Apodictic

How calming the fading songs 

of birds at mid-morning merging

 into the edges of silence lingering,

waiting for the songs to end.

 

So all beginnings wait for the ending 

of what has invited them to arrive,

 the certainty of the constancy of change,

the sky above, the ground below, the middle

 

like some center point where the fulcrum           

leverages silently what has been into what

is to be.  I often wait for that moment when

song goes into silence, silence into song.

 

I don’t know when it happens but words 

and rhythms come as if they’ve

been waiting for just the right moment,

whispering, “We’ve been here all along.”

-Byron Hoot

http://hootnhowl.com/

Pick-up

I wish I had something like a garbage 

truck route for my life where week 

by week I bag the garbage, put it in

a garbage can, walk it the end of a 

driveway and see the truck take it

away.  All the trash taken from my

life.  I wouldn’t mind if I missed a 

week or two knowing the truck is

coming around and what I’ve thrown 

away can be taken away, put in 

some landfill of eternity.   I’d pay a 

lot for a service like that to take away

the trash of my life. Today is Tuesday,

the lid is open, the bags gone,

the process begins again.  

I wait for that other garbage

truck arriving – even once every two

weeks would be just fine – just let 

me know who to write the check to.

-Byron Hoot

http://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

The Cowboys of Conviction

Crowing on the roof

they were crowing

on the roof

the cowards and cowboys of conviction.

On Saturday nights

they would row to the movies

to parcel out spittle,

the little merchants.

But I am not mad

at the disregard

so apparent in

the shirt-sleeves

of Marshall McKayhan.

We're just on a mission of massive proportions

to tuck all of boredom

safe under the carpets

but

we always forget

and begin to cry.

Always ending the days

in self-reflection,

all

stuffed into a box, and bent

and sent cross-country

for holidays

and the satisfaction

thenceforth obtained.

It is such

a joyous

occasion

of sorts:

I think I'll bake a roast today.

And Hell,

tomorrow,

and the next day,

and the next day.

Baking roasts of joy

and celebration

of tradition

and trinkety-trumpets.

To tie your shoe-strings

carefully,

to not tip over

the snow-banks

and trenches

or the little grooves in tire-tracks

that pull your feet

in

in the mud.

So just sit up on the roof, instead

crowing with the cowbos.

We can make a contest out of it.

A little competition

of who can crow

clearest,

and closer

to the truth at hand

so dribblingly

spittling

out of our heads

and forcefully trickling

out of our hearts.

-clw

-C. Ward

THOSE HOWLS

They know I hide my howls in cheeky places

Always have

and no valid argument has dared me successfully

to stop

The playing field caters with vastness now

that everyone

simply subscribes to the bare number one

Epitomizing number one

Claiming it as a possession has shriveled to a bore

like roadkill

left by the night for the crematory foibles of the sun

or myself

when from my upstart dementia they proceed

to mine for hints

ascertaining whereabouts of those elusive primal screams

They don’t get it

Or perhaps I have just treasured those periodic

plumes of volume

more than anyone could fathom on their own watch

Maybe

they’ll accuse me of being miserly with my cathartic heirloom

So be it

Those howls were honed for dynastic residencies

not a one-hit wonder

or a one-night stand or a one-trick pony

They epitomize

Those howls of mine illustrate far too easily

for marketplace posterity

They’re my answers out there hiding in the wind

they will have

to catch one regenerating blow at a time

05 12 20

-Steven Fortune

The Cycle of Change

Its another chilly november morning

Fall has left the house

Due to come back in just under a year

Birds are flying south

Squirrels

In for the winter

The streets less filled with the laughter of children

Winter cometh

Snow

Falling

Freezing rain

On the horizon.

Days of warmth

Of sunshine

Now no more than

Past tense

As the season changes

So does life

Friends you have known

Now no more than distant memories

Christmas

Soon to be here

Gifts given

Pictures taken

To be remembered

As all memories are

But yet we hold them

We cherish them

For someday they too will

Pass by

And life like the weather

The cycle of change continues

-Patrick Daniel Read

July

Praise the spells and bless the charms,

I found April in my arms.

April golden, April cloudy,

Gracious, cruel, tender, rowdy;

April soft in flowered languor,

April cold with sudden anger,

Ever changing, ever true --

I love April, I love you.

by Ogden Nash

My Take on July:

Incantate invoke and lie no more

If lewd July knocks on your door

July languid, July loony!

Humorous soft sweet and funny

July sarcastic swift to impatience

July surpassing all magical essence

Always deserting, forever true.

I love July, I love you.

(c) Amrita Valan 2021

Signature of Trust

Signature of Trust

I sink in water cold

Feeling the pain quickening in my mouth

Lonely in a wilderness where trees are silent

Thankful they do not speak

I tried to find you in my mind's eye

The image only vanishing like a dream

I can no longer remember

Where are you?

Who will call to the sky above me

And keep me afloat

On this river of solitude?

Come with me, to a far-away island

Adrift among imagination's inlets

A sanctuary where we can be truly together

We will float there face down

And you can release all your lies

Feel their dead weight drop

Your loss of love rediscovering itself

On the shore, you will tell me

What I have come here to know

What I have always known:

Create a new language

A new tongue that knows truth

A signature of trust

To make a clean incision into our hearts

© 2021 Alexis Child. All rites reserved until the worms crawl in…