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

“So Much Depends”

The cardinal flew across the road

in front of me, a blur of red

 

but precise in its flight as I added

meaning to the moment,

 

something about spring, something

about what comes again,

 

something about the faithfulness 

of returning.  It could have been

 

a moment of conversion, my Damascus

road experience.  Or simply 

 

a cardinal flying deeper into the woods

to the other side of the road.

 

-Byron Hoot

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

To Life

I have now lived nearly seven years alone

except for two covid years my youngest

son lived with me in that milk and honey

time of near solitude this home on this hill

provided.  A safe haven of fishing and hunting

seasons, trips to town buying what was needed,

no shopping.  I’ve had time to consider this 

choice of place that seemed provided by signs

and wonders, of time putting circumstances

in place, of me deciding. A cringe of second-guessing 

has arisen. I don’t know why but what I know 

is I can’t deny the shadow cast by it.  Not great

but enough for me to recognize.

I’ve never trusted second-guessing, that knowing

after the fact what could not be known before 

some now becomes some then.  The restlessness

of age has entered me.  That longing for more 

knowing there’s only less to take in.  That sense

of not wanting to miss what’s given.  I don’t want

my death poem to be, I wished for a fuller/ life lived.

These years of near solitude have taught me

a thing or two.   Forgive my doubts; I bow to where I am.

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com 

The Pool and The Whirlpool

I can tell by what’s in the air

I’d best pay attention today.

 

I feel as if I am prey and hunter;

nothing new there.

 

Who has not felt that dichotomy,

that ambiguous feeling 

  

of when you carry yourself as

prey and hunter in stride?

 

I stretch like a bear waking,

sniff the air, remember where

 

I am, cast a suspicious eye

and ear to the four directions.

 

Make a sacrifice to time remembering

dreams and stories, finding 

 

words like sign that take me where

I’ve never been.  I have seen 

 

and heard and felt and know things

I cannot speak of and yet

 

the urge to speak troubles me – 

the healing water, the whirlpool

 

beside it, a foot touching each.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoety.com 

Freud on Freud

“Sigmund, when did you first know

you wanted to kill your father 

and take your mother as your lover?

Try hard to remember.”

I never did.  That story is based upon

a case of mistaken identity.

Oedipus never knew his father.

A prophet told a lie that became

true.  Laius and Jocasta believed

the prophecy and committed the most

hideous act of all knowingly.

“I see you don’t believe.”

That I want to kill my father?  Sleep

with my mother?  No, indeed.

“We don’t know what we want,

do we?”  

I’ve never heard you say you wanted

to kill father, sleep with mother.

It’s always someone else’s truth

you know better than they do.

“Excuse me,” he says, bends over 

the table, sits up, squeezes his nose,

runs a finger over his teeth.

“You need to understand the power

of the unconscious.”

Mine or yours?  Or don’t you have one?

“I’ve had enough.  I’m going to leave.”

Don’t say another word, you’ve said enough.

-Byron Hoot

visit hootnhowlpoetry.com

Branched Tunnels

More and more I am drawn 

to roads where trees form

a tunnel of branches, the sun

refracted in its light that cannot

fully penetrate that canopy.

And gray, rainy days to drive

these roads looking ahead

and left and right, checking 

the rearview mirrors for 

the unseen revealed suddenly

as my heart whispers to my 

memories, “Come to me.  Come

next to me” the rhythm of the wipers

taking on that ancient rhythm 

of that dance always recognized

once that first step is taken 

and then knowing there’s no 

turning back, no refusal to drive

these roads in the tunnel of trees --

rain falling, the light just right 

to see the unseen, the shadows

that argue their existence.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com