untitled

some stories are true
and resonate in the heart
with a vibrant rush

other tales are tall
and grow from our sleepy soil
to reach for the stars 

ken ostrander

A Number of Gravitas

I said, “I’m nearly seventy” realizing 

I was practicing for that day to say,

“I am seventy” without stumbling over

the language, the implications of time

and eternity, the certainty of apocalypse

after that last breath that exchanges now 

for what’s next.  It’s a number of gravitas,

of something more where less is promised

and the evaluation of what to do, to say,

to feel, to think makes the phrase “less 

is more” a prophecy to be fulfilled.

Heartbeat and breath, sight and sound,

the richness of taste and touch, the scent 

of that divine presence of someone fully

next to me are treasures enough to receive

and give away.    “I’m nearly seventy,” I

say to myself; I think that sounds okay.

-Byron Hoot

hoothootnhowhootnhowlpoetry.com   

A Winter Night During A Pandemic

1/29/2022 My throat, a smoky rock; My body, a drying land; Will my dream dehydrate too like a withered tree in this thirsty winter night? Watering, watering, watering… But it's still a desert under the blazing sun. Has Omicron been here? A bell rings. A vulture hovers high until dawn. My humidifier was off the whole night… -Katherine Liu

2022年1月29日 瘟疫时期的一个冬夜   我的咽喉， 是冒烟的岩石； 我的身躯， 是快干涸的土地； 我的梦， 也会失水吗？ 犹如一株枯树 在这干渴的冬夜。   喝水， 喝水， 喝水…… 但这里仍是 烈日下的戈壁。   是奥米克绒来过吗？ 钟声响起， 一只秃鹰高高盘旋 直至黎明。 我的加湿器关闭了 整整一夜……

That Day in November

It is a November day of gray ambience,

a slow sip of alcohol lasting the entire

day, the slow slippage of clothes sliding

down, crumbled, discarded until 

tomorrow as the conversation sounds

like a blues riff of loss and love

and the laughter in-between hiding 

the fear and hope of today not lasting

forever as now is whispered in caress 

and taste, the liquored breath of love

exchanged as if a resuscitation for what

does not want to end, the lie the denial

of all time and eternity and how sometimes

you have to be nearly dead to be brought

back to love again.  How slow this gray

November day moves, the snowflakes

falling the way the heart says, “And then?”

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com?

Art by Cory Tambourine

 Art by Cory Tambourine 2021 Moth Light @ https://mothlightva.weebly.com

Helmet by Cory Tambourine

 2021 by Cory Tambourine

http://mothlightva.weebly.com

The Message

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

hootnhowlpoetry.com.  

Bear Fishing

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

http://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

A Cautionary Tale

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

http://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

Remnant Vision

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

http://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

Frayed

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

http://hootnhowlpoetry.com/