Best Horton Poems
What if Horton hadn't heard a Who?
or Winnie hadn't been called 'Pooh?'
What if Lucille* hadn't played the blues?
or plaintiffs couldn't find defendants to sue?
What if an atheist got elected Pope?
or a lasso weren't made of rope?
What if doting grandmas would say 'Nope?!'
or if little boys ever washed with soap?
If any of these things ever come true
then I'd be the first to agree:
Horton never heard a Who!
* 'Lucille' was the name of the guitar
of the famous blues performer, B.B. King
I look into your eyes and perceive your driving force
Heavy is this Heart as it consumes the essence of your greed
Lost in a spiral. ....The decent begins
With All your years of wisdom. ....wealth is all you seek
I have tried ....to warn you from yourself
Yet...you see me as a Fool
Mercy on Our Souls....isn't part of your agenda
Your thoughts explode into our Home....
I Hear You.......
I See You.....
I Feel You. ....
In The Lord's Light. ...
We Are Hear..... We Are Hear.....
At Horton's first day at the nursing home
figured he had nothing to lose,
working for the elderly,
and the confused,
most of them being deaf
and wearing hearing aids,
Horton still had to repeat himself,
time and time again,
when Horton would speak,
all the elderly would say "Who?"
as if they knew Horton was finished talking,
right on cue,
so Horton started talking real loud,
and speaking real clear and slow,
till finally they started looking,
like they were in the know,
then Horton's voice got raspy
from talking loud each day,
the elderlys hearing once again
diminished in the fray,
so Horton was about to give up,
feeling he was in a communication rut,
till one fateful day,
instead of "who" they all said "what?"
It was once upon a nursery rhyme,
An old familiar story line –
The prelude to some fairytale disaster
Where the trail of breadcrumbs through the woods
Is known to lead to damaged goods,
Bad coffee and a wicked morning after.
But I took the bait and ventured on,
Enchanted forest vagabond,
A sucker for a two-bit roadhouse gimmick.
Till at rainbow’s end I did behold
That emerald skyline, streets of gold,
And stumbled into town a hardened cynic.
On a quarter moon mid-summer’s eve,
My lantern filled with kerosene,
I shone a ray upon the Great Uncertain.
When the palace doors swung open wide
I got the hint and slipped inside
To peek behind the wizard’s flimsy curtain.
There were freakish treasures hidden there:
A giant’s tooth, Rapunzel’s hair,
The goose that laid the egg that hatched King Midas…
I was unimpressed with all that bling,
But then I found the One Big Thing -
The Hand that rocks the Cradle deep inside us.
It’s the sunshine in a mother’s smile,
The father of your inner child,
And every kiss too intimate to mention.
From the homestead where we plant our roots,
To the farthest place we walk our boots,
It’s there where Love remains our true intention.
Let’s make that cakewalk hand-in-hand,
Two refugees from Wonderland;
We’re good no matter where the twister lands us.
Regardless how the chips may fall,
There’s comfort at the mending wall
Where all the signs say, Welcome Back to Kansas.
I’m through with waiting for the elevator.
Come on, babe, let’s climb this beanstalk down.
("Contagion III", 2020, original pen and ink and oil)
Trigger Warning
From the safe space of my hardened little heart
I send out my love
In waves of conditional bliss
To all who are just like me.
And since that’s actually no one
That love only fills the hollow hardened space
A geode no one will ever open.
Yet within this mirror-facetted crystal cave
A whole world revolves
Like a Whoville on a clover blossom
Hidden from every other by the simple
Abundance of endless pink waving plains.
Last night a friend shared these words of wisdom;
The cause of Suffering:
“Reifying Nothing”
The end of Suffering:
“Reifying Nothing”
With the sobering effect of pinpointing
That the contentious sides of anything
Are always looking at the same thing
The thing itself
Being so gracious to effortlessly accommodate
Any and all projection
The little distortions
Our hardened little hearts
Create in the vibrating space
Of their solitary confinement.
Each of us all together all alone
The ultimate truth
Being that all truth is relative;
The kernel of ancient wisdom
At the heart of the postmodern cancer
Multiplying in ever increasing mutational loads
Consuming itself
Killing its own in a territorial imperative
Of survival through ever dividing
Identities
Each standing on the head of the oppressed beneath
Each consuming the flesh of those who died before
In the struggle for a cosmic justice
That lives nowhere but
The perfect world of our own crystalline hollow
Now in disarray
Each waiting for a Horton savior
To hear our tiny desperate plea
Acknowledging that we too are a person
No matter how small, or brown, weak, foolish or *****
That we too are
All that we dream.
(11/21/23)
Horton hears
a “who done it?”
March is Dr. Seuss month
and Women’s history month.
How come we gotta’ share
the month with him?
Can’t every day be
Womens’ Day?
Can’t every day
be Black
History Day?
Is that too much to ask for all
the men, heroes, and brave people
who helped make our country
the UNITED states of something
or other?
I don’t remember
all the presidents names
(lower case p)’
but, I remember great speeches
from the mouths of history.
That history will repeat itself
in vicious circles
of confusion,
like a caged ball
python;
still searching for the same
thawed out, dead rat,
unless powerful
people with money
pay
attention.