poetry

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.

God is in the Details (#NaPoWriMo #poem)

R. Horton

Some see God where
Others see only
Pain and suffering.Screenshot 2019-04-02 at 06.41.56

I read in the news
About a lady whose home
Was destroyed by a tornado,
Except for a closet
She happened to be hiding in.
She called it her prayer closet
And praised the Lord
For sparing it.
She said, “My God is
Awesome! Shout somebody!”

I guess if I believed
My God just destroyed
Everything I owned except
For a prayer closet, I might
Wonder why God had forsaken me,
But we don’t all see things
The same way, do we?

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.

 

The Kids are Proper Communists (#poem)

R. Horton

(Note: This poem is about the younger generation in general and not about specific individuals.)

I’ve always supported freedom and equalityScreenshot 2019-02-18 at 09.28.18

I wanted minorities to have equal opportunity.

I believed in promoting a liberal social order,

Showing non-aggression and peace at the border.

I wanted to teach the world to live in perfect harmony,

So that our new Utopia would all be down to me,

But my kids are proper communists,

They want to overthrow the state.

They will give everyone what they need,

And take whatever the wealthy can pay.

Workers will take the means of production,

And profit will be a thing of the past.

Even if there’s no greed reduction,

The billionaire power will never last.

They’ve declared private property a lie,

And reliance on investment income will die.

The worker and his value no longer alienated.

The greed of the bourgeoisie no longer sated.

My kids are proper communists,

Syndicalism will arrive any day.

My kids are proper communists.

You better get the hell out of the way.

East Texas tribute to Robert Burns (#poem)

R. Horton

I wrote this poem for a Burns Night celebration.

Now ol’ Robbie Burns was a good ol’ boy,

And we good ol’ boys stand up for each other.

But that ol’ boy was less cowboy and more of a lover.

That scoundrel was wilder than an acre of snakes,

And he thought the sun rose just to hear him crow.

He’d chase anything in a skirt that shakes,

Whether for love or just for show.

He hated farm work and was a real buzzard if you get what I say.

He got his mother’s servant, Elizabeth, in a family way,

But Robbie already had his mind on one Miss Jean Amour,

But Jean’s father said her and Robbie’s love would be no more.

Robbie didn’t mind as he loved another lady, Mary, anyway.

And he expected to get hitched to her any day.

I tell ya that boy was so full of himself he could strut while sittin’ down,

And when it came to the ladies, Lord, he sure did get around.

He was just fixin’ to move to the Carribean

To marry Mary when she up and died,

And he published a book of pretty good poetry,

And decided to stay in Scotland with a braggart’s pride.

So what in tarnation did that boy do next

But up and move to Edinburgh to make his fame.

When he couldn’t get in Nancy McLehose’s pants,

He just got out his cards and dealt a new game.

He started wooing her servant, Jenny,

And got himself a son from this new flame.

As he got older and his fame grew,

He moved back to the country to start life anew.

He gave up the wild ways of his past,

And joined Jean Amour in a marriage that would last.

Together they had nine children, but only two survived.

They stayed married till the end, but he was only 37 when he died.

During his life, Robbie was known for many of his wrongs,

But you can bet your sweet behind he wrote great poems and songs.