Friday, February 16, 2024

Near the Time

It is early evening.  The sun has reversed its rays

from the west to east side of the landscape.

The predawn now the twilight

and that equally strong sense of an ending

beginning without the fanfare of first light.

It is a melancholy mood.  Subdued like a monk

lost in prayer streaming into meditation

where nothing is asked for because all 

has been given.  A slow, shuffling dance

of ecstasy, that silent promise of tomorrow,

the refrain that never changes though

the verses never remain the same.

It is near the time of gloaming. 


Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com


Thursday, February 1, 2024

ON HEARTSONGS

Remembering Philip Church & Mattie Stepanek

Thank you Jeni Smith Stepanek for reposting this poem

ON HEARTSONGS

Dedicated to Poet Mattie J. T. Stepanek

PHILIP KENT CHURCH

~

There’s a wondrous place, when seen in context,

Which exists and then passes, before the speaking of a word,

It lies just beyond what’s occurred, and what happens next,

And if one listens carefully – it’s where ‘heartsongs’ are heard.

The notions of past and future are merely what we insist,

Both the last moment and the next are beyond our affect,

The truth is, this moment is the only time we actually exist.

And only have the here and now where we can have effect.

Vain-glorious pursuits can become so self-defeating.

When a heart’s songs are recorded, be wise as sages,

Bearing in mind - both riches and fame are fleeting.

Heartsongs must be inscribed to stand the test of ages.

Be still and listen in your heart for the echo from above,

Listening close in a peaceful moment of no fear or panic,

You can hear the heartsongs - recognized for their love,

And join the ranks of ‘peace-makers’ –

Like MATTIE STEPANEK!

https://www.facebook.com/Philip-Kent-Church-1409887615889348/

Wednesday, January 31, 2024

The Problem With Mirrored Images

I am becoming an old man 

right before my eyes sometimes

hardly recognizing the image

in the mirror.  The voice remains

the same so if I call out, “Help!”

someone will say, “That’s Byron!”

probably die before they get to me.

Might even have to yell telepathically.

Sometimes, after I shave, I ask,

“Is that you?” no reply is a confirmation

the reflection is true though I wish

it was a lie remembering Sir Francis 

Bacon saying, “A lie doth enhance

the truth.”  I do what I do so that tells 

me I am who I am.  I wish the logic

more flexible.  But then I’m not.  Why 

should the logic be?  I don’t shave 

everyday.  No need to see who isn’t there.


-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com

Thursday, January 25, 2024

Morning Blues

“And on the eighth day, God created the blues.”

I wake with the sense I missed

the crossroads. The intersection

of the four directions, the five elements,

fate and destiny.  Time and eternity being

weighed and divided, given to me.

That the sacrament of reading wonders

and signs denied.  That the one who could

have said, “Forever” and made it reality

behind, beyond me, gone.  And that my 

life has been in pursuit of hearing, “I’ll

meet you at the crossroads” knowing 

the one it is and getting there and waiting

to see who comes.  Maybe today,

maybe tomorrow.  Maybe hope is enough 

to find my way, to say, “Here I am,” to hear, “I see.”


-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com


Hootism:  in the single blink of an eye, enough may be seen to last a lifetime.


Thursday, January 11, 2024

Fresh Snow

. . . after a few days, the fresh snow is not so fresh.

Melting at edges where you’d think no edges should

be, the snowflakes frozen overnight lose the density

of their brightness.  Deer tracks, feral cat tracks, fox

tracks, bird tracks disturb that once pristine snowfall.

The beauty falters.  Not to mention the roads plowed

and the rock salt thrown and the gray-black grime

along the edges of the roads.  Not to mention that 

secret longing the snowfall brought when first 

falling to be covered by something as natural 

and pure as the snow, the scenes it creates

where everything seems in place and for a moment

– Life is art – is whispered.  Each season

has its moments when this whisper is heard.

Especially the seasons of the heart where at least 

once in one’s life love covers everything.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Near the Time

It is early evening.  The sun has reversed its rays from the west to east side of the landscape. The predawn now the twilight and that equal...