Wednesday, November 24, 2021

W.W. Hoot b. May 16, 1913 d. November 9, 1990

Break not this heart tomorrow,

the day of my father’s death;

let his last breathing,

the final anger against prayers

unanswered, never heard

be far from me and let the life

he lived enough testimony 

of an eternity that cannot leave

here and now.  I have his hands,

my sister says; his eyes and heart

and trust.  What more could 

a son ask for?  To hear him

call my name once more.

To answer, “Yes.”

-Byron Hoot

Tuesday, November 2, 2021

The Treaty

I have made a treaty

with silence,

terms to be 

drawn up,

mitigated by stillness.

The only thing for sure:

no signatures necessary.

The real needs nothing

signed, the understanding 

a sufficient bond as good

as, maybe better than,

any name inked: the naming

of things always inherently

somewhat incorrect.  Haven’t 

you noticed your name called

and the hesitation on the verge

of inability to answer?

Besides, what is there 

to remember or forget

in silence and stillness?

The other reason I like 

this contract:  it can’t 

be misplaced, it’s with

me always, conditions met.

-Byron Hoot

Sunday, October 24, 2021

Strange News from another Star

Troubled warnings shriek in the night
Unutterable things in mystical power
Blighted by a celestial nightmare
On ominous shores
The departure of the strange miracles
That shone so lovely in the sky like Orion
Retreat like raptures in the stars
Now cold in raven’s claws
The liquid mind dreams of the moon
Dancing in the night
Veiled by demoniac clouds
Speak to us, sweet Sorceress
And our mournful spirits
Will go beyond a funeral march
To the grave
The last fatal kiss in cold black days
Is like a crawling spider in the crying rain
Searching for things you dare not name
The sun and its death burst into flames
The night opens its eyes to a night palace
Where there exists a solemn hymn in the wind
Sorrow is the dying years
In our raw and bloodless hearts
In exile, the living skeletons remain
The living dead
In the cradle of despair
The piano plays in an empty room
On the canvas of our soul’s depths
Destined star, oh mirror…despair, calm
Distant like a celestial dream, so afar
Pale warriors, bittersweet is the mouth
Of memories where the shadowed
Chariot takes us
You carry fear as a savior
If one day your bed becomes a grave
Will your thoughts fade away?
Will injustice disappear?
Will the gods perish?
Who will stop the rain?
Copyright, 2021. Alexis Child. All Rites Reserved.

Wednesday, October 20, 2021

Back Roads

I wish the past was                 

like the cars and trucks

I see in my rearview

calculating speed and distance

to catch up.  I look ahead, look

up, they’re gone.


Who has not wished for

some things to be utterly

redeemed beyond the lessons learned?


Usually it’s on two-lane roads

where passing is marked 

by broken lines, where double 

lines say, “Do Not Cross,” 

and speed is dictated by road

surface, curves, hills, other traffic

these feelings and thoughts appear.


I am coming and going – the one

thing about being on the road

that doesn’t change:  some 

place is left, some place 

awaiting my arrival.


It matters how I drive.

It matters what I learn.

It matters that the past

can’t be redeemed –

just so curious I keep

wishing it could be.

-Byron Hoot

Friday, October 1, 2021


The beer lubricated bitter barang
Unshaven, gap toothed
His face grooved by scars of incipient senility
Spews forth from his alcoholic mumbling mouth
Misogynistic vituperations
That fill the air
With sulfuric jeremiads
Blistering all ears
He speaks vehemently of all the vengeance he will wreak
On every Khmer girl who did him wrong
Who robbed or lied or cheated
Or asked for too much money
To lay with him awhile
To stave of the dread
Of fast approaching mortality.
His litany of grievances is long
He has enumerated and memorialized
Every affliction or betrayal
Creating an inteminable , monotonous threnody
He intones the bitter litany
Echoed astringently
By the tipsy chorus of caviling whines
From all the other barang here
The senescent chorus of superannuated vampires
Who never admit their culpability
For being bamboozled so easily
Enraptured by the golden
Much used flesh
Of the taxi girl sorority
Ah how he regrets
That he allowed such obvious duplicity!
Like an animal he writhes entrapped
In the quagmire of his lubricity
Shackled to the spiked wheel
Of never ending desires
Captive to impropriety
Ensnared by yearning for youthful flesh
That false soma of immortality
That never does reprieve him from
Becoming just another hackneyed trope
A cliched calamity
Another avoidable fatality.
-Michael Murray


Constantly Overwhelmed.
In amongst a crowd
Feeling like I am not allowed
I feel alone
Like a statue of stone
Silence abounding
Beyond your understanding
Constantly Overwhelmed.
Everyone ignoring the fact
That I am not putting on a act
Thoughts running around in circles,
Not listening to the verbals
I am staying still though
Tired of moving to and fro
Constantly Overwhelmed.
Left in the corner
Like a lone mourner
Self composed
Avoiding being exposed
Crying without tears
Hiding from unknown fears
Constantly Overwhelmed.
Peter T Murray 25 September 2021

Hello, Old Maple Tree!

Hello, old maple tree!
My apologies for staring…
But, I could admire your branches all day.
So many people, animals, insects,
microbes, et al.,
have enjoyed your beauty;
your shelter,
your strength,
your life sustaining nectar.
The sapsucker scars
around your bole
are displayed with pride.
Those yellow-bellied birds survived
in part due to your generosity.
And every year
as a new family
of birds or squirrels move in,
you hold them up—
rain or shine,
towards the sky.
—Poe Andrews

W.W. Hoot b. May 16, 1913 d. November 9, 1990

Break not this heart tomorrow, the day of my father’s death; let his last breathing, the final anger against prayers unanswered, never heard...