The Affect

There is a destination to arrive at on Thursday

and that affects what I will do today.

The argument could be made there’s always

a destination affecting today.

And that would be true, perhaps even right

the way a stride demands two steps 

going in the same direction.  The car is clean,

filled up with gas.  The packing waiting 

for me and the list in my mind to be checked off

when I put the duffel bag in the car.

I’m thinking about what time to leave,

how far I want to drive, the finishing off

of the trip after a night in some motel

with no reservation made.  I have not been

where I’m going for a long time; there are 

few returns I make – today turning into                                                   

tomorrow enough of a return for me.

I am almost ready to leave.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Where I’m From

I am from plant-scented candles

From yarn made for crocheting and jars of stored food

I am from a mix of red bricks and  tan parts etched into thick walls

With creaky halls moving on their own

I am from a quiet yet loud house echoing with sounds all too familiar

the old trees that don't go on for long 

Whose long-gone limbs I remember 

As if they were my own

I’m from modified passed-down recipes and dark-ish hair 

From Meghan, Evan, Rachel, Melissa, and Gorman 

I’m from overly cold rooms cold as a rainy autumn mornings

and messy closets brimming with random junk

And from skipping breakfasts 

I’m from stories told years later and the “scribble monster”

 and “beans beans The more you eat the more you toot” and patty cake

I’m from nothing specific 

I’m from Charleston, West Virginia and Cincinnati 

And skyline chili and sweet pepper-filled spaghetti

From my dad's first fight

ending with him crashing into a dumpster

with a bloody nose and a loud bang still going through his head

Magnets collected over the years some having family photos 

and others with small pretty rocks attached

Stuck to the side of the fridge 

By Iva Reynolds   Sep 15, 2023

And Still

"There is no end to imagining. . .. 

Or to wondering at superfluous 

beauty. . . A world of words could

not describe this wordless world."

Wendell Berry, A Small Porch,, #14

. . . and yet we write and read 

and listen.  The world is words

insufficient and our urge 

to find the right ones in the right

order like confessing our sins

week after week absolved,

given our penance and hope.

This may be the divine mystery:

our refusal damnation. 

our acceptance salvation, 

grace -- the world of paradox

we live in.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com.