poet

Poem: How to Start a Revolution

R. Horton

To begin,
you must become aware
of your privilege,
your blessedness.

Something in the stars
has granted you access
to power, knowledge,
and minions who grovel
at your knees,
regaling you with stories
of your greatness.

Next, remember
the others have also earned
their cosmic misfortune
and have received only
what they are due.

Your indifference is essential
to maintaining order.
If they have more than they need
it is rightfully yours.
If they need more,
they must realize they should
be more like you.

Finally, relax.
Your fortress is impenetrable.
Their adulation will never falter.
If it does, neither their cries
nor their hands will reach you.

Still, they need your guidance,
your direct leadership.
They need you
to become president.

Poem: Living in the Penumbra of the Spotlight

R. Horton

You’re usually expected to put
most of your attention on one person
at the center of all the action,
but I always get distracted by the
squire or the sullen daughter
or the doctor who just seemed so
unimpressed when her boss was
leading the rounds, showing off
for the residents.

I love how some secondary
characters manage to make it all
about themselves with an eye roll
or a sigh or a blank expression.

I guess it’s just fellow feeling
as I know I will never be the
central figure in any story,
perhaps not even my own,
but I still take solace in the
fact that supporting characters
sometimes become stars.

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Poem: Whisper Horrors to Children

R. Horton

Most stories for children
are insanely cruel.
Filled with baby-eating witches,
and lawless fledglings flung
to the winds, we whisper our
reassurances that their worst
nightmares will never be real
so long as they trust us
unconditionally.

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Poem: A Paradoxical Epiphany

R. Horton

A lakeside photo was intentionally
displayed upside down,
and it took forever for
me to come to terms
with my feeling of
unreality.

The muted reflection
established my Truth
of the world at that
moment, while I
struggled to accept
the clear and sharp
presentation of
existence upside down.

I thought of the paradox,
momentarily,
and suddenly realized
what Plato must have meant.

Poem: A Peeved Pet

R. Horton

I don’t think she ever loved me.
We’d sleep together, but she
never touched me in bed.
If I tried to stroke her face,
she’d pull away in disgust
with a violent shake of contempt.
From time to time, she’d run
away but return in due time.
She didn’t seem interested in
anyone else, so we appeared
doomed to share grudging company.
Maybe she was happy cohabiting
in shared shelter with no feeling.
Maybe she really longed for love,
but dreamed only of joining
a tight pack of her own kind.

 

Poem: Ingress without Invitation

R. Horton

The bulwark is protection
from him, not for him.
He sidles along
the perimeter,
Touching the sides,
looking about furtively,
imagining tunnels and
catapults that could,
in another time and
circumstance, be his aids.

He’s come this far,
but in his old age
he has no choice
but to keep searching
for an opening,
for he’ll have no
ingress without invitation.

And at last, he finds
the wound in the wall,
slides through the
curtained entrance
and follows what appears
to be light.

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Poem: In Which Orgasms are Compared to Musical Elation

R. Horton

Sometimes when musicians finish
A piece that has gone well, they let out a
Combination sigh and laugh that
Expresses relief and pure joy.

It’s the same laugh you hear from
Women who have had a satisfying
Orgasm, enhanced by a slight tinge
Of guilt for being unduly blessed.

Of course, these laughs are never
Unwarranted. In both cases,
Substantial effort is required
To produce an even mediocre effect.

To achieve a crescendo of pleasure
Deserves a chuckle at least, but
Probably warrants a standing ovation.
And sometimes we do bask in the spotlight.

And bask we should, because we’ll soon
Be loading equipment back in the van
In a wet parking lot or shivering under the
Sheets, listening to neighbor dogs barking.

But, hey, tomorrow’s another day,
So we run through the scales, flirt
With the barista, steel our nerves,
And prepare to move heaven and earth.

person playing brown guitar
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Poem: Dominatrix, Doyenne, Shaman

R. Horton

She held fast to truth, this
Grim taskmaster, serving
Lashes to the mendacious,
And kisses to the veracious.

And all wanted to serve her,
Uncovering the wounds of
Brutal honesty, one kick to the
Crotch or messy cuddle at a time.

No one asks for enlightenment
In a Dungeon until the dominatrix
Shines through moral fog and
Removes both fear and reticence.

And secrets are sloughed off
As the previously damned
Rise shamelessly to a loving
Embrace they can’t refuse.

She’s crushed the ball gag
Under her heel so you can
Finally speak. So you can
Finally say your “peace.“

woman in black top standing beside wall
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Poem: Sulfurous Attacks on Blood-Sucking Arachnids

R. Horton

A sock of sulfur by the door,
And you better not ignore
It before going out in the woods,
Or it’s certain you would
Pick up hitchhikers in the form
Of ticks, chiggers, and no-see-ums.

It really made no difference,
You’d be facing weeks of itching,
And soaking in Calamine lotion,
Epsom salts, bleach, magic potions,
Or anything you could find
To soak in and hope to die.

Chiggers are the worst,
They’re a sentence or evil curse
From the God’s of wooded adventure
Or the demons of dark overtures.
Burrowed just under the softest skin,
Dissolving flesh and turning it to poison.

So, anyway, don’t forget the sulfur,
Before you go stomping through briars.
And be sure to take a shower when you get back
To wash off the ticks and prevent an allergy attack.
And when your done you better be sure,
To thank God for the blessings of nature.

male bugs illness disease
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