What Can Be Caught A Sequence

          1

I heard a sound
thought dear
saw chipmunk
it happens
all the time 

         2

how blurred my vision

is looking into the hillsides
of late winter 

 

        3

thought I saw a raven

flying towards me,

saw nothing.  I can no

longer tell the difference

between the real 

and the imagined

or what holds the most meaning

 

        4

sometimes experience needs

no pedagogy

 

        5

nothing’s the same 

one day to the next

even if it appears so

 

        6

the solitary pine cone

at the end of the branch

caught my eye

        7

I need the wind
and the hunt to mix
the past and future
what has been and
what may or may not be        

       8

I saw the large oak leaf
that was making the sound
of the footsteps of a deer
fall.  Now, what will I hear?

       9

the leaves fall
one by one.
I think bear,
deer -- neither one

       10

deer? I ask myself
thinking I hear footsteps.
it is the rain. a near seduction makes me smile,
lets me know
how willing
I am to
               surrender 

        11

I'm looking for the yellow maple
I saw by the shore of the lake
yesterday. I thought it might
have followed me home to greet
me in the morning

        12

I say your name silently
so no one will hear how often I say it 

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com

 

November 1

The night of frights and ghosts and ghouls 

and witches is over.  It is November and I 

hear, “Whenever I find myself growing grim

about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly 

November in my soul; whenever I find myself

 involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses,

 and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet;

and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper 

hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle

 to prevent me from deliberately  stepping into the street, 

and methodically knocking people’s hats off — then,

I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. 

This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical

flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I take quietly to the ship. “

The leaves have nearly all fallen except the oak and birch,

the rust colored, the yellow ones clinging in a desperation

to branches as if they fear falling down, do not trust 

the resurrection of spring, think their refusal changes things,

their rustling like dry kindle waiting for a flame.

Now the days are shorter and nights longer and dreams 

more numerous and more elusive with more time to come

and to go, to put themselves into my heart and soul,

to haunt my waking with signs and wonders that feeds the fire,

that makes it burn hotter and draws me closer 

dancing naked in November nights. 

November is the month of markings, of scars turning 

into art, of the smallest spider web holding heavy stories 

of love and intrigue and loss and longing and all of these 

fulfilled exquisitely.  “Call me Ishmael.”

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com.