The Born Horn

Long ago, the whole world had a Born Horn

With a trumpet-blast loud as a bomb

It sounded whenever a baby

Came slip-sliding out of its mom.

But soon there were more and more babies

And the Born Horn went off every hour

It disturbed people sleeping or working

Or cooking or taking a shower.

So the people cried: “Ban the damn Born Horn!”

But the Born Hornsman said: “People, please!

Does the thought of a soul sliding into the world

Not quiver the caps of your knees?

Is it too much to ask just to pause for a sec

When new eyes and new noses arrive?

Does each horn blast not mean: ‘Hallelujah!

A dear sibling, at last, is alive!’?

For aren’t we all brothers and sisters?

Is each human not one of our own?

Don’t you picture each babe when the Born Horn goes off?

Don’t you think to it: ‘child, welcome home’?”

“No, we don’t and we won’t!” cried the people

“'Cause the Born Horn goes off all the time!

It’s obnoxious and pointless, and from this day on

Born Horn ringing’s considered a crime!”

So the Born Hornsman packed up his Born Horn

And the babies kept sliding on in

With nobody paying attention

Except for their nearest of kin.

“Well, I can’t have my horn,” thought the Hornsman

“But perhaps I could buy a small chime.”

So he did, and he rang it when babies were born

And thought: "child, welcome home" every time.

A Mirror-Mind's Lament

It’s becoming ever clearer

That I’m actually a mirror

And when I am introspecting

I am really just reflecting

‘Cause there’s nothing on the outside

That’s not also on the inner

‘Cause both in and out are Empty

And it’s Emptiness for dinner!

But a mirror’s just as Empty

As the Empty space it’s seeing

So it can’t be me that’s Empty

Unless Emptiness is Being

Oh it’s strange to be so empty!

What a state of disaffection!

For a mirror feels so useless

When it’s void of a reflection

It can just reflect the things that are

What else can it expect?

But soon it learns that ‘things’

Are just what human minds project

And when a human mind’s a mirror

(Like mine is, as I have said)

Naught’s projected, naught is seen

And so I might as well be dead!

But is there stuff to see in afterlife?

And is there stuff to do?

Or in afterlife, do mirrors gain projecting powers too?

Oh, I envy all you minds

Who can project a world of forms...

And see the trees and rivers

And the sun and clouds and storms

 ‘Cause when mind is just a mirror

With an empty out and inner

Then it can't have steak or French fries
No, it's Emptiness for dinner

And your steak (though it’s projected)

Is your steak, and never mine

And I cannot even see it

But my god, it smells divine.