poetry

On the Protective Qualities of Poetic Devices (#poem)

R. Horton

“We here must listen to the language for the discoveries we hope to make.” ~William Carlos Williams

stainless steel armor
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It’s worth asking the question of
Whether this particular collection
Of words can even be considered
A poem. It has no discernable rhyme
Or meter, though it may give a nod
To metaphor, mixed and mangled.

Assonance and consonance remain,
Sure, but there’s nothing like a simile
To be found, and no one would
Mistake its shape for a proper Form.
It might help if it made an allusion
To a great poem from the past like
“Ode to a Grecian Urn” or something.
And the words may be personified,
Considering that they do all the work.

Some say a poem should speak some
Truth, even if it is full of lies, but what
Can anyone learn from this pile of rubbish,
Other than the difficulty of writing to a
Narrow prompt on rather short notice?

Or maybe the poem has simply taken
Cover, wary of inspection and harsh
Interrogation. The poem has adorned
A breastplate and drawn a sword.
Today no one shall come closer.
Today the poem is protection.

Sonnet 35: You’re My All, You Bastard (#poem)

R. Horton

You don’t have to feel so special.
We’ve all done some stuff. Lord,
If you knew half the things I did,
You’d wonder why I’m not in jail.
You can just forget about what
You done, ’cause God knows
I’d let you get away with just
About anything. It’s my weakness.
I can’t blame you for being tempted.
You’re young an horny as a rabbit.
I’m just a rickety old fool, pulled
This way and that by anger and lust.
I mean, I’m the person you done
It to, but I can’t stay mad at you.
Screenshot 2019-04-27 at 07.36.22

Democracy Died (#poem)

R. Horton2 Comments
woman holding protest sign
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Democracy died in the Senate chamber
When Supreme Court justice was never heard
Through a guileless force of legal obstruction.
Respect for law fell like old holiday garland.
A complacent nation did not demur,
Thinking true fascism could not recur,
Power transferred to a political poseur.
A complacent nation watched it’s legal destruction
And Democracy died.
They quickly forgot what they once were,
A nation of laws designed to deter
A tyrant seeking freedom’s complete destruction.
As the confident joked about his linguistic aberrations,
They let the unthinkable occur
And Democracy died.

It’s Not The Heat; It’s The Misery (#poem)

R. Horton
businessman office mobile phone finance
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On the Texas Gulf Coast
You do a lot of laundry
In the Summer.

Humidity stays at or near
One-hundred percent,
And temperatures hover
Around where skin melts.

Step outside your office,
And you’ll be drenched
Before you reach your car.
Better get the AC on full blast
And point it at the steering
Wheel until it’s cooled down
Enough to touch so you can
Drive home, cooler, but with
A persistent damp patch
In the small of your back.

On Perusing a Dictionary of Modern English Usage as It Pertains to Suffering

R. Horton
black and white book browse dictionary
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Deferring to the OED, Fowler’s* tells us not
To spell “inure” as “enure” for variant
Spellings are not needed; even if “inure”
Has two meanings, it is still only one word.
But who ever heard of “inure” relating to
Anything but some form of suffering?

Something quite beautiful and useful
Might well be put “in ure,” which just
Means we like this well enough to
Make a habit of it, and that cheers
Me up a little, as I had become inured
To “drudgery and distress” (Fowler’s
Example) and need reasons for joy.

You are thinking the primary usage
Became the primary usage because
The world has more misery than
Benefit, but maybe it is the other way
Around. Maybe language defines
Reality after all. If we had inured
All the good things all along,
Maybe we’d be in a better place.

If contemplating stuffy usage guides
Had inured, perhaps I wouldn’t have
Missed so many opportunities to be
Cheerful, to glide blissfully through
A life of Best Practices. Instead, I grew
Inured to heartbreak and dreary poets
Clamoring on about their lost loves.

*Fowler’s Modern English Usage, by H. W. Fowler, a handbook for pedants and arrogant copywriters.

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
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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
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“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
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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
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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.