only, “Come unto me.”

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

Long Past Recess

I go out and I take in

the funny and clever words

in rooms full of people

not even trying to hide

the schoolyard arrogance

that nobody ever grows out of

not even a schoolyard outsider 

climbing in the trees

beyond the monkey bars

long past recess

-Will Found

August 2024

https://www.studioappalachia.com/crayonblindspot.html

Shamans

I don’t know if it’s one or two shamans,

dream and sleep, holding that silver needle

and golden thread that closes wounds 

to the heart and soul and mind with that 

cross-stitch that leaves a thin golden line 

that says, “In remembrance. . .” and my thumb

rubs over the scar holding time and experience,

some type of wisdom as the shamans

sing what Crazy Jane said to the bishop,

“For nothing can be sole or whole

That has not been rent.” and I start to sing along.

-Byron Hoot 

visit hootnhowlpoetry.com  

Art by Eleph Myrrh

 

Art by Eleph Myrrh  https://eleph-myrrh.mailchimpsites.com/painings 

Art by Zach Baker

 

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

It Doesn’t Take Much To Make a Pulpit

The sparrow is on the pulpit of a small branch

which curves up slightly at its end.

I saw it fly and land and survey what it saw

including me looking out the screen door,

caught by its flight and landing,

its sense of not staying too long.

Now, a robin walks beneath the empty

pulpit and likewise is gone as if the sermon

of the day has something to do with impermanence,

how a moment can fit together and disappear

without that sense of loss, of bowing at what’s

been given however briefly forever lasts.   

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

History Accessible

I have stood in front of mirrors 

enough to make a history.

To know who I see is not 

who has been nor will be.

Like all histories, the facts

are joined to stories

that dip in and out of time,

dreams and memories,

that awakening reality the oxymoron 

of existence.  Sometimes it’s hard

to say, acknowledge who I see reflected

is me.  I know, though, if eyes look into eyes

sometimes what is concealed is revealed –

for a moment,

                 longer,

                          for a lifetime

another mirror passed by.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com