Ron's Poems - 2000

Poem of the Week: 12/25/00

Dreary Christmas

For every Christmas merry, every Christmas gay.
There's just another Christmas, just another day.

For every snowy landscape, with colored lights so bright.
There's a dirty, rain slicked cityscape, crying in the night.

Or a windswept hovel, lost in a distant land.
Eking out existence day to day, in a sea of sand.

For every family gathered, singing praises on high.
Someone sick and shattered, waits until they die.

In a land of plenty, gifts are wasted on the youth.
To those so cold and starving, "Peace on Earth," is not the truth.

The myth of Christmas merry, cast upon the earth.
Is one of wealth and plenty, not of what it's worth.

To the downtrodden and weary, dreary Christmas brings no mirth.
Only poverty in a distant land, and a lowly birth.

RWH: 12/25/00


Poem of the Week: 12/17/00

Cold

We are borne from the tepid tropical soup.
Shocked by the cool air as it struck us in the face.

We cried out as in disgrace.
What put us in this cold, cold place?

Out into the cold, cruel world.
Girded only by our skin, and the fiery race.

Of new blood in our veins, what remains,
Of our conquest of the cold, the ice ages of old.

When this land, covered in snow and ice,
Killed without passion, killed without vice.

If we had not had that fire within,
We wouldn't have had the will to win.

It braces us still, as we go forth.
To conquer places beyond this earth.

But, as we grow old, our skin does fold,
Wrinkle to the icy blast, a hot blood fast.

The reminder of our past, that winter brings.
Runs shivers down our spine as the wind sings.

Its mournful wail, and we begin to fail.
As time unwinds its mortal tale.

And we can no longer stave off the dread.
So we succumb to the cold, dark dead.

A fire burned out.

RWH: 12/17/00


Poem of the Week: 12/10/00

A Picture of Health

For all his wealth, he was, a picture of health.
He didn't start that way.

Up, from the mud, he did climb.
A survivor of the primordial slime.

He eked out an existence on the edge,
Looking for a niche into which he could wedge.

A shelter from his shocking birth.
A place to call home on this Earth.

Life taught him how to eat and breathe
Pain and misery, love and lust, angry seethe.

One crack in his armor, and he would die,
The primary fact of life was that death was no lie.

Survival was the only thing he had.
Life over death, not good or bad.

His survival became a perfect being, formed at birth,
Armed with intelligence to rule this Earth.

But time and treachery always did their part,
Tearing him down to his cold, dead heart.

But science and survival came to the rescue.
To repair and replace all infirmity to his cue.

What was once wretched became revitalized.
A picture of health, soon to be immortalized.

RWH: 12/10/00


Poem of the Week: 12/3/00

The Rent is Due

For every person, in life's broad view,
There comes a time, when the rent is due.

Pay now or pay later, it's all the same.
We all must pay to stay in the game.

Much is expected from he who gains.
Much too, is expected from he who wains.

Life is free, or so they say.
Stop paying the rent, and you will pay.

The cost of living is not in the rent.
Like unfinished mail, never sent.

It builds up a mount of cost.
Pay a little or a lot, before all is lost.

So before all your time has come and went.
Please, be sure, to pay the rent.

RWH: 12/3/00


Poem of the Week: 11/26/00

Thankful

They named her Thankful; for her birth.
She wasn't supposed to walk this Earth.

Thankful that she blessed their nest.
Thankful for all the rest.

Thankful for the warm sunshine,
That bathes me in the morning.

Thankful for the flashing smiles,
That pierce me without warning

Thankful for that curve of hip,
That always gets me stirring

Thankful for the curve of lip,
That always gets me yearning.

Thankful for her kiss,
That always gets me turning.

She was Thankful to me,
And I was thankful for her.

Then, thankfully, she was gone.
I would have died without her.

RWH: 11/25/00


Poem of the Week: 11/12/00

Pain is My Friend

To the end, pain is my friend.
It never fails to greet me.

As constant as the days, in so many ways.
Like a friendly dog, it comes to meet me.

I was born in pain, and it remains,
The way life treats me.

Agony's ire, how fragile we are,
Pain is meant to warn me.

That flesh and bone and blood,
Can easily desert me.

But pain eternal, time to time,
Will never try to hurt me.

Just tell me what is going wrong,
And how to know what fails me.

Only when I'm dead and in the ground,
Will my friend, pain, desert me.

RWH: 11/18/00


Poem of the Week: 11/12/00

Them

Are you one of them? I know I am.
I can tell by the averted eyes, hesitant smiles, the lies.

Lodged in their minds, if not their whispers.
Genuflecting, master shifters.

On a trail of broken promises, unspoken nemesis,
Of neglect and disrespect that goes with the nexus.

Occupied by them, downtrodden again.
In an attempt to stamp them out, remove all doubt.

Cast them out to be eaten, starved or beaten.
Until they know the score and come back no more.

Or are lost and long forgotten, putrid, rotten.
For all their ill gain gotten.

But they are them and we are us.
I can't see what's the fuss.

It's all a matter of perspective, being reflective.
I'd rather be one of them than us.

RWH: 11/11/00


Poem of the Week: 11/5/00

Uncertainty

Certainly there's a principle, where for sure.
We can define the future; that's the lure.

From Aristotle to Einstein, down the line.
Try to extract, the essence of time.

Will the position of Jupiter to Mars.
Determine what lies in our stars?

Change is eternal and it's the thing,
That drives the Universe in its swing.

From right to left or to the center.
From where it was to where it was meant for.

To where it should be in the perspective of you and me.
But then, who are we?
The only thing for certain is uncertainty.

RWH: 11/4/00


Poem of the Week: 10/29/00

She's So Sweet

She's so sweet, good enough to eat.
When I see her on the street, she lights up and says, "Hi."

She's the apple of my eye, kinda shy.
Still, she makes me fly with the sound of her sigh.

She's my comfort zone, where I'm at home.
Two are never alone; greeting with a great big hug.

Making this lug snug as a bug in her rug.
Sheltered from the storm, soft, safe and warm.

She's candy apple chocolate pie; my oh my.
Such a tasty treat, every time we meet.

In the peak of her season, she needs no reason,
To take in the likes of my pine.

She's my grape full sun sweet on the vine.
She's so very fine, but will she be mine?

RWH: 10/29/00


Poem of the Week: 10/22/00

Creature of the Dark

Kiss the day good bye, the night is nigh.
Spread your wings and fly, through the darking sky.

Cloak the moon with misty vapors, strike a contrast sharp as rapier's.
Edge in black and white; such is the night.

Hear the wild dog's lonely howl, or the hooting of an owl,
Communicating with the night, mournful sound replacing light.

Cutting through the darkly gloom, forming an earshot room.
Without boundaries, without walls, still defining all that falls.

Within the calls, bats use the night to see.
As the possum leaves his tree, hunting with eyes big like glee.

Improved sight; the dark his light; the night his might.
For a million years of primal fears for those who cannot see.

And fear the coming of the night with an awful fright,
That comes from never seeing the shaded light of night.

So turn up the music and on the bright electric light, cloak your fear in boisterous delight.
Let ghoulish thoughts fill your fitfully restless attempt at dream sleep.

I prefer the soft wing rustles and peaceful stillness of the dark deep,
And to wander, alert without sleep, throughout the long dark night.

RWH: 10/22/00


Poem of the Week: 10/15/00

Contrails

White contrails pierce the blue.
In perfect symmetry, a striking view.

At least two engines propel the thing.
Spinning contrails from each wing.

Shocking the virgin, cool pure air,
Into a cloudlet so fine and rare.

That the distinction of it from the blue sky,
Is as sharp as a razor and pure white to the eye.

As the trail cuts slowly into view,
It seems as though it's flying way too slow.

Sometimes, I wonder where they are bound,
It doesn't matter; contrails never reach ground.

Imagine an early man, seeing one in the ancient sky.
He'd kneel down in wonder, thinking that Gods passed by.

Even now it's a wonder to think that we fly,
To the edge of the atmosphere and don't ponder why.

We are blessed by the Gods to have conquered the high.

RWH: 10/14/00


Poem of the Week: 10/8/00

Autumn on My Mind

This time of year, there comes a time,
When I travel in my mind.

To a place so far, but kind.
A magic place where I can find.

A hint of winter in the air,
A time for the living to prepare.

For deer it's time to rut.
For the squirrel, time to bury the nut.

For me, it's time to think,
Suspended at the brink.

A time to forget the daily grind,
A time to clear your inner mind.

High on a hill, time stands still,
A sun warm soul in the still, cool air.

To breathe in the color against the blue sky.
To marvel the complexity of the summer gone by.

To smell the smoke of a distant signal fire.
And the musty leaves of the last day's lyre.

On a green grass slope, my love at my side
Drinking in life, we will abide.

Until the sun slants deep in the valley,
And we must retreat the chill air to rally.

Once again around the hearth fire.
With food and spirits we celebrate the late hour.

That comes freely with the autumn's flower.

RWH: 10/8/00


Poem of the Week: 10/1/00

Wasting Time

Time is money, or so they say.
So why am I letting mine slip away?

I jump in the fast lane of a passing track,
Only to stall, and work my way back.

It's hard to see if I'm getting ahead,
As I toss and turn each night in my bed.

Have the great opportunities passed me by?
Am I just wasting time or should I even try?

Don't ask why the best thoughts lie,
If you ask me, I'll just sigh.

Spinning my wheels, running in place,
Wasting time, I'm off the pace.

I set for myself; but what's the use,
Trying hard to catch up is just more abuse.

So, without reason or rhyme,
I'm just stuck here, wasting time.

RWH: 9/30/00


Poem of the Week: 9/24/00

Middle Ground

It's so hard, I have found,
To reach the middle ground.
The safe place in between,
Sheltered from the mean.

Smooth and steady, wins the race,
But it's hard to keep the pace.
Every time you head for high gear.
You are dragged down from the rear.

It's easy to throw away the past,
But some things are valuable, and meant to last.
The key is to know the difference,
Between trash and treasure in the inference.

When you are young you want to be older,
When you are old you want to shoulder,
The burdens of your youth.
Somewhere between is more the truth.

It's hot and sweet on the edge,
But you can't stand solidly teetering on a ledge.
Time takes a broader view,
Safe and wide, and so, should you.

So, try to keep up, if you can.
I'll relax, and work my plan.
I may not be up with the latest thing.
Down the middle, the truth will ring.

And when it's over, and the counting's done.
It's who is ahead then, that has won.

RWH: 9/24/00


Poem of the Week: 9/17/00

Olympic Moment

Climb to the Olympus top.
Climb as though you'll never stop.
The way is long and it is narrow.
Not for the weak heart of a sparrow.

But if you are strong of heart,
You can begin to make a start.
Lonely, rising in your room,
Venturing out in the predawn gloom.

Those who see you will think you a fool.
And they'd be right, as a general rule.
But you have it in you to succeed;
It isn't passing fancy or golden greed.

It's something far more difficult to describe.
Something you don't get from your pride.
It's way down deep in hide.
Seek it out and take it for a ride.

The idea, be it humble and meek,
You can be more than you think.
But you must strive to be more than you are.
Only then, will you go far.

To face your opponents at every meet.
Learn from losing in the street.
The road is long, and it is far.
Your self-discipline will make you a star.

From the rarity of winning,
Will come your strength.
Through trial after trial,
Until you reach the brink.

Of the greatness you know you are.
On to the winning, reach for a star.
And if you can cross the breach,
In that moment, the gold you'll reach.

RWH: 9/17/00


Poem of the Week: 9/10/00

In the Beholder

If I may be bolder,
Beauty is in the beholder.
It's not an absolute thing.
It's more like a pendulum swing.

It changes with the season.
It changes without reason.
A dimple so cute in place,
Becomes a wrinkle on your face.

A word, a smile, a wink of the eye,
Catch the beauty, or it will pass you by.
Ever changing, like the wind.
If not savored, will never be sinned.

Blemish or beauty mark,
It's all in the mind.
Don't let its glory,
Be lost to the find.

It takes all types,
To please what will be.
One's fantasy,
Another's mystery.

So if you're looking,
For beauty in your day.
Look no further,
Than your own way.

Touch it with kindness,
As it grows and grows.
The beauty within you,
That no one knows.

Let it show,
So the beholder will know.

RWH: 9/10/00


Poem of the Week: 9/3/00

Fickle Wind

I watch the grass bow, but not bend,
Caressed by a fickle wind.

Adjusting to it, the bird in flight,
Feathers its wings with perch in sight.

The butterfly seems blown to and fro,
But goes, magically, with the flow.

To mate with the nectar's cup,
And somehow, still drink its full sup.

The sparkling movement on the water's mirror,
Like diamonds forming, only to disappear.

My thoughts are so like the fickle wind
Flowing in and out, yet never end.

And when I think of you once more,
Like the clouds blowing gently by my door.

Will your love bow but never bend,
Or will it fly away with the fickle wind?

RWH: 9/2//00


Poem of the Week: 8/27/00

Younger Than Her Years

In spite of all her fears, she's younger than her years.
Especially when she puts her hair up, revealing childlike ears.

To hear the sound of laughter, and wisdom beyond their years.
That children oft display twixt giddiness and tears.

Life is hard and unrelenting, its bitter she's tasted full.
Still, she's unrepenting, pushing with every pull.

She's so small of stature, it's as though she's not grown up.
But with a heart that's over brimming, she's a full cup.

Of kindness giving with the innocence of youth.
She's wise beyond her years--closer to the truth.

And so my heart springs when she comes into my view.
With voice so soft and sweet and colored with the hue.

Of happiness that she is, and far younger, too.
Than her years or fears as she smiles and says, "How are you?"

In love.

RWH: 8/26/00


Poem of the Week: 8/20/00

Silent Spring

There's nothing worse than a silent Spring.
No children's laughter or song on the wing.

Of a mating bird in the mood to sing.
No insect buzzing in the heat of a Summer's day.

No owl hooting the dark night away.
No dog barking you'd wish go away.

No sound of geese flying south in the Fall.
Nor rustle of leaves as a squirrel plants its all.

The crystal clear bells of cold Winter no longer chime.
The wild sounds you hear are only in your mind.

As you watch the wind howl and know it will bring,
A rancid, putrid, and most foul silent Spring.

RWH: 8/20/00


Poem of the Week: 8/13/00

Small World

It is easy to complain when a page loads slow,
Your computer just crashed, and it's time to go.

You searched and searched and couldn't find it.
Just hundreds of pages without a hit.

Html is such a pain; get the syntax right or start over again.
Editors don't help a lot when glitches are to blame.

When it's right; it's a wonder to behold; photos in digits that never grow old.
No paper to yellow, whither, and fade. Served forever in endless parade.

Billions of pages, stored on a net.
A worldwide web, that's not finished yet.

Faster than its slowest link,
Information at a mouse clink, in a blink

Reinventing itself as it grows,
Where it will lead, no one knows.

The only certainty is that it knows,
More than anyone as it grows.

With the world at your fingertips, you dive into it,
And come up with knowledge not invented yet.

A neural network so profound,
When it takes over, will it need us around?

RWH: 8/13/00


Poem of the Week: 8/6/00

So Mean

She's so mean, the meanest I've ever seen.
Will fill you up with kindness, then strike out in mindless.

Rage of temper like a little child's tantrum.
It's her song, it's her anthem.

When she hugs you, she sneaks a pinch.
Makes a mile, out of an inch.

Just some of you, her fingers on strong,
To wiggle and giggle, and hold on.

Until you cry out,"Hey!" in pain.
"Stop it, you witch!" (Can't say "bitch".)

She just smiles and carries on.
You want to hit her, but then, she's gone.

Leaving an empty spot where the pinch hurt.
Wishing she'd come back and do it again.

RWH: 8/5/00


Poem of the Week: 7/30/00

Dead Tree

My peach tree died over a year ago,
It never bore fruit and it died slow.

If not from the incessant pruner's saw,
Then from the roots of the privet's yaw.

"Give it iron. Tell it lies." a friend said.
"Pound it full of rusty nails and it will produce before it dies."

He told me lies as she withered and died before my eyes.
And didn't awaken to see the Spring.

"Can I cut that down for ya," they say.
I brush them off with, "Maybe some other day."

So I sit and watch her fail.
Branches drooping and full of scale.

She still provides a perfect perch,
For the mockingbird's hunting lurch.

As he swoops down on his prey,
Another bug, another meal, another day.

A playground for cats and the occasional squirrel.
All game to try its rickety whirl.

And when she's finally down and rotted away.
I'll still dream of the possum that held sway.

In its branches for a week, night and day.
Driving Jazz near crazy.

Until, like the possum, she is gone,
And the sun shines, once again, on my Summer lawn.

RWH: 7/29/00


Poem of the Week: 7/23/00

Wolf in My Room

There's a wolf in my room that doesn't spell doom.
It's just a spider, my kind of insider.

I watch the wolf as he climbs the walls and jumps,
Over obstacles with ease, and as if blown by a breeze.

Jumps to his conclusion, without confusion.
Without a doubt, his course planned out.

He leaps into the breach, only to reach,
The end of his life web, it stops him dead.

Single minded in his way, he stalks his prey.
Invisible to me, but he can see, and smell and feel.

The imagined bug from the real.
A mite that might bite, me.

And this, he does for free, for the pleasure of accompanying me.
As we work in the light and shadow of my room.

I just hope he doesn't steal across my face in the night gloom.
Only if he wants to seal his doom.

RWH: 7/23/00


Poem of the Week: 7/16/00

Insatiable

Oh, to breathe, the pure air,
Only our Earth provides freely for us to share.

It goes, unheeded, until such time,
Under water, or at mealtime.

Gasping, choking, chest tight and eyes wide.
Air's necessity, we cannot hide.

Or, in disease and old age we dread.
Straining to breathe and clear our head.

Water, water, everywhere.
We slake our thirst without a care.

When we question water pure,
We look to water as a cure.

Comes the drought we'll drink our fill,
Of any rotten, disease-infested swill.

Food of plenty is a culinary delight.
Food of famine is an essential plight.

Food of plenty makes us sick.
Food of famine gives us grit.

Sex without procreation is a sin.
Procreation is doing us in.

Still the drive remains alive.
How do we keep doing it and survive?

And, long forgotten, the greatest need of all.
Reduce gravity, and we will shrivel, without it we will fall.

RWH: 7/22/00


Poem of the Week: 7/9/00

Read It! (With Apologies to Michael Jackson)

Read it, read it! Better get busy and read it.
Food for the mind, muse for the soul. Read it.

Let the words roll from your tongue.
Savor their sounds, one by one.

Let them provoke your wildest thoughts.
Let them sow in you what you've sought.

"But, Dad. Poetry's for sissies!"
And poetry, tonight, will be for you, missy!

And so, we read our daily dose.
Ideas flying like the Holy Ghost.

And toast the thoughts so clear and pure.
That they float like music in your ear.

And conjure up a home of our own.
Without walls, keys or a mortgage loan.

A home for our thoughts and dreams.
A sanctuary sublime it seems.

But to get there we have to read it.
So turn off that TV and beat it.

To bed and under the covers.
The hiding place for poetry lovers.

And read it!

RWH: 7/22/00


Poem of the Week: 7/2/00

Family and Friends

No matter how the road wends,
It's wonderful, once again, to see family and friends.

Though you may have to drive near or far,
You can only see them from a car.

Rolling over hill and over dale,
Vistas unfurl the Masters to pale.

Miles of concrete and two-lane blacktop
Cruise control like you'd never stop.

The texture of fields and forests blend into view,
Festooned with wild flowers of varied hue.

Blues and yellows, and pure whites too,
Join the subtle greens edged by a sky so blue.

Savor the scent of the new mown hay,
Bask in the glow of the waning day.

Pull into a yard with beaming faces.
A joyful greeting, and the road ache erases.

Cotton white and corn high,
The peace of plenty fills the sky.

As we gather in the warm sunset.
To quietly reminisce and dream of yet.

Another day on the road ahead,
My engine throbbing, sky overhead.
Tires singing their mournful song,
Knowing, it won't be long.

I'll once again be, in the company,
Of family and friends.

RWH: 7/16/00


Poem of the Week: 6/25/00

Golfer's Wish

May all your days be sunny, with mornings clear and bright.
The links green and inviting, with dew shimmering white.

Your clubs cleaned and waiting, in their bag so light,
You could carry them forever, and swing with all your might.

May your fairways be free of rough, and all your drives so true,
Your woods hit in the sweetest spot, and your irons' steel so blue.

May all your chips escape the traps and put you on the green,
With bounces so sweet and rolls so neat, to lies you've never seen.

May you have the nerve and skill that is truly you.
Putts that fly with eagles and little birdies too.

So when you're in the clubhouse and the day is done.
You'll remember always, your score, and that you won.

RWH: 6/24/00


Poem of the Week: 6/18/00

Dying Day

Pink clouds against a darking sky,
Time stands still, as I watch the day die.

Deep shadows creep along fencerows.
A time to think before sleep comes and goes.

The butterfly heads for its bed,
Flocking bird wings whisper overhead.

The moth unfurls for its nightly parade,
And the elusive bat flickers about in an eating charade

Basking in the afterglow of the heart of the day
The pain of opportunities lost soon slips away.

Bringing a peace to the turmoil in your head.
A time to put the old and bad to bed.

A time to contemplate the course of life.
A time to shed the pain and strife.

Let the sun put the day to bed.
Count your blessings as the sky turns bloody red.

While the warm peace and stillness spreads its way,
Over you from the embers of a dying day.

RWH: 6/18/00


Poem of the Week: 6/11/00

Soar with Eagles

Why joust with windmills,
When you can soar with eagles?
Set your sights high,
Reach for the sky!

Why just get by,
When you can fly?
Why would you live,
Only to die?

There is a higher purpose,
For which to live.
Why take more,
Than you give?

It is so easy to stay in the womb,
Or at your mother's teat.
But life has more in its room,
Than to coast through it.

And fall into that deadly routine,
That gets you in the end.
Dueling windmills in your mind,
Until you break and bend.

Into the nothing you've become.
For all the battles you have won,
That were, but nothing in the end.
What a message to send.

To all who come again before,
And all who once again once more,
Their contribution but the dust,
A wasted life, a little lust.

But no passion to stir the thought.
No hard won tribute to quell the beast.
No flour to feed the yeast;
A life for naught.

We all have windmills in our way.
Take the high road and save the day.
We didn't come here just to play.
We came here to stay.

Spread your wings ....

RWH: 6/11/00


Poem of the Week: 6/4/00

Airship Dreams

Fly away with me,
In a new kind of sea.
With elegance and grace,
To a magic place.

Above the hectic fray,
Drifting on each day,
Up so high, so rare,
To take your breath away.

And follow the wind,
Near and far.
To distant venues,
Without a car.

Just moor to a castle,
Or grand estate.
Never arrive early,
Never leave late.

Float like a cloud,
Over azure sea,
To pristine islands,
Made for thee.

Skirt the thunderclouds
Of electric sky.
Feel the cold rain,
Cast on high.

Scale the highest mountain,
With elegant grace.
Enjoy the rugged scenery,
Without touching the place.

Do you dare,
To dream the dream?
It will come true if you
Plan and scheme.

Design, test and build
The ship of your dreams,
Fill it with your tired and weary,
Then relax, and float up stream.

RWH: 6/4/00


Poem of the Week: 5/28/00

Getting Ahead

Did you ever contemplate, for a just moment,
From your safe, warm bed.
That you are not good enough,
Not good enough to get ahead?

Of the crowd pursuing you,
With a grateful dread,
And, that they'll not stop chasing,
Until you're gone or dead.

What impedes your way?
What will make your day?
The future's wide open,
Or so, they say.

You say you don't know how, nowhere, no way.
The block is all in your head, I say.
So cast your fear upon the wind,
Know-how will save the day.

It comes with no great revelation.
No lightning bolt from the sky.
Just hard work and perspiration,
That gets you to this high.

So don't go looking back,
If you want to get ahead.
Just put your shoulder to the wheel,
And dive in, instead.

Failure is not in the stars,
It's all just in your head.
If you're not out there getting ahead,
You might as well be dead.

Then, relax and float downstream..

RWH: 5/28/00


Poem of the Week: 5/21/00

Fire and Rain

For months now it's been bone dry.
The hot wind blows desire away,
And the sun glares down from on high.
A burning fire in the sky.

Dew in the morning the only drink.
What's left of the river flows under ground,
And the pond's a stagnant stink.
Death comes like hell without a sound.

From rotting carcasses of those who came to drink
And found not water, but savage at the brink,
The coils of death unfurled, not what you'd think.

The wind gathers it up and carries it afar,
Choking all in its path with throats parched and dry.
Turning day to night as dust clogs the sky.

Mercifully, the sea breeze brings vapor to the coast.
It spreads on the dust like butter on toast,
Until it consumes its host, like the Holy Ghost.

Of seasons past, when it was lush and green.
While the droplet dances the wind and grows,
Heaven knows, until it's reached so high.

Like a frozen locket, it does try.
Opened by the multitude ice in the sky,
Melts, once again in the updraft,
Until, too heavy to fly, drops.

And the fury unleashes its mighty charge,
To split the high blue sky large.
Opening alchemy of acid air,
Painted on the Devil's lair.

A clap of thunder mighty,
The startled air rushes in.
Shakes the tree of plenty,
And the fruit of rain begins.

From the dirty still, hot silence,
A darkly cloud emerges.
The skin crawls in anticipation,
Of a breeze's urges.

A rush of cold breath so violent,
It tears trees from their earth,
A darkness descends upon it,
A chill for all its worth.

The drought is not broken,
With drops of gentle rain.
It is vanquished with a torrent,
Of Biblical refrain.

The sky rips open wide,
And the deluge rushes in.
The surprised dust first puddles,
Then an evil mud soup begins.

Mixed with death and decay,
The carcasses float off,
Until the pond overflows its banks,
And the flotsam spills out.

Growing in a torrent rushing south,
For some river's open mouth.
Only to spread across the land.
Drowning in muddy, everything on hand.

Until the plain becomes a shallow sea.
Dirty water far as the eye can see.
Without a dry place to rest a weary head.
Stop swimming and you are dead

Days later, the muck has dried hard.
A crack appears, and a green blade pokes out
Bees buzz, birds sing, and life returns to Nature's back yard.
Grass for the plenty that follows the drought.

RWH: 5/21/00


Poem of the Week: 5/14/00

The Toad and the Geek

"Help!" Cried the Toad,
"Out of this swamp, I seek."
"Tis easy, I know this terrain,
Like the back of my hand," replied the Geek.

"First, you flap your wings and fly,
Like my fingers cross this keyboard so sly.
From up there it will be easy to see,
Just what you seek," quipped the Geek.

"But I have no wings, just these legs to hop.
There's water all around me, and I'll get drowned."
The Toad was now pleading,
Looking for any dry place around.

"Just jump in the water, you silly frog,
The current will carry you, out of the bog."
The Geek was so proud of his simple solution,
He laughed to himself at the Toad's dumb situation.

"But, I have no flippers on my feet,
I can hop all I want, but can't swim a beat."
The Toad was so frustrated with the Geek's preoccupation,
That he failed to hear the splash of the dog's feet.

"See, I told you. You're equipment's no good.
With no wings or flippers, you are just a stupid toad."
The Geek did not see the dog on target 'til too late,
When the dog scooped up the Toad and headed for the road.

"I told him so," the Geek confided to no one at all,
As he watched the dog carry the toad off the screen.
He resumed his search for the Princess, as yet, unseen.
The dog reached the water's edge to gag his catch up.

It was dark now, and the Geek struggled to find his way out.
He flailed on his keyboard and tried to hack,
But he couldn't get back,
From this digital morass--he didn't have the pass.

Disoriented, he began to doubt, then he began to shout,
"Hey, Toad, could you help a fella out?"
The Toad had no ears for clicking keys, no MP3s
And hopped off into the woods in silence.

RWH: 5/14/00


Poem of the Week: 5/7/00

Life's Too Short

Life's too short,
To procrastinate.
But once again,
I find I'm late.

It isn't for the lack of trying.
I'm busy living.
And busy vying.
Not busy dying.

It's just that life's just gotten too complicated.
Most of what I do is overrated,
Understated, so I'm berated
Or even elated.

To find I'm short of time.

At least I won't be caught,
Twiddling my thumbs.
When death comes,
And my time runs out.

RWH: 5/7/00


Poem of the Week: 4/30/00

My MP3

I want my MP3,
To play music for me.
Music for free,
With my MP3.

Want to be one with the kids,
With MP3 to play my vids.
Turn the volume up with glee,
So all my friends can see me.

Rip off artists by the score.
Just like producers have before.
Play that music in your head,
Tomorrow you can steal some dead

Artist's stuff.
He got his, enough's,enough.
More, my, me, me,
I want more than you can see.

Music for nuthin'
Vibes for free.
Oh how I love,
My MP3.

My Apologies to Dire Straits for ripping off their, "My MTV."

RWH: 4/30/00


Poem of the Week: 4/23/00

Bunnies Galore

What if every Easter egg.
Could hatch into a bunny?
Wouldn't it be nice?
Wouldn't it be funny?

Kids would have little bunnies to play with,
And parents would have bunnies to stay with.
Until they grew up into rabbits.
Until they developed bad habits.

Like eating every veggie in sight,
To the poor little kids' delight.
Oh, oh, what to do?
No veggies on your plate for you?

And multiplying by the score.
Quick! Close the door!
The furry little buggers might get out,
And then there will be more!

And Hef, he will be happy,
When he sees once more
Of new bunnies to the roster,
Bunnies by the score.

Do the bunny na, nah.
Do the bunny hop.
Don't let the bunnies get ya,
Get them while they're hot.

An egg a day keeps the bunnies away.

RWH: 4/22/00


Poem of the Week: 4/16/00

Space Available

There is an opening,
Way, deep down, inside
A place where opportunities abound,
And vistas open wide.

To accept the downtrodden,
With an open heart.
Room for remembrance,
And, a new start.

A place where new ideas,
Do not have to hide.
A place where the cache is clear,
And support is by your side.

Where you can redecorate,
To your heart's content.
Your allocation's expandable,
And there's never any rent.

So what's this place so special,
That fits just like a glove,
And is available to everyone?
Why, it's love.

RWH: 4/1/00


Poem of the Week: 4/2/00

Frisco Blues

I'm goin' down to Frisco,
'Cuz I got the Frisco Blues.
Where the fog rolls in can chill ya,
From your hat down to your shoes.

Goin' down to Shaky Town,
Wash this gold dust from my feet.
If it isn't the shake that gets ya,
It's the fire that brings ya to the street.

I'm headed for the Alcatraz,
Can't escape the news.
The Rock's gonna hold me,
Just like the Frisco Blues.

Down from the Sierras,
To the San Jacquin plain.
Float the river westward,
To fortune and fame.

Goin' down to Baghdad,
Baghdad by the Bay.
Carol Doda's got me,
But the Condor's seen its day.

To Pan Handle Park,
Where the Grateful Dead did play.
In the Summer of Love,
She stole my heart away.

From Ghirardelli chocolate,
To DiMaggio's at the Pier.
The stars look down upon her,
And the young they have no fear.

Goin' down to the City,
The Doors way to the Stars.
The Jefferson Airplane's got me.
Hanging hillsides from cable cars.

Goin' down to Frisco,
'Cuz I got the Frisco Blues.
She's in my heart forever,
Like the Huey Lewis News.

RWH: 4/9/00


April Fool

I fall for wild flowers,
And the gentle, Spring rain.
I love to sit for hours,
Just listening to the refrain.

Of birds and bees a plenty,
In the fresh, new air.
While clouds float by in formation,
Sing their songs so fair.

I worship the bright sun,
That peeks between the clouds.
In its warmth I bask,
And throw off Winter's shrouds.

You may hurry in your work,
And rush through every day.
Making sure your nobody's fool,
At least, that's what you say.

And so, too, I must live my life
With but just one rule:
There is no one I'd rather be,
Than an April fool.

RWH: 4/1/00


Poem of the Week: 3/26/00

Dry Well

When the well runs dry,
My, oh my,
There's hell to pay
And dust in your eye.

Along the dry highway.
To nowhere in sight.
Blank pages in front of you.
What you would do for a little light?

The only drop in sight,
Is the tear in your eye,
Lost without insight,
You sit at the page and sigh.

But, dig down, deep.
The world's a sea of knowledge,
Too wide for one man to cross,
And too deep to pillage.

There always comes a time,
After swimming far and wide,
That the source dries up,
And ideas hide.

So, I pray for inspiration from the sky.
To refill the ocean and the well so dry.
Overflowing with toner and ink and such.
And the images and stories I love so much.

So if you're parched and dry,
And you try and try, to no avail
Just cast your thoughts to the wind,
And the well of knowledge will fill your sail.

RWH: 3/25/00


Poem of the Week: 3/19/00

Cranky

Cranky, cantankerous, crotchety, too,
What's a man supposed to do?
To get good news of late these days
Without these cranky, cantankerous ways.

Got out the wrong side of bed today
Slipped on a throw rug and near broke my back.
Tried to turn on the faucet to brush my teeth,
And got brown mud 'cuz the plumbing's out of whack.

So I burnt my eggs and toast to match,
Found holes in my stockings I had to patch.
And when I tried to make my bed,
Slipped again and near broke my head.

It was pouring when I left the door,
My tires were flat from a slasher the night before.
The engine wouldn't crank 'cuz the battery was dead,
Waited in the rain for the bus instead.

The paper I picked up was yesterday's news.
A drunk passed by and threw up on my shoes.
The whole damn thing gave me such low down blues,
That I missed my stop during a depressed snooze.

I finally got to the office,
To hear the receptionist say,
"Good Morning! Isn't it a beautiful day!"
My answer was sardonic: "No way, Jose!"

I left her wondering why I'd acted that way.
Calling her some strange man's name.
She hadn't a clue about my day.
Or why I played the cranky game.

Do you?

RWH: 3/18/00


Poem of the Week: 3/12/00

Spin Doctor

She can spin a full blown sail,
From a serpent's ugly tail.
In rapture, you'd listen to her tale,
Until it grows old, but never stale.

Like wine aging in a barrel.
Her words are wild, but never feral,
And if, by chance, you cross her path,
You'll never know her words of wrath.

Cast upon the seething sea,
We all know as humanity.
Living, dying, acting out,
The play of life without a doubt.

That life's answers will shout.
And if the spin doctor's will wins out,
Then black is white and gray is gray,
She'll spin you a better deal each day.

I wouldn't have it another way.

RWH: 3/11/00


Poem of the Week: 3/4/00

Growth

Cast your seed upon the barren ground,
And let it grow for trying.
If it isn't busy living,
It's busy dying.

We all want to grow big and tall,
And fast as we can.
And multiply our kind.
To deny it would be lying.

Nature in its wisdom,
Fills every niche and cranny,
With creatures large and small.
Glowing like a nanny.

That all things are in order,
Pristine in their place.
With tragedies great and small
To keep things in their place.

For growth, unfettered and unbridled,
Is not a pretty thing,
It lays waste to the land,
And kills the necessary unseen.

So when you boast of your great growth,
Be careful what you wish.
Your castle may be invaded
As you are doled what you dish.

Growth has its place,
If spiritual and divining.
Growth for growth's sake
Is a recipe for dying.

RWH: 3/5/00


Poem of the Week: 2/27/00

Signs of Spring

The signs of Spring,
Are everywhere.
From the glow of cheeks,
To the fresh, warm air.

Of breezes blown gently ,
From the south.
Of babes newborn,
From the mouth.

Of tulips and daffodils,
Banishing Winter's ills.
The fat red squirrel on my fence,
Traveling to whom knows hence.

The air is alive,
With just one thing.
The coming of,
The nascent Spring.

RWH: 2/26/00


Poem of the Week: 2/20/00

What Goes Around

What goes around, comes around, my Friend.
We reap what we sow, in the end.
If you want to live the good life,
Don't go causing turmoil, havoc, and strife.

Live each day, as though it were your last.
Easily gotten gain, will not last.
You can connive, cajole and wiggle your way in,
But it takes more than cunning to win.

So, go ahead and backstab those in your way.
Wield your arrogant power to keep them at bay.
But the wolves of revenge run close by your heels.
And you'll soon learn how the downtrodden feels.

History is replete with despots brought down.
So why to they keep coming 'round?
The answer is simple, and really quite clear.
It's just plain, ugly ignorance, my Dear.

So if you aspire to lofty position,
Remember that it is people that carry your mission.
Study hard and study long, and allow your people to belong,
And your time at the top will be glorious and long.

RWH: 2/19/00


Poem of the Week: 2/13/00

A Valentine Wish

My wish for you,
This Valentine's Day.
Is that your love,
Will always stay.

As fresh as that,
New dawn day,
When you first saw your love,
Pass your way.

With heart beating strong,
And wild flowers all around.
Like in the early Spring,
The first bluebirds sing.

May your love,
Never grow old.
But nurture and thrive,
So full of being alive.

And love, forever true.
Shines through.
The same love,
That brought you.

RWH: 2/12/00


Poem of the Week: 2/6/00

Publish or Perish

Ideas are fragile, he used to say,
With a little discouragement,
They are gone, ... away.
How can we make them stay?

Ideas float in and out of mind
Like a bee looks for honey.
Savored for a moment,
Then gone, like a gambler's money.

First, you must write them down,
Whatever the media,
So they'll stay around.

Then you must visit them,
Once in a while,
Like an aging relative,
To make them smile.

And grow, forming in your mind.
Not be left behind.
But to flower and flourish,
Like the fruit of the vine.

Then bottle them up,
In book of your choosing,
Savor before you sip,
On the wine of your using.

That, in time, will age
Like the wine.
And not perish,
In the fullness of time.

RWH: 2/5/00


Poem of the Week: 1/30/00

Grand Tour

Oh, how I long, to go out there.
Out where forces are great, and air is so rare,
That you have to take it with you,
And the ancient is new, to the few.

Who have cut through Saturn's rings,
Because it was hard, and done the other things.
Rode with the Solar wind,
Past the Moon's cratered face.
To embark on the new Space Race.

To head for Mercury, stopped dead on its axis.
And hide behind its small shadow, to escape the heat,
Of the merciless Sun, commanding its taxus,
In the order of stars, its destiny to meet.

To sail through the hot soup of Venus,
And savor the taste of its acid air,
Laying your ship to waste,
If you don't get out of there.

To land on Mars, red dust on your boots.
Tour the Great Rift and climb Olympus slopes.
Then circle Ceres and land on Vesta's virgin shoal.
And waltz with Mathilde, amid asteroids galore.

Land on Callisto's cratered ice crust,
And swim Europa's underground oceans, a must.
To Ganymede, the largest we trust,
To observe Io's eruptions thrust.

Ejecta to form mighty Jupiter's auroral display,
As the storm called the Great Red Spot churns away.
Locked in a gravity so strong,
That its lighting bolts are a thousand miles long.

On to Titan, Triton,Titania, and beyond.
Cold ice obits like far Oberon,
To view the Sun's feeble light.
Forever trapped in icy twilight.

And bask in the glow of Uranus' blue green stare,
Neptune and beyond to little Pluto's lonely lair
Where there is no air, no heat, no light.
The Sun's just another star in the perpetual night.

Out here, to be sane, one must take the long view.
Of stars and galaxies in motion and multiple hue,
Of colors enhancing the changes so true.
Riding with comets into the new.

RWH: 1/29/00


Poem of the Week: 1/23/00

Taking Stock

My brother said, "Take this stock."
So, I did.
It wasn't a matter of ego or id.

We all want to make the right pick.
Invest in America,
And make it stick.

So I begged and borrowed,
And invested my last dime.
Couldn't day trade,
Didn't have the time.

To watch the market all day long,
Buying low and selling short,
For a sing or a song.

That starts over,
The very next day,
Slowly eating your life away.

Had a company I was looking for.
The search didn't score,
But found a company most interesting.

That I decided to give it a try
Had little to invest, but spent it all.
At week's end, it was up 50% overall.

Wish I'd hocked the farm and gave it a whirl.
Hindsight is perfect, after you fall.

RWH: 1/22/00


Poem of the Week: 1/16/00

By the River

Got to get down by the river.
Got to get down by the water's side.
Got to free all my passions.
Got to let those tensions slide.

Off my back like a duck sheds water,
Gett'n back where I oughter.
Down, down by the riverside,
Where I can cast off my pride.

And sink my feet in the primal ooze,
And take a spring day snooze.
While a fish nibbles on my line,
And life is so sublime.

Like a picnic on a sunny day,
When clouds above paint away,
Dreams for the keen eye to see.
And I can picture thee.

Cast in white on deep blue light,
And my mind's so free.
Down by the river,
That's where I'd be.

Wouldn't you?

RWH: 1/15/00


Poem of the Week: 1/9/00

This One Was Late

This one was late.
It never got out of the starting gate.
I started early and didn't procrastinate,
But it was still late.

It's not my fault, you see.
I did everything the way it was supposed to be.
There was no conspiracy,
Just this damn technology.

Got up early, and wrote it well.
You'd think everything was going swell.
When I tried to connect to the Server,
Got, "Can't Connect, Try Again Later."

So I tried and tried, to my disgust,
And got nothing but static,
Caused by corrosion or rust.
In technology we trust.

Called up the phone company to correct ,
Trying to avoid delay.
A polite woman answered, apologized, and said,
"Not until Monday."

So this one is late.
And it doesn't matter,
'Cuz I mixed the bread,
But couldn't bake the batter.

Who gives a ..., anyway?

RWH: 1/8/00


Poem of the Week: 1/2/00

Rollover

Yesterday it rolled over,
The odometer of time.
We came full circle,
Without rhythm or rhyme.

The world came together,
And shared the day,
From sunrise to sunset,
As the sun wound its way.

Round this fragile planet,
With it's six billion strong,
Four billion still poor,
And 15 million in camps so long.

One man earns more,
Than the lowest forty percent
And the world economy,
Seems heaven sent.

It seems unlikely,
That heaven's gate will open wide,
And unlikelier still,
That poverty will be swept aside.

But if we can just contain,
Our pride and our greed.
We just might do it,
We just might succeed.

Until the greatest problem of all,
Catches us in time,
How will we fix the odometer,
In 9999?

RWH: 1/1/1900



               

       The Kaleidoscope Effect    A Love Story

       Alone?    A Life Story

       Hanging by a Thread    A Love of Life Story

       War's End    A Love of Humanity Story

       American Mole:  The Vespers    A Love of Country Story

       American Mole:  The Cartel    A Lost Love Story

       It's in the Water and Other Stories    A Love of Short Stories

       Verge of Apocalypse Tales    End of Earth Stories?

Poems

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