Good Friday, 2022

I don’t know the theology of today

but I know the story is true.  Know

that family and friends surround you,

that someone will betray you,

that you will be falsely accused

because all you’ve ever been is you.

Know this enough to make local and 

state and religious governance tremble.

Know the mockery of justice served,

know the libation of innocence relieving 

responsibility to please a mob of religious

cronies crying for blood and death

and know the approval for both given.

Know the suffering and agony,

the attempt of the dead to kill the living.

know the descent into the underworld,

the walk out, the temptation to see how 

far you’ve come by looking back 

which would keep you there. 

Know the rest of the story

which is, like all good stories, yours 

and mine.  Know the practical miracle

of understanding and surviving,

that new day we walk in.  Maybe that’s

why this Friday is called Good.   

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com.  

In The Tree

The bird, a robin I believe, was

on the yet bare branch of the maple

facing east, backside to me.

It could have been the Buddha

sitting there in the cold air,

looking into that cold light of dawn

and frost on the ground.  It was

not joined by any other bird 

and I had the sense it did not feel

alone or needed company – content

in the not yet budding maple 

looking east waiting, expecting 

nothing receiving all that’s needed.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com

Commitment to Disagreement

The leaves I did not rake last Fall

are on the ground.  We wait 

for the Spring winds and storms,

the first grass cutting.  We have formed

a pack to let things be as they are,

a wu wei approach which has trickled

over into many parts of my life.

The art of knowing when to do nothing 

is a serious art form, capricious,

graceful, full of beauty and patience – 

to many utter foolishness.  But the leaves

and I disagree.

-Byron Hoot

https://hootnhowlpoetry.com              

 

Dost Thou Remember

Dost thou remember, dearest heart,
Before our lives were torn apart
How oft we met beneath the pines
Through which the silver moonlight shines?

Dost thou remember, fairest one,
Our midnight joy rides and fun?
When oft we took paths obscure
And found delight in each detour?

Does memory fail you, oh, my love,
How from New River's heights above
We lingered long midst leaf and fern,
While friends awaited our return?

Will time erase the tragic scene
When love and passion swayed my Queen?
Where lash-horns met across the trail.

When storms had passed and fogs dispelled,
Some wondrous scenes our eyes beheld;
Again we view the flock with pride,
Each lamb is safe at mother's side.

But time has turned another page
And storms still in your bosom rage;
One question I would ask tonight:
Will love or passion win the fight?

-Walter C. Harris
Long Branch West Virginia
1876-1936

https://sites.google.com/view/waltercharris/

Clarity

Clarity                    

. . . and after the cold clarity of yesterday

and bright sunlight and strong wind which

took the snow away, Winter brought in

another snowfall.  Not much but the way 

your mom would say, “Don’t forget.”  The 

haunting truth of what was not to be 

forgotten though what held true would not

hold true forever.  So I look out and see 

the permanence of change about to begin – 

it is late Winter.

                          Outside and in.

"Give us peace in our time." from The Book of Common Prayer 1662

-- Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com/"

Again

I remember 9-11 felt like this:

an unearthly quiet in the air.

As if all Nature knew the great

blasphemy being committed,

knew also there was nothing

to do but delay repentance,

forgiveness, dreams and visions.

I waited then, as I do now, for news

beyond party lines, for the unspeakable 

to somehow be understood, for 

the word “Over” to be the prayer 

heard and answered.  There is an

unearthly quiet to this day as bombs

drops, guns fire, lives are taken away. 

I fear some second coming

no apocalypse has ever contained

to appear at the edge of my front porch – 

impossible to get away.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com 

New River Canyon

Vast fortunes spent to advertise,
In every land beneath the skies,
Has caused the multitude to roam
Far from rich beauties closer home.

The rich play-boys who risk their scalps,
With every trip across the Alps,
Would move with awe-inspiring tread
On heights above New River's bed.

The Colorado deep may flow,
Through mighty canyons far below;
But those who know will place their bet
On grander canyons in Fayette.

To those of you who cross the pond
To view the valley Aggalon,
Will see far more when you stand,
And view America's Switzerland.

What offers more enchanted gaze
Than looking through the purple haze?
Symmetric beauty mile on mile-
Vast mountain ranges file on file.

O roads of asphalt, smooth as glass
The wheels of traffic swiftly pass;
While through the valley far below
Is swiftly speeding C & O.

Lift now your eyes to azure blue
Through which the fiery chariot flew,
Then lower them to deep abyss
Where demons howl and serpents hiss.

Two questions now you entertain
While mind of mortal man is sane.
And answer to them none can tell,
How high is Heaven-how deep is Hell.

Words are too tame and speech too mean
To paint the grandeur of the scene.
But if you want the high and low,
New River Canyon is one grand show

-Walter C. Harris
Pax West Virginia
1935

https://sites.google.com/view/waltercharris/home

https://vawestva.livejournal.com/2506.html

A Little Morel

“After such knowledge, what forgiveness?”

I know that conclusion well but consider:

After such knowledge what else but forgiveness?

Nothing restored to what it had been, but 

the changed utterly of time and circumstance

morphs into what is the past a lesson 

in a meditation hall, a grove of trees,

a whispered dialogue of love now not

to be and that forgiveness that does not 

offer redemption nor a second chance

simply acknowledging things are as they

are and forgiveness that releases one 

from the past is the only sensible act

to perform not for the other but for

yourself to set yourself free from 

antiquated knowledge turned to 

a lesson once learned needing no 

repetition.  The easy thing is holding 

on, the hard thing is letting go –

so much of who we are invested 

in what went wrong we forget those

moments are Zen masters speaking 

in koans, sages in parables, poets

seeing what never was seen before 

and that OM of recognition, that Aha

of acceptance, that kicking of the dust

off our feet at a door no longer opening.

I have loved that line since I first read it;

but wish there had been more, that movement

where forgiveness closes and opens another door. 

-Byron Hoot

 hootnhowlpoetry.com. 

Christmas

We are shepherds, you and I,

not Angels or Magi.  We tend

to our hearts and souls, minds

and bodies, gains and losses, joys

and sorrows, dreams and desires,

regrets, the story of our lives.

Like the shepherds we are, we 

are outside the city gates.

We see the star Herod has 

heard of but has not seen, hear 

the song of Angels, put the two together

and go to see what we can only call

a mystery: that union of the divine and human,

that promise of if so once how 

so not always.  The murmured

response, “Like us.”   How curious

the mark of a cross on the infant’s back.

We see all we need to know,

return to the hills to greet the dawn.

-Byron Hoot

http://hootnhowlpoetry.com/

Walking on Water

The freedom of not being

tied to the past feels 

like a boat unanchored

in a storm until you get

your water legs and walk

on the water placing one

foot and then the other

between, upon the waves,

the ebb and flow of what 

swells up from above,

below.  It’s difficult to do;

harder to learn the dances

the improvisation of now

invites you into.  The sign

to hell may read, Abandon 

all hope who enter here.  But

the sign to paradise says,

Abandon the past that will

not let you dance on the waters

of life.  I’ve always fancied 

myself as a dancer 

especially now walking

on the water.

-Byron Hoot

hootnhowlpoetry.com