The Guest

I do not believe, know

by temperament I have

come under the influence

of the praying mantis

but rather through necessity

of which I had no need of until

the mantis was there beside me

prayerfully, silently saying Om

or Amen or Gloria over and over

again in that Gregorian chant

chamber of air that seemed

to have enclosed me unaware.

I was in silent meditation listening

to the mantis, being allowed

to overhear what patience

and deliberation probing the 

universe for the right choice

in the moment felt like.

I didn't like  it much

but I was drawn to it,

the way it promised 

something, someone was this way,

my way coming.

                       I felt a rhythm

not of a heartbeat but something older,

so old it felt new

                           and the only thing

I could think was, "This is what the divine

dances to."

                 I sat until dusk turned

nearly night.

                  In the morning it was gone.

-Byron Hoot

The Nap

The ceiling fan pushing,

no, dropping the air down

in the rhythm of the blades

going round lulled me to sleep,

to take a nap

                    something I rarely do,

but I was thinking of you

and that you I have yet

to know so i drifted into dream,

one of love.

                   Of course, the edges

were erotic.  What is love without

touch?  Indeed, what is the divine

without it and what is more divine

than love between two willing to risk

what can only be found here?

                                           So I thought

as I dozed off, "a twenty minute

power nap."  Nearly three times

as long when the cat nipped 

my dangling arm by some cat

logic.

          So I awoke longing,

desiring, confused

                            just like when I

awake in the morning.

The nap didn't do a damn thing,

no more clarity than if

I'd slept through the night.

Of course, I'd have to say,

most dreams are like that --

even the ones that have come true.

-Byron Hoot

Rustica

The ancestors killed for food:

hogs shot, strung up, gutted; chickens axed, rabbits trapped.

The ancestors tilled the ground, clods of red clay,

sown seed rows.

The ancestors canned peaches, strung leather britches, 

made ketchup, chow-chow, piccalilli, green tomato pie.

They milked cows, smoked ham, churned butter.

Like Antaeus, their strength came from earth.

This is the stuff of country music, porch swappin', the Georgics.

Crosshatches in my hands are dirty from working this morning

the soil of my garden. No amount of pumice

or progress removes the longitude within my palm.

No amount of rainfall can wash these roots away.

The song goes up to the mountaintop,

the one that resurrects those who remember the shed,

the table of pies, the hand on the hoe.

Ghosts in a tomato jar hot out of the bath,

in first green shoots, in muddy boots by the door.

                              
                       -Donna Isaac
donnaisaacpoet.com

August Fruit

When the summer sun is gushing yellow

onto the fields, light play among glossy leaves,

I bite into a red plum and delight in all things

oozy and bright. Once all summer days seemed so,

days on end with carefree jaunts to the beach,

teetering on high dives at the local pool.

Days when boys with tanned, muscled arms rode bicycles

pell-mell, mercurochrome-painted knees pumping.

My heart pumped too at such summer sights,

wishing for true love beneath star-speckled skies.

Plums are still ambrosia, a snack beneath a green umbrella,

dark clouds bunching on the horizon,

song birds silent like statues of Rome,

shadows on the patio, a chill in the heart.

-Donna Isaac

donnaisaacpoet.com

Precious

On the edge of Pawpaw's river property

stood a gnarled persimmon tree

we thought would wither and die

but green then gold flowers came.

The gnarled persimmon tree stood,

brought forth shiny-skinned fruit

from green then gold flowers they came

to gather after first sign of frost.

The shiny-skinned fruit came forth

enough for a wicker basketful

gathered after first frost,

sweetening the once-puckery fruit.

Enough for a wicker basketful,

enough to scoop out for pudding,

sweet now, this once-puckery fruit

gathered on Pawpaw's land.

The flesh scooped out for pudding

also good out of hand

gathered on Pawpaw's land

now cleared where the river ran.

               -Donna Isaac

                donnaisaacpoet.com

Listen

In the beginning was the Word

and the Word was spoken, heard,

recalled, remembered, forgotten,

added to

              forever changing its form

though the meaning forever the same

first entering through ear

and then into the heart and soul

and body

              and then another word

added and so context was born

and its twins of rhythm and rhyme

and the ability to recall more

than a single word

                             and so the explosion,

birth of language stories were 

created

            and reality took on its

true double-entendre meaning

as Imagination and Metaphor

spawned contemplation because

the Word fluid was heard, said,

altered to match experience 

in its ever-changing, always new

way of being

                       and the Word was spoken,

heard, repeated for thousands

of years

                before the written word

did what iit has done --

In the beginning was the Word!

Word without end.

-Byron Hoot

Going Home

Last week, I listened to

A Syrian poet, from Damascus,

Tell us how homesick he was

For a place, where he loved everyone,

And everyone loved him.

We talked afterward and I

Told him how his words resonated with me.

How it reminded me of a beloved song:

“I lived in the mountains

I had a lot of fun

I knew a lot of people and

I loved everyone around me”.

Damascus, Syria, meet

Turkey Creek, West Virginia.

This morning, I drink coffee alone 

at my cabin,

Thinking of good friends, some of

Whom have changed worlds,

Who sat in this kitchen with me,

Eating, drinking, laughing, being imperfect.

Nostalgia has always been my struggle.

Always with me.

I was the only 5 year old 

who used to long

 For all the good times gone by.

My great-aunt Frankie used to say:

“Moments never stay, but

Memories do.”

She used to say all those things.

But, today, this morning, I realize

I am being nostalgic for

A time that really isn’t over.

I listen to my son’s bluegrass CD.

I read a friend’s book of poetry.

I look at pictures of holler gatherings gone by.

And, I respond to a text that pings:

“Hey, asshole, how long

 You going to be in?

We need to get together.”

-Greg Clary

Keeping Your Body Aroused

            
    
                                                                 
                                                                  Keeping Your Body Aroused
                                                                       Art by Bill Wolak 2019

Seamless As the Grip of Flame

                                                               
                                                            
                                                               Seamless As the Grip of Flame
                                                                     Art by Bill Wolak 2019

All the Confused Tenses of the Shoreline

All the Confused Tenses of the Shoreline

Art by Bill Wolak 2019

The Voice That Turns Your Body Into a Spark

                                         
                                           
                                            The Voice That Turns Your Body Into a Spark
                                                            Art by Bill Wolak 2019