Earthbound

It may be smoke from a wood stove

inside the house across the road

on the other side of the pasture

lingering in the air like prayer 

incense not certain how high it 

wants to rise, as if there are some

prayers only the earth can answer.

I like the way smoke or fog or mist

gets caught in the tops of trees

like Eros grasping after Psyche,

clutching the edges of the cloak

saying, “Stay.  Please stay.”

So I think of the prayers I have

wasted offering them to heaven

when they wanted to be earthbound,

the answers before my eyes, under

my feet, already in my heart.

-Byron Hoot

https://www.facebook.com/hootnhowlpoetry/

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My body knows the lullaby of eight hours.

Less or more shows in the waking,

the tone and tenor of the day,

the accord or discord.

Which brings me to how does the body

know what the mind can’t seem

to grasp?  This quickly replacing 

any other koans I know.  

Which draws out the question 

of spirit.  That place of other 

sense, of where logic lies 

gasping for breath.  Where words

dissolve into laughter.

I don’t even know the words 

to the lullaby.  My mind asks, 

“What are you doing?”

I reply. “What are you doing?”

No reply.  And that tells me something.

 

Hootism:  you can’t deny where you’re from and still be who you are.

-Byron Hoot

https://www.facebook.com/hootnhowlpoetry/