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

Art by Cory Tambourine

“Indian” 2024 by Cory Tambourine

https://mothlightva.weebly.com
 

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.

Art by Cory Tambourine

 From Artist Cory Tambourine

http://mothlightva.weebly.com

Art by Cory Tambourine

 

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

Another, Please

In nearly three hours, the temperature

has risen three degrees.  And in the last

minute, one.  The duration of cold

and the elongation of warmth in early 

fall makes me feel as if I’m in a meditation

hall of autumnal splendor, the voice

out of the whirlwind whispering.

Me smiling at the koans I can never

solve but still say, “Another, please.”

The frost melting in front of me.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Snow On the Ground

It was a fine morning to hunt.  Snowing.  

But then I thought I didn’t want to leave 

any track for God to follow me.  

I was content to stay inside,

leave no sign.  And if God wanted to track

me, my heart was crisscrossed enough

with my recognizable track to follow.

Not that I mind being tracked by God – 

I return the favor – but the beauty of the snow

on the ground and continuing to fall 

changed my dreams to later in the day,

to the time before dusk.  Who’s to say there

won’t be other sign on the ground and I 

can walk into the woods unnoticed,

hunt and meditate quietly no longer certain

if I hunt to meditate or meditate to hunt

though certain I don’t want another 

hunter close to me.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Don’t Dance by Cory Tambourine

A Painting of Peace

A painting of peace
Strokes of silence
Calm green serene
Absence of violence
Freed from struggle
A beautiful way
A painting of peace
A quiet day

-Cory Tambourine 

http://mothlightstudio.weebly.com

I Would I Could Speak

I would speak the way first 

light does in the gradual sighs of the sun’s

slow, heavy breathing as it takes its place

in the sky as if every moment is made 

to last forever in that temporal eternal 

beauty enhanced by passing time.

I would I could speak such measured beauty,

catch and be caught by well-placed light

and shadows, nuanced meanings not blasphemed

by the refusal of change, the elemental element 

of beauty and truth, life.  Maybe even the way

we nonchalantly accept the light,

to have someone say of what I’ve said, “Of course.”

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowpoetry.com