Into Oblivion

Into oblivion I cast my line 

Blue Zebco Splash spincaster

Kerr-plopps red and white bobber 

Sinker hook and nightcrawler 

Dad helps with the nightcrawlers

Into oblivion I sing my song

The Pentecostal prayer language 

Only my mother could translate 

Ay la Oh, malla Ay shunta shallay

Ay la Oh, malla Ay shunta shallay

Into oblivion I heap my life 

Pile of autumn leaves 

Sad browns and lucky reds

Wonders of yellow and orange

Acrid skin and the ache of the rake

-Girard Tournesol

Advent~Omega Resurrection -Poem# 10

"Let the priests of the Raven of 
dawn no longer in deadly black 
with hoarse note curse the sons 
of joy. For everything that lives is 
Holy." 
-Wm. Blake 
(1757-1827)  

Raven feather, clime to weather, those seasons of 
unbelief/new Autumn breezes cool vistas unaware. 
Soon to September, fields are burning-light pools in segments 
among the trees-recalling spiral light of winding white 
those tattered stars or snow drift mist in bright columns. Beatific 
inspiration which overcomes/ O inner chambered  
Heart song, out of the well spring-so lonely and long we sing, 
yet salvation finds us. And all matter of inward wandering/ 
I speak to the living and the dead now~ of self strewn 
against this gulf of paradise, behind each empty shadow. 
Out of haunted time, Love or extended Grace 
entwining~hope rain linger/scent of Summer's ending-What willow 
weeps your steepled sky? Whitest tiny butterfly and sunflown into becalming 
winds.O resurrection, O forever [now this unity of Grace informs  
us.]  Raven feather, clime to weather, our radiant day together not  
ended- as we gaze like stars into Heaven. 

-T. Byron Kelly
Late July 1998 
Revised 
5/3/2008

A Meditation

Nothing so brings the spirit of reflection

upon the present moment

as the subject of dying, death

like some drawstring keeping feelings

and thoughts, remembering and forgetting,

memories from easily slipping out

as when death is not considered they scatter.

As if, somehow, no temptation

is great enough to move us from 

beneath the branches of the tree

of life and death.

                           How fleet afoot does time

then more truly seem when years

feel like compressed hours of meaning,

when desire and longing cannot

be satisfied.

                So I find myself there, here

in that funk when the fact of death

is as strong as the fact of life,

maybe a little more so because

time is no longer aligned so strongly

with life.

               Some say to consider death

more often would make a richer life;

I don't know.

                  What I do know is anything

that takes away from living is a death

and if we have but one life,

one death I know what I'm doing,

what contemplation is mine,

what moves me to be and do and love.

See how that works?

This poem began with some pontification

regarding dying and death

                                          and the only thing

I can conclude is being alive

and loving is the only thing to do.

-Byron Hoot

Gone Fishin

Jacob has gone fishing as is his habit

in the morning before I wake

and sit writing, sipping coffee,

slight worried about a careless step

or a bear --

                   neither of which I am

capable of preventing.

I don't have any room to talk.

I often hunt alone, know how 

my children must feel with me

in the woods and no one to call

upon should something untowards

happen to me.

                    It's a good day for

fishing -- light wind out of the south,

no shadows to speak of,

the air relatively cool for July.

And, of course, the urge to fish,

the possibility of taking something.

and the possibility of catching

what is not being fished for.

I know how true that is in hunting --

what we seek we may not find

but we will find something.

And go out again the next day.

I am his father and he is my son

and we are doing what fathers

and sons have always done.

-Byron Hoot

Yuputka

In a velvet sky glows a silver moon

Dense dark woods echo an owls swoon

Yellow twinkles from a thousand fireflies
Golden flames flirt with the chill of night

Tranquility coaxes my thoughts to run deep

Cricket lullaby's gently sing me to sleep

Floating along on my river of dreams

Suddenly awakened by something unseen

Some "Thing" is crawling across my skin,

Down my cheek and across my chin!

It slithers up and down my arms 

Screaming, I slap at myself in alarm

Terror's clawing at my back as I flee

Stumbling along on trembling knees

Jumping in my truck I slam the door 

Turn the key, mash the pedal to the floor

Spinning tires roaring down the road

Chased by fear til I'm safely home

Laughing in relief, I realize what it was

Just that phantom feeling they call YUPUTKA!!

7-10-19

-Sharon L Hodge 

Dirt Ditch Lilly

ditch lilly dirt

perfect place

roads curved like the 

side of the moon

grail goblets

leaning towards heaven's face

to catch God's glance

and take it deep

and with catalytic courage 

transfer

into a deeper gold

than we can see

of this sun's reflection

day by day renewed

like manna 

blessed one day

like manna

gone with grace

but renewed the next

endlessly

-Janey Pease

DEEP MY SLEEP

(a dream two weeks after my father passed away)

deep my sleep
and deep the dream that brought a river
rapid and sweet with hands lifted
fingers rippling west to east
green waters of the carolinas tumbling past my porch

clear and clean and smooth with round river rocks
waters pulsing
trees crowding the far side

waves streaming from the Source of all life
angels stirring the water after the long winter freeze

i was with friends in peaceful disarray
repairing a car
gathering broken pieces and putting them together

-Janey Pease

Then he showed me a river of the water of life, clear as crystal. . .and the leaves of the tree were for the healing of the nations. Rev. 22:1-2

Late Sumer Gifts

had i known the secrets of weeds
i would have waited to snap them loose
from this tender earth

this year i left them wild
and with a tender tug
saw they loosened best

even weeds require grace
and when they need to travel to a better place
(not my garden!)
i contemplate mercy behind their demise

i might have missed seeing wild vines of morning glories
one white as early mist
one purple as dusk
nuzzling my garden fence
enduring
endearing
and undersized
tapping the ovals of small watermelons
planted by grandchildren
snagging tomato plants
given by a son
pointing reedy fingers at melons rolling their rough sides
into the maze of overgrown greenery

i might have missed half grown elderberry
pale red paint strokes between the leaf and stalk
like the ruby throat of a nearby humming bird
wisp of a prophet
promising wine for winter when the berries ripen
and the healing begins

-Janey Pease

Benefits of Elderberry Wine

Elderberry has been used for centuries in folk medicine to treat different ailments. . . livestrong.com|By Ana Cassis

Wild Acres

the quiet gun has been fired

the languid race begun

as autumn’s reds and rusts overlap

the faded emeralds and broken leaves of summer

mountains curve

as if drawn by a child’s hand

in sets of seven, four, and five

sculpted by happenstance

and painted with van Gogh’s brush

the path folds and rolls like ribbon candy

the last of the wild flowers bloom

toes still tucked in the rock wall

what am i waiting for?

my thoughts to slow

to the pulse of cicadas

the sun to lift my chin

like the face of a flower

and warm me into fall

-Janey Pease

http://www.wildacres.org/conference-center/facilities.html

Leaves

leaves fly past my window

men on a mission

paratroopers sailing

flailing in silk

undercover agents

trailing in brown camoflage

jumpers

desperate to escape

or to save

the earth

cluttered in sincere intention

covering the tender grass

rain follows

and the grasses fold and tuck their green

into their center 

and wait for spring

-Janey Pease 

The Bridge Over Summer

I stood at the bridge over summer

The Troubles hitchhiking behind me

It was time to diminish 

I take my time crossing, don't we all?

Holding the rail 

Enjoying every lick of the crick

This is my humidity and my humility 

And my forgiveness perfected 

The babble of a billion voices before 

Alien yet familiar as a kid's whistle

The code of the universe tapped in oak

 Beyond my last steps the footing is good

-Girard Tournesol
Quimby, Pickford and Cheshire Publishers
​www.thewatershedjournal.org/

Blowin' in the Wind

The remnant of what

is always flies like some flag

from a once upon a time battlefield

where the causalities are few

but significant and the victory

and loss dubious

and the terms of each a moveable

feast whereon any given day

the claims can change and will.

And yet we are not liars,

poor rememberers but can't

deny how what we come to know

changes what  has been known,

that is, the meaning forever

not the same reflecting time's

water and wind swept changes

on us because we are not as

we have been and so, therefore,

neither is the meaning of new

understanding willing not to be

changed to match the knowledge

and sometimes wisdom arriving

dairly like some ancient caravan 

coming with new and wonderful

goods not seen before.

                               The wind inside 

lets me see the number of flags

flying, dancing

                      and I know those 

victories and defeats

to be reconsidered in light

of what could not be known before.

-Byron Hoot
Stained Glass Writers of Punxsutawney