That Blues Hymn

When I was a kid, The Old Rugged Cross
was the hymn that did it for me:
On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross
The emblem of suffering and shame
And I love that old cross where the dearest and best 
For a world of lost sinners was slain.
I didn’t know what it meant but something heroic
was at work, something about relinquishing
what one thinks one has gained only to find 
such gains bullshit.  Only to find betrayal through
passion leads to compassion through resurrection
far beyond following church rules which are rules
like Cub Scouts follow to get merit badges.
Early on I claimed this blues hymn as mine
and later shook it free from meanings it could
not hold, the Frankenstein of doctrine its words
declined to obey.  That obstinate clinging to language
served me well, still does.  And I hum this hymn
from time to time as if I am the one on the cross
reciting the Psalm, “My God, why have you forsaken me?”
the prelude to every rebirth I’ve ever known.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com 

Lauds

It is Sunday and I feel the futility

of prayer in the air and the urge

to pray as if each holds a danger. 

I think of the infant Hercules

strangling the snakes, one in each hand.

How dangerous is that futility and urge.

It is Sunday and the shadow of wings

has passed over my yard in this grey

morning, some breeze stirred that came

through my door, touched my face,

some whispered words out of a whirlwind,

“The bet’s on.”  Hear, “The world makes

promises it breaks and we make them whole.”  

The morning holds a light snow near the Ides of March,

I can only understand, “Et tu. . ?” look at the pieces

to put back together.  It is Sunday, the Sabbath,

a holy day and I have no prayer I trust.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com