Looking for an Old Horn
In the past, it is said, we had fins, we had wings. Memory is
A phantom limb; we swim, we fly. How we got to the top of
Babel doesn’t matter. What we do from here on out is all.
After 30 years, the child in you rises up before me with a tilt
Of the head, in a nervous bit of laughter, a lack of attention,
A shy, young one longing so much to return. But to where?
The master poet, Ghalib, said if you don’t drink or gamble,
Haven’t had a lover beat you with a slipper, or spent a night
In jail, you’re no poet. Yup, he’s right and we ought to know.
Friend, have you searched lately in the bottom of that neglected
Closet, among the bric-a-brac and faded clothes and looked for
That old horn? Why? Well, there’s a wall needs coming down.
What was the mountain thinking when Mohammed called?
Wait, did you say mountains think, Donald? Yes, of course,
Of course, otherwise why ever would Mohammad go to it?
The blue morning glory twirling around yellow caution tape
Is another form of prayer. My beloveds, with one warm deep
Sigh, we will rise above the trees, we will change this world.
--Don Wentworth
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