Slippage

Yesterday was Sunday and I went to no church

but the sanctuary of a small stream, a small

lake to cast a line in water too cold to fish

but not worship by.  The ground was soft,

at least an inch or two down.  The winter 

thaw had begun and the waters were clear

and the stream, because it was in a small

valley, kept the wind away.  And the lake,

because it was in the open, almost had white-

tipped waves.  The sun silvered the bottom 

of the clouds and the ruffled nature of them

made me think of a ruffled bedspread after 

two people get out of bed – that curious beauty

of chaos and dream.  I drove slow on the backroads.

On one side, the steep hillside with pines and oaks

and beech trees and boulders and fallen trees

and moss.  And on the other side, the downwaru

grade into the creek, its windings like a hypnotic 

dance of a snake without any danger of dying only

getting lost.  Between the water and the sky

and the land and the backroad I felt I was moving 

back in time where scripture was scripture before

any word was spoken.  And had some idea about time

and eternity and some confusion about where I was

and then remembered I was driving home.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

The Nature of Things

I am still restrained by weather.

Rain today so I’ll not go to the woods.

I had said “yes” to the RSVP I had

received but now the answer is

“not likely.”  I see the sky darkening,

I’ll watch the rain fall, pray the first

prayer I learned, “Maybe tomorrow.”

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Unseen

Like some monk, I pull the hood over

my head, the top of it above my eyes

obscuring and focusing my vision.

 

I say no prayers except the ones

of my presence, hearing and seeing

answer enough for me.

 

I pass unnoticed, unseen appearing 

occasionally at the right place at 

the right time, hear, “Thank you”

 

and disappear the way a wild 

animal does – that step not quite

believable like a magician’s trick.

 

I like it best this way.  The way 

of the crossroad, the intersection

of time and place and need,

 

the call of “Wait, please” an echo.

No-one able to see where 

I’m going not even me.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

 

To The Girls At Gary’s Movie Rentals

 By Karen Weyant

You are too young to remember VHS tapes

and their Be Kind and Rewind warnings,

but at one time, employees here spent hours

doublechecking cases and tapes, making sure 

every movie started at the beginning.

 

You know that in these times of Netflix, Hulu,

and Amazon Prime, your days here are numbered, 

just like your fathers at the local factories where

hours and pay were cut slowly and painfully until 

the doors finally closed. Still, you show up 

 

every morning, clean out the overnight drop box,

and make coffee in the dusty backroom.

Still, you wander through long afternoons,

re-arranging B horror movies and women-in-peril flicks.

Still, you stay, looking forward to the regulars:

 

kids reeking with weed who buy handfuls

of candy bars, tired mothers who look for

a family favorite their children have not yet seen, 

and the old man who always leaves the local bar 

well before last call, beer on his breath

 

as he quotes John Wayne when he once again

rents the remake of True Grit. Creepy, some 

say, but you know why he lingers here, his sourness

staining the air: this is what he knows,

and no one is waiting for him at home.

Candy Cigarettes

 By Karen Weyant 

With pockets full of penny candy, I took 

the shortcut home from Joe’s Superette, 

sauntering along the railroad tracks behind 

the bars on South Main. As the sun set, I slid 

a single candy cigarette to my lips, mimicking

 

the smokers I knew, my pointer and middle 

fingers holding the stick between puffs,

while the sugar grew slick with my spit.​

Ahead of me, Susan Carlson threw open

the back door of Jake’s Bar, her own cigarette

 

dangling in her pouty smile, smoke hovering

like a halo around her. Everyone knew Susan, 

the girl could break up barfights with only 

her long fingernails and a barbed tongue. 

When she saw me, she smiled and waved,

 

then removed her cigarette that had burned

its way down to the butt and squashed it in Straub

beer can. Smoke trailed from the opening,

and I felt the sugar in my mouth turn sour, 

imagined I could taste ashes. I was not yet ten, 

 

my T-shirt worn flat across my chest.

With every step, the strings from my frayed

jean short brushed against my skinny thighs.

It was cold for early October, so every breath

I took was a thin puff of smoke.

 

Damn Near a Twin

I almost said, “My body has betrayed

me.”  This disease I never thought 

of possessing me.  I hesitate such

an accusation, such a causality 

between the unknown and the known.

How rarely what I know has fit 

the facts and, further off the mark,

the truth which may lie concealed

for a long time.  I’ll not waste myself

concocting reasons by some pretzel

logic.  I still say with God, “I will be

as I will be” satisfied with that integrity

of ambiguity and responsiveness

to what is and what is not.

It’s hard to say this is a gift

but I am at the brink of those

words.  And curses, also, which

I hurl like angry prayers in defiance

of any answer.  So I have been 

given something not to be overcome,

impossible to ignore and to which

I refuse to give any pity to – I am no

victim of anything.  Of course, I think

of Jesus – betrayal, arrest, sentence,

passion, crucifixion, resurrection.

There is a correlation – this is what life

gives.  Of the six acts which claim

the last of his life, I can claim five

with certainty.   Damn near a twin,

I remind myself. 

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com