poem

If Gratitude Were Horses, We’d Never Fear a Stampede (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

free-giftToday’s NaPoWriMo prompt is to write a contemplation on gifts and giving. I read Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay on gifts when I was in high school, and it has stayed with me all these years. Emerson definitely had his moments as an essayist.

Prologue

“The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Exposition

The gift is always some sort of recrimination,
At least this is the way I see it.
The gift tells what you think of me,
Or whether, indeed, you think of me.
Upon receipt, I am immediately filled
With guilt, shame, anger, sadness or—
Most likely—unworthiness,
At least for gifts from you.
Others may give gifts that
Only reaffirm my deeply held
Belief that I may not be worth
The second thought required
For a gift, but you are different,
Are you not?

And it should be easier to give than receive,
But what is it like to be too painfully
Aware that a thoughtless gift
Will make someone feel
Unworthy of thought, of value?
Paralyzed by caution, we givers
Fail ourselves and our fellow humans
Regularly. If only we’d had more time,
The gift would have been better.
A gift receipt is included, in case
You don’t like it.

Epilogue

“We do not quite forgive a giver. The hand that feeds us is in some danger of being bitten.” ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

Accepting an Infinite Regression of Causes (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

IMG_6604If only life had come into being
On different terms, according to a different template.

If pain weren’t the primary motivating factor
For keeping life propelling itself forward,

If the best of all possible worlds weren’t
A universe where all life is suffering,

If life required no development,
No yearning for higher goals,

If life were complete, as it is,
With nothing but simple satisfaction
To guide it to its inevitable conclusion,

If only the ultimate spirit,
The source of all energy,
Had held back just a little,

Then I wouldn’t be staring into your eyes
Wondering why you still tolerate my gaze.

On the Odd Quality of Trumpets in the Mist (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

Day 5 of NaPoWriMo is a bit complicated. We’re to write a villanelle that uses a line from another poem and also uses lines with opposing ideas. My first line, which repeats, is from Stephanie Brown’s Schadenfreude. My third line, which also repeats, is in opposition to the first. Anyway, here’s my stab at it.


There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournfulIMG_7102
As we emerge in mist and set off on our journey.
We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

It’s only a walk. We won’t be won’t be beaten and forlorn, so
We can rise up and never be brought to our knees.
There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.

We won’t be stopped, though we know we’re only mortal.
We’re made of stiff stock and can always foresee
That we’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

Savagery is defeated by being kind and cordial,
But we’re fighting destruction of civil society.
There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.

The angels among us sing out with joy and hearts so full
Of love that we continue to believe in future with peace.
We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

The waters rise and smoke chokes our lungs, so
We raise our banners and fists as we march through the country.
There should be the sound of trumpets, thin and mournful.
We’ll make song, laughter, and love seem normal.

 

 

The Distinct Challenges of Hyperfocus (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

Straddling a life between town and country,

I remember you once stood on a snake.

You never saw it as we were shouting,

Until you moved and it slithered away.

Once you walked into a concrete column,

As I told you to hurry and catch up.

But you were focused and a little solemn,

Just searching for green anoles close up.

So many times you fell into a pond,

And I had to pull you out of the mud.

You were just looking to find what’s beyond.

You were happy to risk bruises and blood.

But I wonder now if you see my life.

As only pixels tell me of your strife.

The Unintended Consequences of Complimentary Behavior (#poem #NaPoWriMo)

R. Horton

He made a clumsy compliment,
And it was taken for an insult.
Immediately, he tried to explainScreenshot 2019-04-03 at 08.02.28
The misunderstanding, but
He was told to “stop digging.”

And so it was.
He wasn’t in love, exactly,
But he admired her
Constantly and consistently.
He spoke highly of her to colleagues
And mutual acquaintances.

Hoping to eventually mend the rift,
He overcompensated with kindness,
But she seemed to recede further
In the distance with each step
He tried to take forward.

And small mistakes can have
Grave consequences. They say
The entire universe is a mess
Because Brahma was too drowsy
During the act of creation,
Which is an important lesson
For fertile but untutored lovers.

And as the universe tends to replicate
An original error exponentially,
So relationships can create
Great webs of resentment
And confusion. Even chaos.

It was all right, of course.
He found other jobs and
Other social and vocational
Networks away from her gaze.
He found a wife, passed his
Own genes on to unsuspecting
New persons peering into
Brahma’s mistake for the first time.

After her divorce, she heard of him
And his relative success and wondered
How such a ham-fisted and socially
Awkward dimwit could carry on.

But we do carry on.
Brahma hasn’t had a nap
In eons, and light travels to our
Eyes from the furthest reaches
Of space, just so we can experiment
With clumsy compliments.

The Unappreciated Chef (#poem)

R. Horton

You cook with abandon.

This is your hobby,

And you embrace itdishwasher

With unlimited joy.

Sauce pans, skillets, steamers

All filled and fouled with ecstasy.

Never use the same spatula twice,

Never scrape the remnants in the pan.

Never try to prevent caking or baking residue.

You flit about from dough to dough,

Sauce to sauce wreaking havoc

On the shrinking population

Of unused cookware.

You cook as if no one is watching.

You cook as a chef who has

A cleaning staff on deck

To clear out the refuse after hours.

You dance in your own genius,

Announcing to the world, or the household,

That your Epicurean masterpieces

Have arrived. Unmitigated gusto

Propels you through each course.

You are sated. You are satisfied

With yourself and your subtle

Control of spices and condiments.

 

As you swallow your last morsel,

You mention casually,

“Well, I cooked, so you can clean.”

 

Later, when describing your

Unhappiness with your partner,

You’ll say:

“He never thanks me

When I cook for him.”

Pretty Messy Things (#poem)

R. Horton

The poetry is pretty perhaps,

And some may appreciate the aesthetics

While being put off by the messinessSlippery Slope

Of the content, preferring a tidy theme.

And maybe you could clean it up

A bit to avoid making the prigs uncomfortable.

Say something about flowers by the seaside,

For example, and let us forget people have sex.

And let’s forget about messy conflict

In relationships, too, while we’re at it.

Some people just want to get on with

A quiet life, not be confronted with

Confounding crises among the lovelorn.

Put a stitch in it, stuff a sock in it,

Do anything but speak of it.

Poetry is supposed to have pleasing

Rhyme and rhythm, after all,

And make us think of waterfalls,

Soaring hawks, and lovers who don’t

Fumble with zippers and buttons.

We prefer romance that is clean

And smooth, lacking rough edges,

Free of trauma and tribulation,

Free of interest and humanity.

We want the love that is printed

On a Hallmark card in February.

We want the love that we’ve dreamt

Of since we were able to dream.

And we were told the poets owe us

At least this much in reparations.

Exit Strategy (#poem)

R. Horton

“… come out of the wardrobe, cross the line of the rainbow and be who you want to be!” Dona Onete

After encouraging him to explore his “other side,”

She said, “If you leave me, I will tell about this,

And you will never see your children again.”keeping promises.jpg

And so it began—a desperate life locked

In a wardrobe guarded by a severe overseer.

Each tentative act of self-expression

Quashed in a confused melee of frustration.

He lived an inauthentic life of duplicity under duress,

With progeny held for ransom in

An unending act of passive aggression.

He lives behind a mask—

A promise keeper and provider—

As a pillar of the community,

A propagator of traditional value.

A leader is born in shame,

As he passes judgment on

His fellow sinners and wanderers,

He builds influence and takes on followers

Until his identity cracks,

And the anti-depressants fail

Along with his attempted suicide.

From hospital, he reads the headlines.

Everyone knows his name.

His warden and manipulator is now moot,

So he lifts himself off the pillow

And squares his shoulders

Before facing the inevitable question:

“If you were so miserable,

Why didn’t you leave?”

In the Wardrobe (#poem)

R. Horton

Before relatives came,

They set to

“Straightening” up the house.

All the toys, pulleys, harnesses,

Leather and latex launched

Hastily into the wardrobe.

The professor and the lawyer,

Do a dance of femininity,

And lady-up for the family.

The one more familiar with lipstick,

Does makeup duties for the two of them,

But there’s no way this legal powerhouse

Will ever look comfortable in a dress.

It’s better to stick with khakis

And a nice pullover.

 

No one is obtuse enough

To fall for this rapid ruse,

But maybe this family

Is just polite enough

To keep a dawning recognition

Silent for one more year,

Putting off the magnanimity

Of acceptance a bit longer,

With the understanding

That there is always more time.

There will always be another

Chance to say,

“I know who you are,

And I love you.”

Languages and Viruses

R. Horton

Some writers use poetry

To propound great thoughts

Through deeply intoned vowels,

But poetry is only language,

And you can use it as if

Chatting with a friend

About passing daysScreenshot 2019-02-19 at 14.01.53

And pastimes.

You can pull them in,

Get a laugh or two,

And make them

Trust you

Before thrusting

The knife deep

Into the abdomen,

Drawing it up

Toward the eyes,

As you let evidence

Of your betrayal

Provoke glares of

Rage and bewilderment

That linger in

Those final moments.