Shh, Shh, Shh

The ghosts appeared as they do 

whenever I go to the woods –

Mom and Dad, grandparents,

aunts and uncles, a brother-in-law,

friends, deer, bear, turkey, Europens

and Natives.  All the way back

to that near murder called a sacrifice.

Then back to Abel.  It’s part of the price I 

pay to enter the woods, a jug of wine 

to Charon for their brief reprieve.

They don’t talk much or maybe I don’t.

It’s as if the limitations of words are 

finally accepted; there is something

in their presence that gives a curious

hope I have never been able to name,

the way holding a crying baby next 

to you, rocking softly, whispering,

“shh, shh, shh” calms the child

and you.  I often forget I’ve gone to the woods 

to hunt being haunted by those presences 

holding me next to them.

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com 

Not Like Any Other

It is Sunday morning.  I am driving from

The Laurel Highlands through Ligonier

through Derry through Blairsville past

Homer City past Indiana to south 

of Punxsutawney to home.  A little under

 two hours.  My processional, my hymn,

my prayer, my offering, my sermon, communion,

benediction, recessional.  There’s little traffic

as if this morning retains some vestiges

of worship, some sacred, holy scent falling,

rising in the air.  It may edge beyond noon.

Perhaps to the border of Monday.  Perhaps

longer if this unhurried time can be remembered.

It’s as if everyone knows it’s Sunday morning

on these Pennsylvania secondary roads,

villages, towns, hillsides and fields.  Every act

a promise kept without any promise being made.

I got home and entered that sanctuary, the fallen

leaves off my porch like fallen prayers to be answered.

  

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com