poem

The Armadillo Grants Spiritual Preservation (#poem)

R. Horton
armadillo
Image by Cheryl Holt from Pixabay

As I messed around with a compound bow and arrow,
Getting the hang of aiming the dang thing,
An armadillo walked into the path. Releasing
The bow, I flushed with regret, shame, and panic.

Armadillos don’t hurt anyone.
They shuffle through life slowly,
Just taking things one at a time.
They don’t move fast, but this one vanished.

To my relief, I found the arrow
But no sign of the living target,
No corpse, no blood, no condemnation.
My reprieve was born only of moral luck.

This may be evidence that I needed to improve
My aim, but I never tried, never practiced.
Some people consider armadillos pests,
Because of what they do to gardens,

But I’m happy to let them forage around
For whatever they can find in the soil.
I’m happy to let them just get on with life
Because one once restored my soul.

Poetry and the Cross-Pollination of Artistic Platforms (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton
person jumping photo
Photo by Fröken Fokus on Pexels.com

When people see a spectacular dancer,
They say, “Oh, that’s poetry in motion!”

And then they might see a moving painting,
And say, “That painting says it all—It’s like a poem!”

And good musicians are just considered poets.
I mean, Bob Dylan won a God-damned Nobel Prize
In literature, didn’t he?

But it doesn’t stop there. I’ve heard motorcycle
Races described at “pure poetry in action.”

It seem like any time something is done really well,
People think of it as poetry. Really, “poetic” is like
A synonym for really freaking fantastic.

If you were an outsider and heard people saying all this,
You might get the idea that everyone reads and cherishes poetry.

On the Failed Attempt to Prevent Miscegenation in Polk County, Texas (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton
love people romance engagement
Photo by Katie Salerno on Pexels.com

“I don’t want you to be mean to nobody, now.
When you go into town, you should wave
And smile and say, ‘How y’all doing?
Nice to see ya.’ Be nice and friendly
And respectful and then be on your way.
They have their lives to live, and you
Should just leave ‘em to it. You don’t
Need to be in their houses, and you
Damn sure don’t need to bring ‘em
Into mine. ‘Cause if you bring ‘em
Here again, you and me gotta problem,
You got that, boy? And you don’t wanna
Have a problem with me. If you wanna be
Welcome in my house, you better just
Let your new ‘friends’ go their own way.”

With that, he poured another coffee, lit
Another cigarette, and went out on the porch.

It didn’t involve the child listening from the next room.
Nothing in the world changed, except a boy’s heart.

At Ease, Disease (#poem #napowrimo)

R. Horton
intravenous hose on person s hand
Photo by rawpixel.com on Pexels.com

The day 19 NaPoWriMo prompt was to write an abecedarian poem. Not my favourite thing, but needs must.

As
Before,
Chill
Down
Everyone.
Forget
Going
Home.
Indeed,
Just
Kindly
Leave
My
Only
Persistent
Reddening
Scars
To
Unleash
Vaporous
Waves,
Xerotic
Yellowing
Zymes.

The Best Way to Grieve for a Child (#poem #napowrimo)

R. Horton
brown bear plush toy beside pair of toddler s brown and white shoes on ground in selective focus photography
Photo by Max Schwoelk on Pexels.com

They never changed that room.
Dolls, teddy bears, trains,
And transformers all hold space,
Lock time in perpetual stasis.
When death comes life stops.

Family said they should pack
Things away. It’s too hard
To be reminded day after day
Of a future lost in the past,
But a room can be a memorial.

It’s a museum of childhood,
Until a child of a later
Generation discovers it with
Glee. New memories are
Born of innocent ignorance.

As the teddy bear rests again
In loving arms, life continues and
Memory grows sweeter and
Stronger through squeals,
Taunts, laughs, and hugs.

On Bodily Autonomy and Geriatric Femininity (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton
grayscale photography of man carrying baby
Photo by Silvia Trigo on Pexels.com

They never ask, the old ladies.
They just hug, pinch, kiss and
Cuddle at will. Babies are theirs,
You know, and they do love them
So much. I guess it isn’t their fault,
No one ever told them they aren’t
Free to touch at will. I once told
A woman to get her hands out of
My hair, and she said no man
Had ever asked her to stop
Touching him before. As an old
Lady, I’m sure she became another
Of the baby grabbers, the snogglers,
The unwanted snugglers, making
Babies turn away and stretch
For Daddy’s protection and loving
Embrace. And the Daddies will say,

“Don’t touch the babies. They are not
Yours to soil with dry lipstick and crepe
Paper skin. You may have thought your
Hands were never unwelcome, but
My babies know the master of their fate.”

 

The Burdened Bookshelf as Will and Representation (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton
full frame shot of shelf
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Each mover, save one Renaissance man
Of fellow feeling, complained of the books
And the bookshelves to display them.
Why would anyone move these thousands
Of miles and from house to house when
They are so obviously rarely used?

But the bookshelves, fully loaded, serve a purpose:

For starters, they tell anyone curious enough to look
Where and how my intellectual development has unfolded.
Second, they show all the languages I have tried to learn,
Even if I have been persistently unsuccessful.
Third, they show where my interest lie in the arts,
Music, history, literature, philosophy, and politics.
Fourth, they show that I’ve reached beyond the narrow
Confines of my family, neighbours, and local sports teams.

If you wanted to understand me, you could get a pretty
Good idea by browsing my bookshelves thoughtfully.
You’ll surely see that I am a person of profound refinement,
A deep thinker who has considered a universe of ideas.

And if you don’t see that immediately, perhaps
You’ve stumbled across some of my wife’s books.

The Impact of Utilitarianism on Unsuspecting Feet (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton
close up photography a baby s left foot
Photo by Dominika Roseclay on Pexels.com

The prompt today was to use a homophone or homonym. I can’t take credit for the example, which was offered by a former student.

After her purported reading
Of Jeremy Bentham,
She said he believed
She should do whatever
Made her happy.
For example,
She should spend
Her paycheck on new shoes,
Because they will be good
For her sole.

Things People Know About Marxism (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

marx_head_3The prompt for Day 9 of NaPoWriMo is to write a list poem. I decided to write a list of things people know about Marxism.

Most people seem to know
That Marxism has something
To do with seizing
The means of production.

They seem unclear about
Who seizes it or what they
Do with it once seized,
But I guess it’s a start.

Oh, and they know
That Marxism means
Taking according to ability
And giving according to need.

Most people assume that
Means taking from good people
Like themselves and giving
To the undeserving poor.

They forget, I suppose,
That they may have needs
As well and that life is luck,
But what can you do?

Oh, and finally, people know
That Marxism means gulags
For their type, so they are
Afraid of democratic socialists.

On the Destructive Power of Measureable Learning Objectives (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

pointing-devilDay 8 of NaPoWriMo asks us to write poetry using the jargon of our professions (or someone else’s profession). As a philosophy instructor, my only learning objective was to destroy the smug and self-satisfied confidence my students had in their own knowledge. Petty of me, I know.

Your destruction is both
Achievable and measurable
Because I’ve developed my
Learning objectives with care.

Eliot showed you fear
In a handful of dust,
But I will sow panic and
Confusion with only a question.

I will dash your gods
Against the rocks.
I will make you doubt
Your very existence.

Darkness will envelop you.
Your sure footing will erode
Into blind, directionless
Stumbling in a cavernous abyss
As your world dissolves in disillusion.

Eons of random events brought
Us to this moment and this
Particular arrangement of cosmic
Dust and energy, but only now
You realize you’ve lost your way.

I am the dark demon raising the spectre
Of wasted life, of a mind unmoored.
Your breakdown is the final
Documented learning objective.

Your own failed attempt at a
Meaningful life is the ultimate
Outcome-based assessment,
Yielding data for the ravenous
Sisyphean minions to chew
And regurgitate for eternity.