See You Tomorrow

The body ages and my hope is 

so the heart and soul ferment 

existence into an elixir

only ageing can possess.  

Something to do about the speed

of living simultaneously increasing

and slowing down, something about

remembering the unforgettable and what

is still being found.  A fellowship of a few.  

The conversations slipping from aches

and pains into the metaphysics of rain.

Sipping that wine that was a moment ago

water until someone says, “It’s time to 

 go” and we look over our shoulders,

laugh, say, “See you tomorrow” as if

it’s a fact and not a prayer with yesterday the answer.

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com  

What’s The Matter

The problem is the birds won’t stop 

flying from tree to tree,

songs and silence with no rhythm,

the sun constantly in incremental

motion, the growing of shadows. 

Before I can say, “I am” I am not,

that my body and soul follow 

different timelines, that my heart

and mind are antagonistic,

that I’m always missing 

the fullness of time,

a fine four-lettered word both

sacred and profane and sometimes

sacredly profane and profanely sacred. 

And what I don’t see is if this is how

things are, then what’s the matter with me?

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Something Left Behind

I dream of leaving something

behind like a buck rub

on a sapling that would make

a good walking stick, something firm,

something to hold on to

holding a sign to take 

the one the walking stick was made

for deeper in the woods

where dreams have a better

chance to come true,

the sapling holding the scars

of antlers, the heart scars,

in a firm grip on the stick,

meld into the sapling's wound,

the possibility of dreams 

that can come true.

The scars that dreams are born from.

Byron Hoot

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

Nearly Gone

The trees in my yard have a clarity foregrounded

against the thinning fog.  The winter grass looks

ready for spring.  My heart’s discontent is a love 

song.  There is nothing I can do to change this scene,

this time, this longing in its blessings and curses.

That is what longing is – Jacob clinging to the angel,

the blessing, the wounding not letting go gives.

The poetry where everything fits – every step 

a dance step, every stumble a fall.

The low growling harmony of love songs where

every moment is a honky-tonk, all the music blues.

My discontent a hesitant redemption, a promise

that only I can break.  The fog is nearly gone.

-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 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

Insanity Rules by Cory Tambourine

 

'    

From Artist Cory Tambourine

http://mothlightva.weebly.com 

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