Friday, September 9, 2022

The Bones

It is a definite fact, hinting of some metaphor -- 

the birds have changed their morning habits.

I am looking for my deer bones to cast 

on the Indian blanket a shaman gave to me,

to read a message from the random toss

of reality of the dead for the living.

I tend not to do this.  I fear my own interpretation

of what the bones are saying.  I could be wrong;

I have no way to know I’m right.  Following what

I say can lead to unexpected conclusions the bones

never thought about, meant to say but absolutely

the right words in the right order meaning implicated

in the way they’ve come together.  At best, I’m a half-assed

shaman; the bones rattle in my hand, look away 

as I toss them, close my eyes before I see where 

they lay.

-Byron Hoot 

Friday, August 26, 2022

That Low Growl of Pleasure

I am caught in a slow dervish 

dance where my turning feet

barely raise dust and yet I am 

ecstatic smiling the way a bear

dancing does.  The lumbering 

body playing fast and loose

with the spirit immaculate 

in its playfulness, mischief, seductions

that only flesh and blood can enjoy.

I am slowly, slowly turning getting 

drunk on that wine that once was water,

looking for that RSVP for the wedding 

when the hostess says, “No invitation needed.”

And starts dancing with me.

-Byron Hoot

Friday, July 29, 2022


 I am distancing from where

I have been mile by mile

reading exit signs with names

of towns and villages that do 

not call to me.  Passing over

streams and rivers, alongside

woodlands and farmlands 

I get closer to my heartland

where memories mix love and loss,

joy and sorrow, desire.

I am where I can hear, 

“You’re almost there.”

-Byron Hoot  

Saturday, March 19, 2022


some stories are true
and resonate in the heart
with a vibrant rush

other tales are tall
and grow from our sleepy soil
to reach for the stars 

ken ostrander

Thursday, February 3, 2022

A Number of Gravitas

I said, “I’m nearly seventy” realizing 

I was practicing for that day to say,

“I am seventy” without stumbling over

the language, the implications of time

and eternity, the certainty of apocalypse

after that last breath that exchanges now 

for what’s next.  It’s a number of gravitas,

of something more where less is promised

and the evaluation of what to do, to say,

to feel, to think makes the phrase “less 

is more” a prophecy to be fulfilled.

Heartbeat and breath, sight and sound,

the richness of taste and touch, the scent 

of that divine presence of someone fully

next to me are treasures enough to receive

and give away.    “I’m nearly seventy,” I

say to myself; I think that sounds okay.

-Byron Hoot   

A Winter Night During A Pandemic


My throat,

a smoky rock;

My body,

a drying land;

Will my dream dehydrate too

like a withered tree

in this thirsty winter night?




But it's still a desert

under the blazing sun.

Has Omicron been here?

A bell rings.

A vulture hovers high

until dawn.

My humidifier was off

the whole night…

-Katherine Liu

























Friday, December 3, 2021

That Day in November

It is a November day of gray ambience,

a slow sip of alcohol lasting the entire

day, the slow slippage of clothes sliding

down, crumbled, discarded until 

tomorrow as the conversation sounds

like a blues riff of loss and love

and the laughter in-between hiding 

the fear and hope of today not lasting

forever as now is whispered in caress 

and taste, the liquored breath of love

exchanged as if a resuscitation for what

does not want to end, the lie the denial

of all time and eternity and how sometimes

you have to be nearly dead to be brought

back to love again.  How slow this gray

November day moves, the snowflakes

falling the way the heart says, “And then?”

-Byron Hoot

The Bones

It is a definite fact, hinting of some metaphor --  the birds have changed their morning habits. I am looking for my deer bones to cast  on ...