He visited Simon's mother-in-law, who had a fever.
Did he do so because she was kin of his disciple?
The elderly needed care. He knew this as a healer.
Wasn't their psyche more than their physique what made them ill?
A lesion in reason and logic rots the mind, like rust.
Depression, delirium, dementia, and rifts in moods
Loss of autonomy, grief, loneliness, and lack of trust
Optimism fades like a waning moon, and pessimism broods.
He knew these puddled muddles. Was he a psychoanalyst?
How was he able to read each mind like a telepath?
Wasn't he, for-bye, a universal philanthropist?
Was he not the zenith of extraterrestrial math?
Innocence, like crystal clear streams, flooded from his person.
Wasn't he, after all, the Almighty God's precious son?
It is a well-known fact, said Aristotle
and many a priest that threaten the inferno,
‘Give me a child before the age of seven’
Today society taking the old ways to a new height
‘And I’ll give you a programmable mind set.’
life, now a highway, from the earliest age a one-track road
littered along the hard shoulder with broken down expressions,
when to fuel a rapid growing band of experts,
driven along the assemble line of psychoanalyst,
a vital part of the skulduggery?
Striving for intellect is not in everyone’s script
where all are pressurized to achieve, and many children
are having to forgo that precious period of life,
for the sake of another’s ego.
© Harry J Horsman 2022
He calls me names, the teacher said.
Her arms were crossed; her mouth was tight,
She was mean-face-angry. Furious maybe.
What names? The boss asked her.
Does it matter? I wondered but later I was glad she had.
The teacher yelled out three names
“leave me alone Lucy”, “sound it out Sarah”, and
“Fix it yourself, Yolanda.”
These three names fit her personality better than a snakeskin.
I looked at the brilliant eight-year-old who had one-upped our own nickname for her.
and bit my lips as hard as I could, so my personality did not escape.
The boss’s eyes met mine; I knew we were on the same amused wavelength,
headed toward Uh-oh-land.
Good friends we both looked away but not before
Sound it Out Sarah figured it out.
She saw the look and knew
“Let’s go,” Fix it Yourself Yolanda said to the eight-year-old felon,
A psychoanalyst in the making,
maybe already there without a degree.
He and “Leave me Alone Lucy” had traveled
several meters down the hall
before the boss and I clutched each other,
sobbing with happy laughter.
“Oh, we are going to get it now!” I thought.
Our own nickname for her was “Retaliation Rebecca”.
Always on a razor’s edge
In the loony cage
Now opening this window
Now closing that
Now busy at this arrow
Now tackling the aching marrow
For the sweet bones moves the cat
The wolf seeks to shift
From old veins to a fresh rainbow
Comes up the superintendent
(As the psychoanalyst says)
The disguise is recognizable
The fruit of social venoms is terrible
Dusk or dawn
The train therefore pulls on
With the chores floors sores roars galore
Profound rubbish
Calling for the female cannabis
Kisses without kinesis
Daily travesty of compulsive synthesis
No beak and obviously no peaks
Same old debris and I can take it no more
It’s bloody hell
Better to regress to the cat
In an empty flat
__________________________________________________________
May 31, 2016
For Desperate Housewife – Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Poet Destroyer A
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