The phone message began
with my first name so I
knew it was a stranger.
I thought, What if time had
slipped? What if I was being
given a chance to redeem
my life? Make other choices
than the ones chosen?
:
I thought of my family
and friends, those I love,
of all the stories, of where
I am and who I am,
waited for the message to end.
-Byron Hoot
The black bear was standing upright
by the stream contemplating
the calculations of arm speed, claw
quickness, the speed of the stream,
the fish moving, the way the water
distorts vision, the shadows
from the trees on the water.
Growled, “Sun’s in my eyes.”
waved as I passed by.
-Byron Hoot
I am wrestling with demons
whose family resemblance
is unnerving. I don’t know
if the dead have come alive
from pictures or if a family
reunion has been called and I’m
the last to know. But here they
are before me – the most
desirous and the least; of course,
the dead are dead and that’s
a problem for any appeal they
have to the living and why
the what has been always appears
demonic. There are few realities
that survive richly, untattered
into here and now, that eternity
which mocks all time
crying – “Look what has been!”
The words they lived their lives
by as empty then as now. I greet
them, give my response, “I am
that I am.” see ashes to ashes,
dust to dust crumble again.
-Byron Hoot
I wonder about the birds
who fly across
as I’m driving, swerve
underneath, appearing
and disappearing like shamans
in the twinkling of eyes --
unprovable and undeniable.
What worries me is how many
moments I’ve had like that
beyond everything except
the certainty that lingering image
of someone entering and not
re-appearing, that echo waiting
for a word that never comes
like those birds who fly
in front of me I see on one
but not the other side.
-Byron Hoot
There was a time when forever
seemed that way; now, the edges
are frayed on that seamless robe.
Tomorrow does not stretch out
so far – the “w” is more distinct.
It is harvest time in the heart,
the winnowing of what matters
separated from the chaff
of why-bother-anymore.
The thing about kaleidoscopes
people remember is the
change each turn creates forgetting
the brilliance of the pieces
which never changes at all.
I have not seen the footprint
of eternity only the frayed
edges of that robe, that shadow
almost translucent.
-Byron Hoot
It is snowing and time has slipped again,
a not uncommon phenomenon anymore
but still unnerving when a season is interrupted
in its flow and what is next delayed the way
this snow is falling. Regression. Yes and yet no;
this slippage and this snow joining just so
last night, today, probably not tomorrow.
I can’t say that about that other slippage though,
that’s something whose beginning and end
I know nothing of until one arrives then leaves
the time in-between unknowable and always
different. I may deeply sigh, smile sadly, laugh
with a moment lingering memory relishes,
forget where I am, say a wrong name,
smile like a fool and suddenly find I am where
I am – the slippage like this snow . . . something
out of season for just a little while.
-Byron Hoot
you remember the place
where the road tilts west
and the tips of mountains
elbow each other
and shove for position
dark and dusky beauties
in muted shades of purple soot
and blue skirt swirls
folded
pinned
pleated
lined up in a queue
of their own mysterious pageant vying for validation
strong
and steadfast
chunky mountains
flexing shoulders
elegant with strength
like body builders
oiled and primed
narrow peaks
scarce and scant
noses high and broken at the top
this range stiff
fold upon fold
tucked and starched
with the valleys pressed thin
and this ridge rounded
filled with clouds
smoke signal clouds
hover
watch
and float away
this road the only caller
now face to face
honest and true
now dos-à-dos
sweet as a shrug
swaying right
swaying left
contra dance couple
in a jig with the hills
i learned when i was four
to loathe
the common road
trudging
great lakes to chicago
purest snow abandoned
edging the path with debris
cars slogging west
deranged dolphins
with no sense of self
i learned to love the back roads
and the twisting shimmy
of the mountain path
i see the sign that signals my descent
something in me
reckless and wild
shudders and smiles
road worsens next seven miles
-Janey Pease
Artist Statement:
Driving to teach, to intern, driving to go to Appalachian State attending classes, I see this often! The Blue Ridge Mountains have views of these mountains from every angle possible. . .even a sign stating “road worsens next seven miles” near Spruce Pine. The thought always crosses my mind, “It get WORSE?” But as I say, never an ugly drive in North Carolina.
