Ron's Poems - 2002

Poem of the Week: 12/29/02

Where Does Time Go?

Did I just see Father Time fly by?
On this freeway called life.
Or was it just a fleck of dusty inner eye,
In my stressed-out strife.

Used to think I could do it all,
Things were simpler then.
Spent my time in travel,
From who knows where to when.

Climbed the ladder of success,
Won some and lost a few.
Gathered obligation on the way,
Trying to make old into new.

Tried to right the wrongs,
I found along the way.
Couldn't fix them all,
Waiting on another day.

Now the year is waning,
Another's 'round the bend.
I didn't see it coming,
I didn't see it end.

No sense in hurrying,
It'll all get done.
Watching from our vantage point.
Riding 'round the sun.

When we are immortal,
We'll ride with wisdom found.
And travel when and where we want.
'Til the universe winds down.

RWH: 12/28/02


Poem of the Week: 12/22/02

Hairy Xmas (Warning: Irreverent Parody)

Chester's nuts roasting on an open fire,
Jack's frost ripping off your nose.

Your tied legs being hung by a wire,
And yolks trussed up like wrestling pros.

Every bastard knows, ...

Homemade hash and ecstasy,
Help to make the seasoning bite.

Tiny snots with their eyes all aflow,
Cannot sleep from fear tonight.

They know that Satan's on his way.
Bringing lots of tools of torture on his lai.

And every mother's wild is going to pry.
To see if pain dear can wheelie fry.

And so I'm pilfering this simpleton's phrase,
From kids to you and me.

Although it's been said many times many ways ...

Have yourself a hairy little Xmas.
To your farts delight.

Have yourself a hairy little Xmas ... Pow!
And good night.

Same to you, ... Buddy!

RWH: 12/22/02


Poem of the Week: 12/15/02

Peak of Perfection

She is the peak of perfection,
The cream of the crop.
The culmination of natural selection.
That brought her to the top.

Countless generations made her,
A beauty to behold.
Honed are her charms lair,
A story never old.

Her hair falls with abandon,
Upon her skin so soft
The curve of her abdomen
Pulls you to its loft.

The softness in her voice,
The gleam in her eye.
Tells you that she's the one,
For which you should vie.

She waits in radiant beauty,
She does not run.
You approach her with a fever,
She has you undone.

Drawn to procreate, to breed.
To insure the line goes on.
She chooses carefully, her steed.
Countless generations strong.

And life goes on.

RWH: 12/15/02


Poem of the Week: 12/8/02

See What I Say

Do you see what I'm sayin'.
Are you goin' my wayin'.

Do you visualize what's in my head.
Do you see it my way instead?

Is it really what I'm see'n,
Or a virtual reality of being?

To be or not to be-don't you see?
Do you see what I'm sayin'?

No way-waayyy no way.
Who am I kidding.

No way you're gonna see what I'm sayin'.

Unless you look through my eyes
And get right inside my head.

What a dread-to see another's thoughts.
Rather go it alone--my way--instead.

RWH: 12/5/02


Poem of the Week: 12/1/02

Her Morning

The morning light strikes my window.
Breaking through like an after rain bow.
And fills the room.

Pries my eyelids open,
Intrudes on my dream unspoken.
And casts away its gloom.

She is up as usual.
With her cheery perusal.
Sweeping out with broom.

The cobwebs of a nighttime.
Spent in dreams without rhyme.
Music without tune.

Singing softly while she works.
Working out the kinks and quirks.
Of sleep ended way too soon.

Showering me with kisses.
All hits and no misses.
She pulls me to my seat.

Dresses me with passion.
All the rage and fashion.
That brings me to my feet.

Drops me in my chair with love.
A gentle tuck, a gentle shove.
Makes me feel so neat.

Makes me breakfast with a song.
Fills me up for all day long.
Black coffee oh so sweet.

Combs my hair, washes my face,
Hot shave back to human race.
Her fingers are a special treat.

Accompanying me to the door.
Blows me kisses as before.
Ending her no small feat.

I crank it up and drive away.
While she begins her other day.
Until, once again in evening, we meet.

RWH: 11/28/02


Poem of the Week: 11/24/02

Al Kida

Al Kida was a friend so near.
We'd get together, drink the beer.

We liked to go to the flats and shoot.
Our AK-47s--what a hoot!

Or sit by the campfire and philosophize,
About those good old days gone byes.

When men were men, and women knew their place.
We could rape all we want and hide their face.

When men were men, and knew how to fight.
Sneak up behind 'em in the night.

We used to play cool computer games.
Like hack the bigwig corporate nonames.

Take their money offshore we'd run,
Me 'n old Al, we sure had fun.

Fishing with dynamite was such a blast.
Give those bastards a message that will last.

Last I heard, old Al was on the run,
Left his wife and kids with that thing he done.

Heard that he went underground,
But then, rumors abound.

If you see Al, give him a high five.
Tell him he's lucky to be alive.

Be sure to give him that finger sign.
Al Kida was a friend of mine.

RWH: 11/24/02


Poem of the Week: 11/17/02

Tinkle

I love to tinkle,
Into porcelain pond.
Tinkling, I am fond.

I love to tinkle,
In tall field grass.
Split stream so crass.

I love to tinkle,
In bucket round.
Dull plastic sound.

I love to tinkle,
Building corner hide.
Better than inside.

I love to tinkle,
On a tree so wide.
Behind it I can hide.

I love to tinkle,
On a long lawn green.
Distance my dream.

I love to tinkle,
On snow so white.
Yellow pee holes in it.
Oh, what a sight.

I hate to tinkle,
On an electric fence.
Anyone that does it,
Have no sense.

So now I tinkle
In a plastic tube.
There's the rube.

No sound.
That's profound.

RWH: 11/17/02


Poem of the Week: 11/10/02

A Great Notion

Sometimes a great notion,
Overflows me like an ocean.
Puts my mind in motion,
Toward which I steer.

Soon that first small token,
Grows though unspoken,
Until the spell is broken,
And the goal draws near.

And then the rules are changed,
My comfort gets rearranged,
I am on my own, estranged.
And meet my greatest fear.

The great wheel of emotion,
Spins my mind like potion.
Until that once great notion,
I once held so dear.

Is dashed upon the rocks of reason,
Trammeled by the tracks of treason,
Puddled into pretty poison,
While I stand by so clear.

To pick up the pieces shattered,
Of all that ever mattered,
And piece together tattered.
The notion of the year.

RWH: 11/9/02


Poem of the Week: 11/3/02

Head Cold

Here I sit in static motion,
Floating on a numb notion.

That words flying in and out my head,
Can be grasped; can be read.

Eyes wide open, watery, red.
Hot, behind them, mushy bread.

Sinus pressure to my brain,
Drives me to thoughts insane.

Drives me to perpetual motion,
Crickets singing like an ocean.

Soaring in my inner ear,
Ancient siren held so dear.

Pulling me to that far-off place,
My thoughts lost in outer space.

Will I pull them all together?
Or let them litter tissue's blotter?

Like the sinus drains my head,
Will the words escape my bed,

To this poem,
To be read?

RWH: 11/3/02


Poem of the Week: 10/27/02

Horror's Horror

It began in the distant, superstitious past.
When things decayed and wouldn't last.

The musty smells of autumn signaled the day,
When the fertility of summer would go away.

When long nights of cold, hunger and death,
Would replace the plenty of summer's path.

Spirits were many and filled the earth.
Appeasing them brought happiness and mirth.

Ignoring them brought death and pain.
Fear of the great unknown did reign.

Religion tried to control our fear,
Ritual and order would keep us dear.

Science unraveled the darkest myth,
Rendering them harmless, lacking pith.

But old customs grow and evolve.
With science our superstitions to resolve.

With it too, our fantasies to grow,
Our old fear of death into a macabre show.

While spirits once meant fertility and life.
They are now all blood and gore with an editor's knife.

With so many undead to kill in so little time.
We've lost the value of shock to unwind.

When death has no value we will succumb,
To the evil within us-let it come!

RWH: 8/24/02


Poem of the Week: 10/20/02

Ambush

A fly lands on a hot green leaf
A frog lies still in slime beneath.
Quicker than the flick of eye,
The frog's tongue flicks the fly.

A cat poses still in bass relief,
By the fence, like a thief.
A mouse peeks though as though unseen,
And meets a kill so quick and clean.

White on white from the sky,
A snowshoe's run is seen on high.
A snowy owl swoops the hill,
Only its moon shadow to mark the kill.

A leopard hunts from dark of night,
Unseen, it sneaks up on a gazelle in fright.
The gazelle's nose signals flight,
But with broken neck loses light.

The sniper hides by cover of trees.
Picks his target with skill and ease.
Picks off his target without a sound,
Picks off a life with one round.

So it's been through all time,
Ambush is not fair; it is not kind.
It waits in hiding, until, coming by,
It takes a life on the fly.

RWH: 10/20/02


Poem of the Week: 10/13/02

Success

Success doesn't come easy,
It doesn't come blind.

For those not blessed with luck or beauty,
It doesn't come kind.

Success comes with hard work,
Being true to the course.

And excellence is expected,
Not pity or remorse.

You will not succeed,
By just showing up.

You will only succeed,
By filling the cup.

Fill it to overflowing,
With the cream of the crop.

And you will succeed,
For cream rises to the top.

RWH: 10/13/02


Poem of the Week: 10/6/02

Blue Jay Down

Where has my blue jay gone?
He used to own my fence and lawn.

Filled with raucous chatter,
He'd crack seeds, making cats madder.

He'd drive the mocking bird from its nest,
And color the green with his deep blue crest.

From out of Africa, it did come.
A silent killer on the run.

A New York immigrant, it did ride,
Through Customs on some animal's hide.

Hitched a ride on a mosquito bite,
And then a bird to take flight.

Go west, young virus; go west and wander,
Like so many before, pillage and plunder.

Take down bird and beast in your path.
Like the pestilence of pharaoh's wrath.

Could it be some violated mummy,
Gave birth to West Nile from its tummy?

My neck is stiff and my head is splitting.
By writing this it would be fitting.

That I have caught the mummy's curse,
To lie with the blue jay for better or worse.

RWH: 10/6/02


Poem of the Week: 9/29/02

Email me

Email me
He male he
She male she
Schlemiel me
C U C me
I C U,
U C me?
Many fishes in the sea.
Selfless she
Selfish me
Shellfish me
Seafood
Eat it
Eat you
Eat me
Anyway,
Email me!

RWH: 9/28/02


Submitted by Tim Hull: 9/27/02

DRIFTING

Like searching white billowing puffs in the sky,
for some familiar outline of shapes or faces,
as they carelessly float on by,
I find my thoughts drifting to you evermore.

The wind caresses my face like your soft fingertips,
as they brush against my cheek, taking my breath away.
Your warm, sensual, lingering kiss upon my lips
carries me into a state of pure emotional bliss.

I want to cry from the mountaintop, "I am alive!"
with excited breathlessness heaving from my chest.
I am forever grateful, with you by my side,
for the meaningful purpose you bring.

I find my thoughts drifting to you evermore...

Marla Verhulst
September 2002


Poem of the Week: 9/22/02

Carpets of Gold

Ages old, these carpets of gold.
Cover the valley floor.

Soften the scene,
The stream's careen,
Gently, as before.

A trillion times over,
The trees did inflame,
Released their load,
Like gentle rain.

To a restless bed,
A fountain head, under the trees,
Blown about by fickle breeze.

We lie as before on this soft, warm cushion.
Making love to the water's percussion.

As the warm sun brings a sweat of skin,
And we lie languid amid the din.

Of bees buzzing in the late afternoon.
Hurry, ...Winter will come soon.

RWH: 9/21/02


Poem of the Week: 9/15/02

Red, White, and Blue

Oh, to be read,
To be lily pure white,
And true blue.

That is my wish,
Isn't it you?

Red blood courses my veins,
White pale skin without its hue.
Not a dark, blueblood, blue.

If I were an aristocrat,
Wouldn't know what to do.
Would you?

Red complements white,
White complements blue.
Blue on red clashes.
What am I to do?

Red sun on the horizon,
White clouds, too.
Set into an azure blue sea,
Wouldn't you?

Red is my embarrassment,
White is my foggy view.
Blue is my sorrow,
When I lose you.

Primary colors fire my life,
Not a tricolor, one nation,
Point of view.

You thought something different,
Didn't you?

RWH: 9/14/02


Poem of the Week: 9/8/02

Tropical Storm

There's a storm brewing,
Out to sea.
She's growing fast,
Unpredictably.

Sucking in,
All the heat she can find.
Getting ready,
To unwind.

Unleash on us,
Her mighty bands.
Stronger than,
The strongest hands.

As she shapes,
The beach swept sands.
So she shapes,
Our lives and lands.

She goes for the low,
Avoids the high.
Can't tell her mood,
By the sky.

Sometimes she's ferocious,
Lashing fear with dread.
Sometimes she's gentle,
Spreading sweet rain instead.

Born on the heat,
Of a tropical wave.
She waits to strike,
Or your soul to save.

Can't live with her,
And can't live without.
It's what tropical living's
All about.

So grab a cool drink,
Put your feet up high.
And hope you're still here,
When she's gone by.

RWH: 9/8/02


Poem of the Week: 9/1/02

Go Down Moses

Go down Moses,
Go down slow.
Go down easy.
Go down low.

Go down from Egypt,
Staff in hand.
Part the Red Sea with it,
To the Promised Land.

Go down hard as stone,
From the mountaintop.
With the words etched in it,
Failed memory cannot stop.

Go down to the wilderness,
And wander forty days.
Wander there in your mind,
And don't forget the ways.

Go down to the Coliseum,
And ride your chariot fast.
Ben Hur is your name,
With you the die was cast.

Go down to the Naked Jungle,
Torch in your hand.
Fight till the last man standing,
Is your bloody band.

Go down to the ruin,
Of a world gone mad.
You are the Omega Man,
Who'll make good from bad.

Go down to the planet,
Where apes are men.
Discover what they've done,
Man will never right again.

Go down in history,
As Caesar's leading man.
A Man for All Seasons,
A man who can.

Go down to the stage,
Utter Shakespeare's poetic rage.
Bask once again in the limelight,
Before it fades the page.

Go down to death's door.
Like time's slipping sands.
Until they pry the gun,
From your cold, dead hands.

To Charlton Heston, Renaissance Man
... may your deeds outweigh your dementia.

RWH: 8/25/02


Poem of the Week: 8/25/02

Choppin' Cotton

Go choppin' cotton, go, go!
Run for your life,
Cotton-eyed Joe.

The lynch man's gonna git ya.
Down by the glen.
So run, run,
As fast as you can.

That white girl's been soiled,
And yer to blame.
That white boy that dun it,
Just got the cane.

So run, run--run for your life.
Leave your family,
Leave your wife.

Runnin's the only way,
To get from under,
The massa's wrath,
That's put your life asunder.

Go north by the river,
Not by the road.
Or the dogs'll git ya.
Like a trapped toad.

Cross the river often,
To lose your scent.
Head for Chicago,
As though Hell bent.

You'll find work there,
And another life.
Don't come back lookin'
For yer kids and yer wife.

And when they ask you,
Who dun got you out.
Say it was a white man dun it,
And he was from the South.

RWH: 8/24/02


Poem of the Week: 8/18/02

Amazing Grace

She's got style,
She's got grace.
She's a credit,
To her race.

She's got stature,
She's got face.
She's the fuel ,
For the pace.

In her hand,
She's got ace.
She plays with style,
She plays with lace.

She's got a smile,
Upon her face.
Wields her parasol,
Like a mace.

She knows her mind,
She knows her place.
To think otherwise,
Is her disgrace.

Might as well,
Cut the chase.
She's an old idea,
Vanished--no trace.

A new woman,
Has taken your place--Grace.

Vanity.

RWH: 8/18/02


Poem of the Week: 8/11/02

Dysreflexia

Autonomic dysreflexia is its name.
Not to know it, is no blame.

Residing between life and hell.
To know it, one must feel its spell.

Somewhere between body and brain,
Lies a place where the two are twain.

When this tenuous tie is lost,
Communication is the cost.

When the body is in pain,
It sends a signal to the brain.

So quick the brain is to learn,
Returns the help that is yearned.

But when the brain can't figure out,
What the message is all about.

It sends out a general alarm,
As though it's body's bought the farm.

Starts with a slight feeling of unease,
Then grows into a massive seize.

A crescendo of heat and vibration,
That runs the body like automation.

Trapped inside this hideous place,
There's no going easy--going with grace.

Feel death coming? It's right on board.
Feel it coming, without a word.

Until it overwhelms--brain browns out.
Through the buzz, scream and shout.

Grim as the Reaper down under,
But no help can one render.

Relax, and let it slither off,
Like used snakeskin slough.

Shudder to think of it coming again.
... Next time, will it do me in?

RWH: 8/11/02


Poem of the Week: 8/4/02

Tired Out

I'm all tired out,
Have got no tread.

Face the future.
With a bit of dread.

Started with a slight bulge.
Imperceptible to divulge.

Felt the vibration,
Deep inside.

An instability,
That couldn't hide.

Like wheels were coming off,
Never to reach their goal.

Cast by the road.
Like a tired old sole.

Bloated, distorted, about to burst.
Agony that was at its worst.

Out of balance, out of line,
Relief--a blowout--bad, bad sign.

To go flat would be better,
Yes, to go flat would be fine.

A new tire's in order,
But credit's at redline,

Broke and busted,
It's about time.

Out of tolerance, out of skew.
Never leaving this heat for you.

Finally, new rubber all-around,
Headed out, pavement to pound.

Until, once again, she leaves me flat,
And I'm all tired out.

RWH: 8/4/02


Poem of the Week: 7/28/02

Broke

What a joke,
My world is broke.
My safety net's come undone.

I am hanging by a thread,
To keep from crashing on my head,
All the parts must work as one.

My wheelchair won't back up,
Didn't spill my coffee cup.
The joystick's just on the blink.

New controller box is what I need.
No time to reflect and read.
Credit card's on the brink.

The freezer, it won't freeze,
And the icemaker won't make ice.
A new refrigerator would be nice.

The range's oven is rusted out.
Two burners are in doubt.
Could use a new one without thinking twice.

Front wheels wobbling on the road,
Right front tire about to explode.
A new tire will suffice.

Siding is coming off the house,
Pushing nails to holes the size of a mouse.
Holes to let them and the mold in.

New siding is expensive,
The manufacturer is defensive.
And mold abatement is the cost of sin.

My computer's drive was shot,
Foiled the back up, lost a lot.
When am I gonna win?

My primary helper needs a break.
Just a hiatus for my sake.
All my money her replacements take.

Now the stock market is down the tubes,
I sat frozen, like so many rubes.
It isn't a joke --I am broke.

RWH: 7/28/02


Poem of the Week: 7/21/02

Your Weeping Willow

There is a pond near your back door.
I am there; I've been there before.

I'm always drawn to this spot,
When days are warm, and I am hot.

To seek you out, or seek you not.
From under your weeping willow.

Creeping, sneaking, seeking, ...
... Leaking to find you out.

Between each frond that gently sways,
By your pond in myriad ways.

A mysterious creature in the leaves,
Catches me and my heart heaves.

A sigh of shock, a sigh of peace,
Your nakedness is my release.

For you are clothed by your pond,
With the swaying of each frond.

Like the night hides your fear,
That is why I am here.

To consummate on nature's pillow,
Down by your weeping willow.

Touch me.

RWH: 7/20/02

Poem of the Week: 7/14/02

Down on the Ranch

Down on the ranch,
At the river's branch.
On a hot summer's day.

Horsemen park cars,
Like movie stars.
While children run to play.

Green grass slopes,
As the live oak mopes,
Its underbrush stripped away.

To a cypress infested lake.
Canadian geese languidly slake,
Their hunger by the muddy bay.

Pedal paddlers break the mirror.
Prompting gators to steer clear.
Catfish quiet place to stay.

A train to nowhere,
Takes you out there,
Where no one is found.

Giving panoramic view,
With each curve rails chew,
To a familiar, clickity-clack sound,

Barbecue fills the sticky air.
Grab a plate and grab a chair.
Beer wash those calories down.

Loudspeakers blare,
Shattering the heavy air.
Making conversation a clown.

Above it the rumble,
Of a storm in assemble.
Washing the heat to the ground.

Sitting in swelter,
Of pavilion's shelter,
We welcome the storm brought breeze.

We don't have to worry,
We don't have to hurry.
Bring on the rain with dispatch.

It's just another day,
Good reason to stay.
Down on the ranch.

RWH: 7/14/02


Poem of the Week: 7/7/02

Summer Tease

She aims to please,
This little tease.

She has me undone.

A faint of sweat,
Her dark skin wet.

I wilt in the midday sun.

Through the throng,
Outline of her thong.

It beckons of fun.

She bends to tie,
Her nipple to eye.

Head and heart beat as one.

She smiles with ease,
As if to seize,

Me in her turn on.

The moment to seize,
But like the hot breeze,

She appeared,
And then she was gone.

RWH: 7/7/02


Poem of the Week: 6/30/02

Powerless in Pasadena

In the great dead heart of Houston,
The rains came pouring down.

With them wind or lightning,
That brought the power down.

I sit here in the afterglow,
My head upon a frown.

Watching time pass me by,
As the dark clouds run around.

Glooming up my busy day,
And bringing me to the ground.

This poem's not put to paper,
But to a computer disk spun round.

So I sit and watch the day go by,
With no poem yet put down.

Powerless in Pasadena,
As the unseen sun goes down.

RWH: 6/29/02


Poem of the Week: 6/23/02

At the Edge

So many times I've been to the brink,
So many times it would make you think,

That I am but a fool.
Mistakes can be so cruel.

Mistakes? Oh I've made some, large and small.
Mistakes I've made, I've made them all.

Am I too impulsive?
I expect that I am.

To risk is imperative,
When breaking new ground.

Technology to the rescue,
Just in time.

Technology solves the impossible,
Without any rhyme

So I chase technology to cover my mistakes.
Technology wins and my heart breaks.

The game is a test of what it takes,
To play to win for such high stakes.

This time I lost.

RWH: 6/23/02


Poem of the Week: 6/9/02

For the Love of Money

What's in money, Honey?
It ain't nothing, really.

The best things in life are free.
But we must climb our neighbor's tree.

Keeping up is what we do,
We never have enough to see us through.

The more we have, the more we worry.
The more we forget, the more we're sorry.

The best becomes judged by gold.
The best is lost as we grow old.

When will we return to the best things, Honey,
And lose this awful love of money?

Never.

RWH: 6/8/02


Poem of the Week: 6/3/02

Dream Lover

He emerged from the shower,
Morning was his finest hour.

"What's this stain upon the sheet?
You're always, ... Ooh so neat."

He didn't answer her just then,
Just waved his hand as if to fend.

Off secrets he must keep,
"It must've happened in my sleep."

In sleep so pleasant and entwined,
Where she appeared in his mind.

Where she stroked his ego to a peak,
And brought him to what he seek.

With flow as smooth as cream
She fulfilled his every dream.

That it happened he could not deny,
To say he knew for sure would be a lie.

So out the door he did fly,
All he said was, "Goodbye!"

RWH: 6/6/02


Poem of the Week: 5/26/02

Quiet Holiday

Just a quiet holiday,
Staying home alone.

Just a quiet holiday,
Nowhere to roam.

No last-minute rushing,
To get my work done.

No last-minute guessing,
For the best way out of town.

Just sitting and thinking,
As the sun's edge crawls.

Highlighting brick and board,
And ferns along my walls.

Chasing shadows from the light,
Revealing greens so tender bright.

Buzz of insects in the heat,
Shadow of bird fly by, hear the beat.

Of wings in the warming air,
You have to have been there.

On a quiet holiday,
At home.

RWH: 5/26/02


Poem of the Week: 5/21/02

Hiring Help

"Is the position still open?"
They always say.
It's funny how semantics,
Get in the way.

"It's not a position."
I try to advise.
But deep in my heart,
It's not where the mind lies.

They're hoping for a career,
Or at least strike it rich.
I offer a few hours at minimum wage.
I know, life's a bitch.

"I'm a certified nurse's aide."
She says with a flair.
But, I don't need nursing,
Or a lot of hot air.

"I work with the elderly."
Is another refrain,
Do I look frail?
Do I look in pain?

A personal assistant,
Is what I need.
Mothering or coaching,
I will not heed.

I'm not going to sit here,
And wait till I die.
I'm looking for someone,
To help me fly.

I can't pay the piper,
Or even try.
I'm looking for someone,
Who will reach for the sky.

And in so doing,
Will make me whole.
And learn from the doing,
A whole new role.

My legacy, I hope,
From hiring help.
Is to help someone.
Beyond the help.

RWH: 5/19/02


Poem of the Week: 5/12/02

Precious Time

Where did the time go?
Was I disorganized?
Was I too slow?
I don't know.

It's just gone.
Out of sight--Kaput!
I said, " Right away."
Into my mouth went my foot.

So, here I struggle,
With the river of time.
Swimming upstream,
To wrack my mind.

Time is so precious,
The clock does not stop.
I must be careful,
Or my time will be up.

And so I ponder,
Wasting my time,
How will I will finish,
This new rhyme?

Sorry. Time's up!

RWH: 5/6/02


Poem of the Week: 5/5/02

Anticipating

The more you plan,
The more you track,
The more you think,
You think back.

The more you think back,
The more you track,
The more your world,
Comes off track.

The more you want,
The more you lack,
The more you think you want,
You come up slack.

The more you want,
The more you get,
The more you think you get.
You lack.

Stop anticipating.
Relax, lie back.
If you don't need,
You won't lack.

RWH: 5/6/02


Poem of the Week: 4/27/02

Cruising

Cruising's where I want to be,
Out across the deep blue sea.

Sun, sky, wind, and wave.
Set sail my soul to save.

Without a care in the world.
All my red flags furled.

Gliding into sunset reaches,
Stretching far sand white beaches.

Stretching far as eyes can see,
Out across the deep blue sea.

Arriving exotic ports of call,
Someday to see them all.

But for now, I'm content to be,
Just cruising the deep blue sea.

RWH: 4/23/02


Poem of the Week: 4/20/02

Texas Blue

This time of year, tried and true,
Nature turns the heart of Texas blue.

It is a wonder to behold,
A magic never old.

Greening grass with bluebonnets on it,
Carpeting hills and valleys like a sonnet.

Far and wide, come catch the scene,
Paint a tranquil pastoral serene.

Of old buildings and spreading trees,
Set in contrast with new spring ease.

Cattle grazing land blue seas.
Seas of life for birds and bees.

Oh, what good fortune for me and you,
When the heart of Texas turns true blue.

RWH: 4/20/02


Poem of the Week: 4/14/02

Bending Words

The English language is so damned rich,
Can you say, " damn?" Can you say, " bitch? "

You bet your sweet bippy, you can.
Language is just like Spam.

I love to bend words,
It's what I do.

Add a little here,
Take a little, too.

Webster be damned,
It's what I do.

Rhyming is hard.
It can be a bitch.

So I bend a word here, or there,
To make it rich.

It can be quite contrived,
Even boring, to you.

Pushing words around,
Making them do what they ain't.

Every once in awhile,
Shines through a Saint.

Do I change the language, true?
You bet your sweet bippy, I do.

RWH: 4/14/02


Poem of the Week: 4/7/02

Waiting for Spring

I sit by my window watching the dirty snow melt.
I sit by my window crying tears heart felt.

It's been a long, cold, lonely winter of discontent.
It's been a long, cold, drought since my love went.

She left me on a sun bright day.
In shimmering white snow, she walked away.

Her tracks are melting, spreading fast.
Like her love, they will not last.

Cold, I sit at this window pane.
It seems my life is on the wane.

Now all I long for is the sun's warm mirth.
When the flowers burst from the earth.

Chase these cold, lonely winter blues away.
And give me hope for a better day.

When I can walk to the bird song breeze.
Through green grass and new leaf trees.

With a new love by my side.
Until then, I must abide.

Until there comes that still sweet day,
When spring, once again, comes my way.

RWH: 4/7/02


Poem of the Week: 3/24/02

Easter Sunday Morning

It was an Easter Sunday morning,
When peace came tumbling down.

It came without warning.
It came without a sound.

The sun had began its warming,
Where the tulips pierce the ground.

Aside from birds a singing,
There was a stillness round.

On the slopes the snow was melting.
The droplets trickling down.

Each one to the flowing,
Water grist that ground.

Just as each one waking,
Rock of war worn down.

Peaceful thoughts a thinking,
Filled the air without sound.

So they gathered--linking,
And sang their new joy found.

That Easter Sunday morning,
When peace came tumbling down.

RWH: 3/31/02


Poem of the Week: 3/24/02

Cereal Killer

There's a cereal killer on the loose.
His neck is humping like a goose.

Caught in perpetual flight.
Seeking cereal through the night.

Like a champion on a Wheaties box.
He doesn't want bagels. He doesn't want lox.

He wants something that will give him new Life.
To carve a new Total on his knife.

He doesn't want green eggs and ham.
He wants Fruit Loops more than jam.

The Breakfast of Champions is visual arts.
His insidious craving is like Pop Tarts.

Puffed, popped, shredded, and diced,
Covered with strawberries, nicely sliced.

Smothered in peaches and floating on cream,
The cereal killer faces his dream.

Dispatching the cupboard with verve and ease.
The cereal killer feeds his disease.

"I feel like a tiger!" He screams as he wakes.
"Has anyone seen my Frosty Flakes!"

RWH: 3/24/02


Poem of the Week: 3/17/02

Insane?

This may seem inane,
But what does it mean to be insane?

The answer's not legally defined,
Nor is the fate of the mind,

That once committed a heinous act,
And, must now, face that fact.

Most people do not understand
What it takes to take the hand.

Of someone who, while mild and bland,
Can wreck havoc upon the land.

And so we cast them out.
As fits our need--erasing doubt.

We shun them, burn them, bury them deep.
There is no time or place for compassion's keep.

We cannot learn from their desires.
We loathe the thought of their raging fires.

But who among you has not been depressed?
Who has not, at some point, been obsessed?

Then cast the first stone and move on,
Throw them in prison and be done.

So what if they're brilliant with unique ideas,
The world is filled with crazy zeals.

It is easier for us to cast them aside,
Than to live with insanity and abide.

Just maybe, with faith, trust and love,
One soul might rise above.

And rejoin society as a full member,
Regardless of what the disease has engendered.

There but for a fine line go you and I.
Shall we strait jacket or let them fly?

It's our fear we are tying up.

RWH: 3/17/02


Poem of the Week: 3/10/02

Dinosaur Dawn

Wake-up! The time has come.
For all good people to stand as one.

There is no time to take sides,
For on this planet, everyone rides.

There is no time for greed and vice,
Don't look back; don't think twice.

There is no time for religious zeal.
Only time left to repeal.

The laws that keep us in our place,
Keep us from the human race.

Separating us and our stations,
Building barriers with our nations.

Wake-up! And realize that we are one,
So that before the day is done.

We can rise to the task.
Rebuild our planet while we last.

Stop fighting and bickering like little children,
And rise above our fear.

It's all for one, and one for all,
Or we will not last beyond that year.

When, like that distant dinosaur dawn,
We are gone.

What legacy will we leave,
For what lives on?

RWH: 3/10/02


Poem of the Week: 3/3/02

Stress

Pressure pounding upon my brain,
Wild feelings I can't restrain.

Rumors running through my head,
Filling me with awful dread.

Muscles taut as banjo strings,
Ringing in my ears that sings.

Itching that no scratch can cure,
Brain pain turned to deaf ear.

Squeezing me into that terrible place,
Where I have no time, no space.

Pushing forward through it all,
I grit my teeth for the fall.

Until my awful day is done,
And I can relax and be as one.

With the evening sun's fiery blotter,
Bleeding the pressure from me like water.

So I can sleep the sleep of kings.
And dream of peaceful things.

Until the morning rushes in again.

RWH: 3/3/02


Poems of the Week: 2/24/02

Go for the Gold

Go for the gold as hard as you can.
Reach for perfection way deep down within.

Jump, soar, and sail, as high as you dare.
The sky's the limit to gravity's snare.

Aim, fire, straight and true.
Accuracy is in the mind; it's all up to you.

Plan your trajectory and follow-through,
Nail the landing for the judges to view.

Practice and perfect your every move,
Align your body in a perfect groove.

Study and sacrifice for the cause.
Push on forward without pause.

Relax and steady your fraying nerve.
Upset your competition with flash and verve.

Focus on the finish tried and true.
A thousand times over--this is you.

So, if you're lucky, and very good, too.
Gold will be waiting at the end for you.

But if you're not lucky, and things fall through,
It's the going, not getting, that counts in this venue.

So, go for it!

RWH: 2/24/02


Two Poems Submitted
by
Janet Caldwell & Alan Phillips:

Amid Winter

The trees, hoary and skeleton like
Sorrowful, reaching
Soulful and green less
Awaiting a glimpse of life

How do you breathe without
Your leaves? I can almost see
You gasp and spasm within
Your brittle, gray bark

Resembling the aged
An outline just able
To hold the veins, it's own
Life force through the driving rain

Do you feel the biting wind,
The stinging sleet? You must know
That your life's fluid is congealed
And thick, practically still

It's so cold the moisture arises
From the streets and descends from the sky
Like shadowy figures
Rising and falling to greet the trees

Do you curse the water, that liquid
Of life, now solid and deadly?
I see it punishes and
Erodes, where once it flowed

The nearly dead branches
Still reach for the sky, and
Ask the question; is it my time to die?
Will I survive another frost?

Do you welcome this
cryogenic rest? I wonder
At what holds you upright
In mute defiance

With veins and hardly a frame
The sun peeks through
Melting the snow, giving life again
A green leaf has emerged

Tell me how you do it. How
Do I survive my own
Winter, greet the spring
with new growth? How?

Janet Caldwell & Alan Phillips
(c)2002 Caldwell Phillips


Inside Today

It has been a good day, in spite
That outside, the sleet beats down
So furious, so cold
Erecting sculptures in crystal thought...
A thief come to steal my joy
Pick the cheer from my pockets
Condensation on the windowpane
Ice turns to drops
To cascading rivulets
Then cold puddles
It's been a good day
Even while clouds obscure
My vision in their misty haze
So gray, so gray
I can trick the clouds, I can
Put on my magic
Glasses, see chubby
Cheeked angels with chocolate
Smeared faces, the
Dirty dishes and dried gravy clumped
On the stove, a banquet
Eaten some time ago
It's been a good day
The sleet turned to rain
The clouds rolled away
Shades in the case

Janet Caldwell & Alan Phillips
(c)2002 Caldwell Phillips


Poem of the Week: 2/17/02

Taxing Situation

It is that time of year again,
When I'm beside myself.

When faced with the formidable task ahead,
I'm smaller than an elf.

"Tax cut, tax cut," was his rallying cry,
But as I face the task ahead,
I could curl up and die.

The Paperwork Reduction Act,
Was supposed to make better.

But every other line-item,
Asks to complete another form or letter.

By the time I'm done, I've cut a forest of trees,
Enough to give a paper pusher a life of ease.

There are tax advisers everywhere,
Who claim they know the score.

They'll do your taxes quick and neat,
But it'll cost you more.

And when the tax auditor comes to check,
They'll disappear for sure.

I tried to call the IRS, but they were hard to reach,
Just told me to call again, or "leave a number at the beep."

I got on line with CPAs who charged by the minute,
I got online with Turbotax and found that I was in it.

A mass of taxes so wide and deep,
That I'll spend my nights losing sleep.

Until, when April 15th rolls around,
I'll grab my credit card and lay my money down.

So that I can relax and clear my head,
Not looking forward to that awful grind.

When tax time comes around again.

RWH: 2/17/02


Poem of the Week: 2/10/02

Reaching Olympus

Climbing the Olympus Mount,
You soon find what it's all about.

Like its mythic predecessor of yore.
The mountain stands, too tall before.

Lost in its mystique myth,
Of clouds so full of pith.

As to be palpable to taste,
There isn't a moment to waste.

For the daylight leaves all too quick.
And the clouds move in all too thick.

You struggle and strive on the steep slope side,
With all your skill and strength you must abide.

Before the dark storm comes and turns you out,
Before you are overcome by fear and doubt.

And the summit looms before your sight,
Its brilliance casting out the death dark night.

RWH: 2/10/02


Poem of the Week: 2/3/02

Grateful

Her parents were grateful for her birth.
She wasn't supposed to walk this earth.

They tried and tried to conceive,
Through years and years of no reprieve.

Then, when they were old and gray,
The doctors finally found a way.

In vitro Grateful was conceived,
To her parents, much relieved.

They called her Grateful from then on,
'Though her real name was Crystal Dawn.

Grateful was gratefully driven,
To be grateful for what was given.

She rewarded her parents for what they'd done,
By always being their only one.

She waited on them hand and foot.
Grateful for what it took.

Until they passed on.
Grateful's youth wasted, Crystal Dawn.

Grateful tried and tried to get a good man,
But what she settled for in the end.

Was someone to pass on the seed,
For which she was grateful, indeed.

But her attempts failed one by one,
Not even the worst man alive could father her a son.

Grateful sunk into great despair,
Wailing epithets to the air.

"Why? Why must I be the one?
Who goes through life without a son?"

Finally, when Grateful lie at death's door,
The great provider settled the score.

Science granted her a son,
From her father, long dead they cloned one.

Grateful died peacefully, her mind at mend,
Remaining grateful until the bitter end.

RWH: 2/3/02


Poem of the Week: 1/27/02

So Close

How close did you come?
Right to the edge?

Do you feel like you're standing,
On a thin ledge?

Have you ever run headlong,
Into your fate?

Have you ever run headlong,
Before it's too late?

Is your fate left standing on the edge?
Is life so important you had to hedge?

Is it hanging on a razor's edge?
Or just left standing on the ledge?

You won't come close if you don't take a chance,
So take a risk and join the dance.

You'll never know how close you've come,
Until you are the one looking back.

Left standing out in front, alone.
The leader of the pack.

RWH: 1/27/02


Poem of the Week: 1/20/02

White Out

A sea of white, contrasting a sheer blue sky.
Water, water everywhere, all of it too cold and dry.

I trudge as if to nowhere, to where the white meets blue
The tracks I leave behind me offer little clue.

To where I'm going and where I've been,
My tracks just gradually disappear from view.

The only relief from all this emptiness,
Is through the long, dark night.

When the stars in patterns endless,
Fill the blackness with warm bright.

If I've lost my way, I know not for sure,
I just head for the horizon and hope my thoughts are pure,

And white as the driven snow.
Onward I must go.

Until gray-white clouds gather in the west,
Engulfing the blue like the rest.

Swirling, whirling, eating up the view.
I brace myself for the test.

Hunker down and pull myself in.
The white wall comes and covers all sin.

The wind howls an awful din.
I know not what state I'm in.

I wander about in the swirling mass,
Knowing not how much time has passed.

I only know that with the night,
The white will turn gray, then devoid of light.

Black or white, I am blinded by the sight,
And wander the white desert in my fright.

Lose my way while the snow covers my day.
Purifies my soul and whites me out.

In the bright morning, I am gone.
Merged to a white landscape before the dawn.

RWH: 1/20/02


Poem of the Week: 1/13/02

Careful

She was born in upscale New York.
With both a silver spoon and fork.

They called her Careful for their fears,
Already old beyond her years.

Nannies guarded her day and night,
Her parents viewed every scratch and sniffle with fright.

Only the best private schools would do,
Their daughter must never view.

The filth and poverty of ordinary life,
The crime, disease and misery that is so rife.

So she was sheltered from all harm,
Grew up hidden from the farm.

The garden of earthly delights,
The world with all its wonderful sights.

Its smells and daily rites of passage.
Passing on the ancient message.

Instead, like a queen,
Careful had a coming out.

A debutante she was,
Of that there was no doubt.

Exclusive schools and social rule,
Defined her life from then on.

Careful carefully cut away all doubt,
And carefully shut many suitors out.

Until all her assets had been spent.
There was no going back to where they went.

Careful carefully watched her nights and days,
And lived her life in careful ways.

Never letting anyone in.
She was surely free from sin.

As time passed Careful grew old,
Her parents died and left her cold.

Carefully she closed the doors and withdrew within,
A spinster that was free from sin.

And died alone.

RWH: 1/13/02


Poem of the Week: 1/6/02

Dog Days of Winter

On a moon dog night,
The stars were bright.
And the snow lay white,
All round.

I fixed my gaze,
On a break in the haze.
While the runners cut,
With hardly a sound.

It was -70 and going down,
But I could still feel the heat,
Of each dog's breath,
As they pulled to the beat.

Of the lead dog's pant,
And his joyful rant,
As he headed for the break,
In the trees.

I had to make Bryte,
By morning light.
So I mushed and I mushed.
The dogs with unease.

The lone wolf howl,
And the flight of the owl,
Could not stray them from their course.
I called to them, one by one,
Until my voice was hoarse.

Cold surrounded me like a curse
But what was worse,
Was chasing from behind.
Working on my mind.

There's something about a deep still night.
A hollowness that sucks you in,
And gives you the kind of fright,
Dogging me that night.

So I pressed on, "Mush, mush!"
We turned the snow to slush,
All through that long, dark night,
Until we saw the crack of dawn.

And we were home.
Warm, fed, and fine.
To curl up by the fire and transpire,
About cheating death one more time.

RWH: 1/6/02


Poem of the Week: 12/30/01

2002

From either direction, 2002 reads the same.
A stability that suggests you get in the game.

With miracle cures just around the corner,
Don't sit there like a little Jack Horner.

Segway while the iron is hot,
Tech stocks are low, take a shot.

A hybrid future to be sure,
From gasoline to electric will be the cure.

Bin Laden is history, but terrorism is not.
Be careful with who you deal; they may not be who you thought.

It does not mean you shouldn't forge ahead,
It does not mean you should look forward with dread.

It means you should be careful and sure yourself,
Before venturing freely into the gulf.

More than ever, we yearn to be free.
The sooner the world is, the better it will be.

So get out of the house, and see the world.
Be a man, not a mouse, and with your cape unfurled,

Fly off to explore with wonders brand new,
The glories and accomplishments of 2002.

RWH: 12/30/01




               

       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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