Ghosts

I see ghosts in the fall I don’t see at any

other times of the year.  The gone and 

desires and longings appear so real

I call them by name, whisper in order

to hear their reply, feel them crossing

my heart almost for the first time except

I know their gait as they approach, 

pause, leave, and I am left with a melancholia

that needs winter and a Christmas where 

good-bye is echoed in Merry.  I am not afraid

of ghosts but the fear of making them.

The could’ve, should’ve, didn’t, damn

that creates them, haunts me in the fallbek

hunting, where I can say, I’m sorry so 

only they can hear and hope they 

forgive me for creating them.

I almost say at this time of year,

Something wicked this way comes,

but for the sweet sorrow I taste on my lips.

-Byron Hoot

One Word

I can explain the hesitation, the distance

between intention and completion 

by one word – Parkinson’s.  

I don’t know if there is any blame

when I speak to myself.

Or if I accept the randomness 

of life and I am a piece of that

evidence while I still see beauty

and grace and love around me

even if I don’t do what I once did

as well or as often.  My dreams 

have gotten smaller, memories larger,

the moment. . . ambiguous.  Its duration 

never certain.  Long, short, or something 

in-between.  Sometimes, I wonder what

I might lose on any given day.  

Other times, I don’t bother.  

Say, “The readiness is all,” as I 

look outside like the prayer 

it’s always been.  Get another cup of coffee.

 -Byron Hoot

illuminous

Of eloquence and radiance

(subsequent tomorrow)

The rains will run like

Make-believe

With lily-whitened sorrow.

Through neighborhood and

General

In guilded light and

Wrecked revenge,

The rains

(will run like

make-believe)

The milky-white

Of Never-End.

-clw

3-30-99

The Permanent Guest [16.08.24]

That place where I begin

that mystery

as it’s drifting in,

it’s somewhere else

than I’ve ever been.

It’s with someone new,

that mystery

as my lips go blue,

It’s with someone else

that I never knew.

I can’t remember

who it said it was,

something peaceful,

and convincingly

posing

as a meaningful cause.

That subtle spell,

that gathering smell

of the fear of depth,

that permanent guest,

sleep,

and its slippery prescription

for gradual death.

©cmd 2024 [aka o.monger]

When I Feel:Wordplay:H-DOT

When I feel defeated,

And I am all alone,

I use these words to comfort,

I'm finding my way home,

Was on a path to nowhere,

Was searching for the light

The promise of forgiveness,

Decisions wrong or right,

When I feel forsaken,

Mistaken and ashamed,

To raise my hands in triumph,

To cover up the pain,

Alluding to the process,

Transcending song or rhyme,

When I feel these feelings,

Search deep inside my mind,

For all the years forgotten,

These fleeting memories,

Proceed ahead with caution,

When I feel me be,

The monster in the closet,

Who hides behind closed doors,

That's peering from the shadows,

Beyond lost metaphors,

The lantern shining brightly,

Illuminates my psycy,

When I feel there is no way,

I feel a force that's mighty,

The winds of change can take me,

To somewhere distant place me,

When I feel me drifting off,

The moment overtakes me,

The only thing I'm craving,

But was it worth me saving?

Amazingly I feel alive,

The chains that bound me breaking,

Whatever problems facing,

I'll stand alone proclaiming,

No weapons formed will prosper now,

No drop of doubt is staying,

Enslaved to life obeying,

It costs to live still paying,

When I feel the end has come,

Flesh bones to dust remaining,

Kelly Ephraim Benjamin Jordan

Here I sit

Here I sit

On my assigned reservation

Waiting for a monthly allotment of whisky

With reluctance and hesitation

Waiting for moth-eaten blankets

And the Salvation Army clothes

How will my people survive this

No one really knows

What happened to our culture

What happened to our home

What happened to the time

When wild buffalo roam

They've stolen our waters

They’ve stolen our trees

They murdered our leaders

They put us down on our knees

They've stolen our lands

They’ve stolen our wives

They call it American

They've stolen our lives

© 2024 Jeffrey Pipes Guice

The Arrow’s Paradox Or Hitting the Mark

The Barn Swallows fly 

across my porch, before

my kitchen door

and I catch the curve

of their flight trying 

to recall if I’ve seen

one fly in a straight line,

think not.  If the shortest

distance between two

points is a straight line,

what about the curve

of a hip, the slant 

of a shoulder, rounded

breasts¸ asymmetrical lips,

the crooked smile

that leads to heart and 

soul?  The flow of words

that make the riverbeds

of love?  The Barn Swallows

fly across my porch; 

they make sure I notice.

-Byron Hoot

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

 

Hootism:  knowing when to end a piece of writing takes care of knowing how to end it.  When isn’t this true?