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

Long After Recess

All you people make me nervous

with your kind and clever words

hiding a schoolyard arrogance

that nobody in history

has ever grown out of,

me still a schoolyard outcast

climbing in the trees 

beyond  the monkey bars

long after recess.

-Will Found

July 2024

The Sermon of the Trees

Sometimes I hear the trees talking 

about that first tree of knowledge,

the natural fruit it bore,

that it’s not their fault the world

is how it is. That the human mind,

necessary as it is, doesn’t always

seem natural.  That instead of fitting

things together it tears them apart

and doesn’t know how to heal.  “Thank

God for the heart!” they whisper

leaf by leaf, tree by tree, root by

root.  Sigh and dance with the wind,

look at me to make sure I’ve heard

The Sermon of the Trees today.

I bow slightly, my eyes squinting

in the sun, almost understand

what the crows are saying.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Reflection

I had some night crawlers
to use up, a beer to drink.
I got to the lake at early dusk,
the sun just below the trees.
And cast my hook and line
seeing the sky and shoreline
reflected on the lake, thought
"as above, so below" not believing
the lake held some esoteric
knowledge but noticed how I
stumbled over the word 'reflected'
and cast again. 

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Art by Zach Baker

 

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

Returning Home

Cool air, sky blue and white

clouds, a hint of gray on their undersides.

 

I have returned to grass to cut,

plants to plant in the box garden.

 

Amazed at how the body shivers at the end

of May what would be ignored in December.

 

I am a creature who knows the touch of nature,

who gets accustomed to the weather,

 

who is surprised when the end of May does not

feel like the beginning of June.

 

I think how easily I make expectations,

how often they’re not met

 

how I am to hold what I am given

nothing more, nothing less.

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com

Sometimes True

 I see one sparkle of dew on the grass

to greet me.  Some say a sign of rain

when no dew shows in the morning.

Yesterday, I was greeted by my trash

scattered in my yard, bags ripped

by a bear who turned my garbage can

over.  What is the adage for that?

A roaming bear visits to leave its 

roaming spirit.  Beware?

An adage is reverse language 

engineering, not necessarily 

created from conclusive facts

but enough similar occurrences

to generate some logic to fit 

a pithy saying to sounding as 

if spoken by one with authority 

the empty echo not recognized.

The single blade of grass still 

holds the dew drop.  There is

no garbage in the yard

though I can’t deny the echo

of a growl I think is mine.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

The Only One

There are many things I would have

preferred differently.  A lifelong marriage,

happy endings to stories that could not

end happily.  A body not given over to decay,

no threats of loss of memory, a better ability

to feel and speak and listen and hear.

A more savvy provider.  A better father, writer,

friend, hunter, fisherman . . . the list is not one

I care to write down.  One more – one who

understood love better.  That the first and 

last item on the list.  May be the only one

that matters.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com 

Art by Amy K.

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

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