poetry

Support the Troops (Remembrance Day Poem)

R. Horton

A farmer working in a field with his children formed

A bucolic scene in the countryside, maybe.Screenshot 2018-11-10 at 06.23.15

An older man crashed his bicycle and

Injured his leg, or so it would seem.

 

On the first tour, these scenes did not

Seem so ambiguous. The world

Had not given over to chaos then.

A soldier might still pass with a sense of purpose.

 

On the second tour, doubt set in,

And the soldiers sometimes faltered

In indecision–perhaps the wedding

Party was filled with combatants.

 

On the third tour, everyone is

A combatant. Everyone must die.

The universe is infinite and absolute

Hostility, death the only possible escape.

 

He asked whether I thought US soldiers

May have committed atrocities.

I asked whether he had support

For his mental health needs.

 

He answered only with

A desperate, pleading smile.

 

A New Dawn (poem)

R. Horton

I wrote this poem at 10 am

after a good night’s sleepIMG_7102

And a satisfying breakfast.

I was stone-cold sober,

And not the least hung over.

The sun shown brightly,

Without a hint of harshness,

And a nourishing breeze

Preserved the morning freshness.

My thoughts were untroubled

By the news of the world,

And the birds sang songs

Celebrating morning unfurled.

 

And I thought of you,

Running through bluebonnets,

Diving trough the air as if

You believed you could fly.

Laughing and screaming

As you ran into my arms.

I threw you higher,

And higher again,

But you’d never be satisfied

By the strength of a mortal.

 

You are unsatisfied still,

But I will wish you all

The way to the stars,

If I can, because that is

Where you should be,

And I am where I am.

Here. Earthbound.

And above ground,

For awhile longer.

Feedback (all failure is) – poem

R. Horton

Instead of “why is this happening?”

I ask, “What is this teaching me?”

I understand that all failure is feedback,IMG_2683

And I want to grow in full self-awareness.

Perhaps this rejection is telling me

That I don’t deserve to be loved,

Or this earthquake is teaching me

I live in a chaotic and hostile universe.

I think the shadows in the room

Want me to know I will always be alone.

Perhaps this new and fatal diagnosis is

God’s way of saying all prayers go unanswered.

And I suppose it may be the case that your

Betrayals have taught me to never trust again.

The rain of abuse has flooded my soul,

And my spirit drowns in a sullied sea.

I’ve learned the lessons of helplessness

And despair by the glow of an eternal flame.

In the end, all suffering comes from life,

And a universe free from suffering

Results only from all encompassing death.

Rhymezone

R. Horton

(Note: I wrote this poem by looking up “rhymezone” on Rhymezone.com and copying all the resultant rhymes. A couple of the words are used incorrectly, which is sort of the point.)

It’s okay to use a rhyming dictionary,

But some poets are so addicted to Rhymezone,heartman

It seems like a crime zone,

Across every time zone.

Worse than a dry calzone.

But you rhyme ecstatically, emphatically,

And oh so enthusiastically.

Maybe a bit erratically,

But always dramatically,

Even if not grammatically,

But certainly dogmatically.

And I would say fanatically.

It’s all about your narcissism,

Nothing but verbal tourism,

I don’t want a schism,

And I’m sorry for the criticism.

But I can’t see through your prism,

It’s like linguistic fascism.

It’s not as bad as plagiarism,

But it’s poesy fetishism.

A kind of literary nihilism.

How about some amelioration?

It just takes a bit of cognation.

You’ll be proud of your creation,

When you lose the rhyming fixation,

Try a blank flirtation,

I’m not trying to be imperious,

But get serious, mysterious,

It’s not so deleterious

To be just a bit ethereous.

I know audiences prefer the doggerel

And the strutting of a cockerel.

You may think I’m a dotterel,

But my poetic license is post-doctoral.

Sure, with so many words, you can always rhyme one.

But your first blank verse will be a milestone.

Cause you got no laurels to lie on.

Shames gonna hit you like a cyclone.

You’re just grist for my grindstone.

I give you a clue cause you can’t buy one.

And here’s some talent you can try on.

Don’t despair, I have a shoulder you can cry on.

You can keep your rhymes,

I’ll write my own.

Cultivating Life (redux)

R. Horton2 Comments

As Eliot would say,

I buried the corpses dutifullyIMG_3180

In the garden last autumn

With hopes of ghostly greetings to come.

 

Now, feeding them with

Spikes and multicolored fluids,

I wonder how they will arise,

Whether they will rise.

 

A regeneration, perhaps,

Or a redemption for

Last year’s cataclysm

Of paradoxical fecundity.

 

How does the overgrowth

Thrive so heartily

When I’ve launched such

Devious plots against it?

 

How does the life

I’ve coaxed so tenaciously

Defy me with such a persistent

Affront to my unfounded optimism?

Cultivating Life

R. Horton

A traffic jam that spans an entire epoch

Is followed by daily punishments of

Dreary Sisyphean meanderings,IMG_2794

Followed by even more traffic

In sweltering heat and sticky humidity.

 

With all energy drained from

Lungs, limbs, and mind,

He shuffles into his house

Seeking only relief and brief reprieve.

 

As he unbuttons his soaked shirt,

“Do me,” assaults his ears

With cheerful urgency.

“My basal temperature spiked today.”

 

Probable ovulation noted,

The expectation is clear.

She lies on her back, spread eagle,

With a pillow under her hips.

 

“Can’t it wait awhile—

long enough for a shower—

long enough to freshen up?”

His pleas are unwelcome.

 

Dejected and defeated, he

Peels off and gets to work.

Somewhere, future progeny

Await their turn at being.

 

And this is how the world blooms—

Not with a bang, but a whimper—

Mechanical sex, dead eyes, routine pollination.

Worker bees serve the Queen

Of procreation with neither question nor zeal.

 

A poet, somewhere, puts down his pen,

And waits for the next fantasy to fall

Into his frail imaginary pool.

Earth is Burning

R. Horton

They say the earth is burning,

But I don’t think it will affect me.

It is quite cool where I live,Trash-Fire-Pro-2015081716

And warming would be a relief.

I don’t worry about rising oceans,

Because I live on a big hill.

I feel sorry for people in Africa,

Their crops are likely to fail,

But I get my food from Tesco,

So it’s really no big deal.

As Maldives goes under water,

I may have to change my holiday plans,

But I like going to the Himalayas;

I’ll just go there again.

It’s sad so many animals are going extinct.

I’m glad I’m a human, or I’d be worried sick.

Yes, the temperature is rising.

It seems to get worse and worse.

I’m so happy I’m only visiting,

And not a permanent resident of Earth.

Stupider than Stewart Lee

R. Horton

I’m too stupid to understand Stewart Lee.

And his experiments with Brechtian Irony.

He pretends to be cut from the same cloth

As the smug bastards club of comedic sloth.img_0327

Americans can’t understand the ribald sophistication

Of the comedic genius of a truly cultured nation.

How could I know what this accomplished savant is on about?

I’m just a rube, and his in-jokes always leave me out.

He’s made it clear he’s too clever to enjoy Game of Thrones.

And his words hurt me even more than sticks and stones.

I love his impressions of Jeremy Clarkson and Steve Lamac

But simply can’t understand his more subtle attacks.

He makes fun of James Corden just for being a fan

And any comedian obtuse enough to be American.

Stuart Lee proudly insists he’s a left-wing elitist

Unless he’s not, and he’s just taking the piss.

How stupid can you be and still pretend to be smart?

Is this satire, silliness or a higher form of art?

I would pretend to be smarter than Stuart Lee,

But I know he would immediately see through me.

I’ve always liked finely tuned satire in comedy,

But I’m too stupid to understand Stewart Lee.