Ron's Poems - 2005

Poem of the Week: 12/25/05

Christmas Remembrance

I remember sleigh rides, bells jingling to and fro,
runners gliding silently, through new-fallen snow.
The horses' breath puffing time, to their mighty strides,
our cold cheeks red with glow, warm under fur hides.

I remember forests, decorated green and white.
Blue spruce, tall pine, birch and holly berry,
Red cardinal, chickadee, and crow's distant plight.
Water flowing under clear ice gurgling merry.

The sun sets amber over the frost-draped dale,
Silently gliding, like a movie fades into night,
Becomes a scene stolen from a Dickens' tale.
Icicles gleaming in the full moon's eerie light.

I remember the farmhouse set on the side of hill,
The light from its windows glowing merrily bright.
White smoke wafting from its snowy chimney top.
Signaling far and wide that all was well and right.

I remember Christmas Eves, the family gathered round.
Opening presents, eating heartily, and children laughing.
What a glorious sound. Auntie at the piano keys;
We sang carols by firelight all night long.

I remember going home late those nights,
Aurora Borealis painting the sky so brightly deep.
A perfect topping to our day's delights,
as we slipped to bed and drifted off to sleep.

I remember Christmas morns with presents under the tree.
We would wake early and eagerly run to see anew,
The miracle wrought during our night's slumber,
when Santa came and left before we knew.

I remember Christmas Days with friends and family round,
everyone talking loudly above the kids' happy run.
Played in deep snow until we were cold, tired and hungry,
and then returned home for more warm food and fun.

I remember Christmases spent far away from home,
in my cold and lonely room alone--No one coming.
When not sharing Christmas cheer was the saddest of all,
And icicles stabbed my heart, melting teardrops running.

I remember better now when Christmas time appears,
the wonder of my childhood and all those Christmas years.
And when I can no longer experience Christmas time at all.
I have remembrance of Christmases past to carry to my fall.

RWH: 12/24/05

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Poem of the Week: 12/19/05

The Thief

Who stole the Christ from Xmas?
Who stole the wood from my tree?
Who stole the paper from my mail?
Was it you? Wasn't me.

Who stole the tube from my monitor?
Who stole the candles from my tree?
Who stole the wood from my fireplace?
Was it you? Wasn't me.

Who stole the film from my camera?
Who stole the mouse from my house?
Who stole the pilot light from my furnace?
Was it you? Wasn't me.

Who stole my job from over the sea?
Who stole my identity for a spending spree?
Who yanked my pension from under me?
Was it you? Wasn't me.

It wasn't the Grinch, nor Scrooge, nor me,
Just progress and its technology.
The thief is in the henhouse, running free.
Welcome to the 21st Century.

RWH: 12/18/05

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Poem of the Week: 12/11/05

Rebate Blues

Oh, why, oh why, did they spread the skews,
That rebates would make shoppin good news.

The lure of cash back to suck us in,
A new, low price to get under our skin.

Buyin is painless, or so it would seem,
The rush of our purchase is like a dream.

The dream turns to nightmare when we try to git,
That cash back they promised us with no sweat.

The form must be filled out in a perfect way,
Swear on your father's grave the time and the day.

Invoice, receipt, UPC code and more,
The rebate god's gotcha to the core.

Why can't they just sell at a simple low price.
Not keep us so stressed like bourbon on ice.

Waitin for that check by the door,
Til hell freezes over, ain't buying no more.

...Until next time.

RWH: 12/10/05

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Poem of the Week: 12/4/05

American Tragic

Snow was falling on that bleak December day,
No tree, no lights, no presents to brighten my way.
I was but seven when my daddy drove away.

Mommy bloody and crying, fell down to pray.
Barefoot and cold, in red snow she lay.
I wandered like a stray--never again to play.

I took up smoking and followed it with more.
A little Mary Jane and meth to help with the score,
Score I did and more I did until there was no more.

I cheated, I lied, I hurt them to the core.
Car wreck, train wreck, plane out of the blue.
I claimed them all and all were true.

A cancer spreading through my soul,
infecting all I touched to implore,
"Why did Daddy have no sense?"

"He lost it-lost it in the war."
So now he's gone, gone before,


RWH: 11/29/05

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Poem of the Week: 11/27/05

Spending Spree

In the home of the brave in the land of the free,
there's nothing better than a spending spree.

If you want to show the one you love,
buy her a diamond, not a turtle dove.

The economy is fired by conspicuous consumption.
Who among us to question such a fine gumption?

Spend it on war, disasters and gasoline,
Spend it on graft and corruption unseen.

Spend it all on yourself before you die.
Saving it for others is for the other guy.

Get your toys now while you may.
Play them like there is no rainy day.

So while you're playing with your newfound joy,
in China and India they are toiling away.

And when you grow tired of wanton fun,
and want to retire in the warmth of the sun.

Your retirement's been spent on waste and war,
So, each morning you dress for the Wal-Mart store.

And greet the folks who come to spree,
on Indian and Chinese goods so they can be.

Just like you.

RWH: 11/27/05

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Poem of the Week: 11/20/05

Old Oak Tree (A Song)

Oh, lay me down neath the old oak tree.
Down where the waters play.
Oh, lay me down neath the old oak tree.
That's where I long to be.

Oh, lay me down neath the old oak tree.
Like the time, sweet Mary and me,
we lay down, neath the old oak tree.
Spring flowers sweet as could be.


Oh, lay me down neath the old oak tree.
Like the time, Seth and Leigh,
frolicked neath the old oak tree.
We picnicked in the sweet mown hay.

Oh, lay me down neath the old oak tree.
Like the time, bloody as autumn could be,
we lay down, neath the old oak tree.
Chickamauga comrades, still breathing free.


Oh, lay me down neath the old oak tree.
Like the time, I buried all three.
Sweet Mary, Seth and Leigh,
In winter's snow cold as could be.

Oh, lay me down neath the old oak tree.
Like the time, spring on the prairie.
Colonel Custer's got hold of me,
Little Bighorn grass, my cover be.


RWH: 11/20/05

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Poem of the Week: 11/13/05

Native Season

Time is in the trees,
the old ones say,
and in the woolly caterpillar,
before he crawls away.

Many campfires burn,
by the waters edge.
Smoke rises in the morning,
signaling our harvest village.

Deer and elk are plentiful,
and we thank the spirits' grace.
Fish swim in the river,
all creatures of our race.

To harvest all we can,
before the coming wind.
Blows through our homes and blankets,
like the knife cuts through fair skin.

The braves are in the forest,
hunting meat to dry.
The women are in meadows,
gathering seeds to ply.

The sun shines bright this season,
while the old ones talk of days gone by.
To all things there is reason,
new life springs from those who die.

The children play in the sun,
the leaves turn red and gold.
A thousand stars in the sky,
the moon this day foretold.

A time to prepare in peace and grace,
all creatures know their time and place.
May the spirits guide as in our ways,
before the winter takes our days.

RWH: 11/12/05

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Poem of the Week: 11/6/05

Indian Summer

A coat of colors drapes the land.
Sun slanting rays bright and bland.
A new season is at hand.

The cool arm of autumn,
has spread silently in,
Birds fly south swiftly.
On the telling wind.

Indian Summer has come.
When we can rest at last.
A world of peace and warmth,
conjuring up the past.

A time twixt here and there,
magic air and harvest fair,
when the squirrel hustles,
to fill its cornucopian lair.

The smell of wood smoke,
rises slowly in the placid air,
drifts in the distance,
going nowhere.

Time stands still for a moment,
in the waning light,
conjuring dreams of olden days,
before the coming night.

We savor the moment,
while we can,
then brace for the time,
so close at hand.

When the chill wave of winter,
steals cross the land,
and every creature, once again,
feels its cruel hand.

RWH: 10/30/05

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Poem of the Week: 10/30/05

Hollow Weenie

I have a hollow weenie,
I whizz where e'er I want.
I know it's hollowed, cuz, you see,
it's where the pee comes out.

Its face is like a pumpkin.
its smell is like a ghost.
Oh how I love to pee with it,
shall we raise a toast?

To all the hollow weenies,
who came and went before,
and marked the edge of territory,
to keep the evil door.

From opening up,
and letting the devil in.
I whizz to your glory,
freeing us from him.

I whizz to all the girls,
who have gone before,
when they saw my weenie,
scared them to the core.

I love my hollow weenie,
will love it till I die.
Man, I just took a whizz,
pass the pumpkin pie.

RWH: 10/30/05

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Poem of the Week: 10/23/05

Hanging On

Surgery would give him life,
return his heart to beating strong.
Without it, he grew weaker,
he'd be just, hanging on.

A pig's valve would do just fine,
and a bypass for good measure.
Would get him up and around again,
to enjoy his life of leisure.

Given age and circumstance,
the surgery went well.
He was up and eating,
only time would tell.

A little pseudomonas bacteria,
a pseudonym for hell.
And he was barely breathing,
No, he wasn't doing well.

It called for drastic action,
to save him before too late.
Tubes to breathe and eat.
Tubes to drain and medicate.

His only kidney failed.
His blood pressure dropped.
His lungs filled with fluid,
but his heart never stopped.

He could not hear well,
he could not even talk.
But they kept on working.
To counter every block.

It took dialysis,
to clean his blood.
Antibiotics and suction,
to stem the vile flood.

It took a tracheotomy,
to clear his worn raw throat.
But he could not swallow,
he'd only choke.

By now so depressed,
he nearly gave up hope.
But somehow kept hanging on,
To his life loving rope.

Two months in critical,
With open pressure sores.
Extremities swollen,
strength lost through his pores.

His marrow wasn't producing,
new blood for his veins.
A transfusion was required,
to renew his blood reins.

With a collar he was talking,
sitting up, and slowly walking.
Watching his favorite team play,
ever hopeful of the new day.

That all this technology,
and all that medicine had done,
will bring him back to life,
to more, than just hanging on.

RWH: 10/22/05

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Poem of the Week: 10/9/05

State Fair

Calliope music fills the air,
people stroll going nowhere.
The heat of the day lingers above,
Cotton candy beckons like love.

A giant monster can be seen,
a horror beyond your wildest dream.
Just step up and pay a small price,
the plot thickens like rice.

A little child's eyes saucer wide,
wants to take a harrowing ride.
Screams pierce the newfound night,
as the pace quickens in neon light.

The gamester's skills finally honed,
a teddy bear's begging to be owned.
a drunk will spend all his cash,
to get his girl slim pickins to stash.

The parade winds through crowds' delight.
stilted people walk with faces of fright.
Clydesdales paw and prance,
eager to join the dickens of dance.

Through it all, Big Tex stands tall,
spouting a friendly, "Howdy" to all.
One last celebration with kind and kin,
before the pace quickens in the cold wind.

RWH: 10/8/05

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Poem of the Week: 10/2/05

Shadow of Disaster

Though I live in the shadow of disaster, I fear not.
For I have lived so all my days.
For you and me, life still turns its ways.

Storm, accident, disease, anger, fate.
Get busy living before it's too late.

I am a survivor, like billions I'm told,
From a long line of my ancestors,
Who reproduced before becoming old.

The line is so long, I can't trace it back.
It's amazing to think of trying to keep track.

So many short-lived in history's fate,
never reproduced before it was too late.

I for one, will not pass on my genes.
The fate of the world is not mine it seems.

It is the struggle of the whole human race,
from under the shadow of disaster,
to go forth and find a place.

In the eternal light of the sun.

RWH: 10/1/05

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Poem of the Week: 9/22/05

Katrina (A Song)

Katrina, Katrina, why'd you do me this way?
Katrina, Katrina, why'd you do me this way?
You blew in from nowhere and left me to pay.

They said you was high class,
a category five.
They said you was high class,
but that was just jive.

They said that the levees,
would keep you away.
But you burst into my home,
and ruined my day.


They said that they'd help us,
but that was just a lie.
They said that they'd help us,
just passed us on by.

Days without water,
in the hot sun.
Stuck in the shelter,
with nowhere to run.


Why, oh why, did you,
come change my life.
Didn't need you, woman,
and all your damn strife.

I'm counting the days,
when I can ease my pain.
Counting the days,
when I can go home again.


My apologies to Chuck Berry

RWH: 9/22/05

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Poem of the Week: 9/18/05


I'm lost.
I'm lost and I don't know why.
The jazz is gone and I'm gonna die.

I hung on till she let go.
Surrendered her life to the flow.
Looked and looked, but no.

They took my boy to make him safe,
now he's just a wandering waif.
Doesn't know his name.

Rescued Barney from near-death.
Couldn't bark his master's name.
Ripped from home just the same.

Where are the friends I once knew?
House is gone,
Neighborhood, too.

Where is the job I once knew?
Company is gone,
scattered into the milieu.

A little money in my pocket,
a bed and food,
I can't knock it.

But I've lost my sense of place.
Endlessly, in my mind I roam,
for my disconnected home.

RWH: 9/17/05

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Please send me your poems to post.

Poem of the Week: 9/11/05

Hellava Way to Die
Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

Storm's a commin',
and I don't know why.
Just got a get out of this place,
befo' I die.

Born to this situation,
didn't ask to be in this chair.
Metro's not answering,
and I'm goin' nowhere.

Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

Katrina's not commin',
didn't call to say.
Other Katrina's commin',
commin' today.

The winds a howlin',
so's I can't hear.
TheTV shows me,
she's commin' near.

Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

Power's out,
so's I can't see.
Scared as hell,
please let me be.

Can't sleep,
waitin' for the dawn.
All I can manage,
Is a frightened yawn.

Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

First light,
and it's worse than I thought.
Roof half torn off,
and leaking a lot.

Can't reach no food,
and I'm dying of thirst.
Just thinking my brains out,
about the worst.

Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

Winds died down,
but water's still comin' in.
When it reaches my batteries,
I'm up to my chin.

No one to hear me.
Oh, that damn water is cold!
Shocks my system,
and spasms unfold.

Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

Must get to the bed,
with all my might.
There now, I've made it.
Shuddering with fright.

The mattress be floating,
am cold to the bone.
Coughing and spitting,
with a life of its own.

Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

Ceiling's a comin',
comin' up fast.
Hear choppers overhead,
don't think I can last.

Pounding on the ceiling,
doing no good.
Cold water breathin',
I'm gone from the hood.

Ceiling low, water high,
hellava way to die.

RWH: 9/10/05

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Poem of the Week: 9/5/05

Big Easy

The Big Easy,
she ain't lazy,
she's just at the edge.

Where the Big Muddy,
makes its last amens,
slides into salt water,
and the delta ends.

She's a contradiction,
of love, life and lust.
Jazz is her lifeblood,
In muse she does trust.

Death comes a knocking,
on a wrought iron gate.
Where all mothers' sons,
come small and great.

To the sound of the brass band,
in the damp street.
A celebration of life,
that's beat its last beat.

Life ain't always easy,
in the Big Easy street.
But life's how you find it,
and it's ever, so sweet.

RWH: 9/3/05

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Poem of the Week: 9/4/05

Ole Lady Down

Dey be playing de dirge,
for dat old lady down.
Marching de streets,
Horns wailing sound.

But de streets, dey be empty,
water and mud all around.
De waters done muffled,
dat mournful sound.

Built with blood and sweat.
She's fought mo battles,
Ain't never gave in yet.

French, Spanish, English too,
her heritage is long and lineage blue.
But it's her spirit dat's forever young,
it's dat spirit where her hat is hung.

Cajun, Creole, Indian, Mulatto, true,
Built strong from de backs of de few.
De soul of her bein conjures up jazz.
Clowns, magicians and all dat pizzazz.

So if dey abandon her streets to de sea,
her souls will rise up and play for free.
Whenever a boatman will pass dat spot,
he'll hear her wail and drum beat's' lot.

New Orleans, old New Orleans,
Katrina's done got ya down.
But you will rise from the waters again,
cause dey just can't keep...

A young lady down.

RWH: 9/2/05

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Poem of the Week: 8/28/05

Write Right

Write right, read well, my friend.
The pile of Babel grows,
and there is no mend.

Written word has had authority,
since writing first began.
The power of the written word,
seems to have no end.

Yellow journalism abounds,
from the tabloid's true lies,
to an actor's abs and thighs.

Quack journalists crank out tales,
on blogs that raise eyebrows.
Their purses made of silk,
their facts made of sows.

Everyone's an authority,
in their own mind's eye.
It is when they write it down,
I've come to deny.

That the truth cannot be relative,
or politicized.
It's hidden in the written word,
And should not be ostracized.

The problem, my friend, lies,
in finding where truth hides,
in the massive pile of slies.

Happy hunting... ...and write right.

RWH: 8/27/05

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Poem of the Week: 8/21/05

Magic Pill

Oh, Merck please make me,
the drug of my dreams.
One that will take me,
to a new life that seems.

So wonderful and bright,
like my dream last night,
without a care or thought,
of what, side effect, means.

Oh, Merck please make me,
the drug of my desire.
One that will help me,
fan passion's blue fire.

And make all the women,
flock to me, too,
like children to the piper,
used to do.

Oh, Merck please make me,
the drug of my need.
Pump up my muscles,
like some mythical steed.

Turn this wimp,
into a manly man.
I'm too weak just to work out,
need all the help I can.

Oh, Merck please make me,
the drug of my life.
My lifestyle's a mess,
and my genes cut like a knife.

Burn this fat off,
so I can continue to eat.
Cure my diabetes,
so myself I can still treat.

Please, Merck save me,
with a magic pill--at last,
and if you screw up,
I'll sue your ass.

RWH: 8/20/05

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Poem of the Week: 8/14/05

Nozzle Guzzling

My gas guzzling days are through.
No more will I wander looking for you.

Have switched to alcohol for my brew.
Wander in my mind for a presence of you.

Sit on my porch to scan the view.
Hearing the call of the sound of you.

Just around the bend to imbue.
Searching the horizon for the scent of you.

No more rocketing into the wild blue.
Touching the sky for a piece of you.

Just dreaming what seems so true,
that just opening my eyes, I will see you.

Your pipes all shiny, your paint of rare hue.
The ride of my dreams -- that's you!

RWH: 8/14/05

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Poem of the Week: 8/7/05

Unreachably Near

We are on two different planets,
circling a different star,
in different galaxies,
and different universes, by far.

And yet there is this powerful attraction,
a negative subtraction,
a major distraction,
that puts us, somehow, on par.

Our thoughts are in different places,
we toil in different traces,
between us open spaces,
and yet we come to play.

I see your silhouette from afar.
My heart jumps and comes ajar.
You smile and your lip is a lyre.
You know my loins are on fire.

You speak softly to my rough,
your mind is afloat while mine is tough.
My muscles taut while yours are soft.
You skim the surface while I'm aloft.

I sink into your softness like a liar.
Denying that my heart's on fire.
You know I'm lying but draw me in,
we feel the danger like mortal sin.

We touch and I feel your heat.
Your smooth sweetness and the beat,
of your heart next to mine,
beating hard in double time.

It is not love that we are in,
opposites attract and it's not sin.
It's just nature improving the race,
a stronger child from the chase.

And so I seek a different star,
a soul mate, not near, but oh... so far.
So we can commit the ultimate sin,
a child of a tribe far from the one I'm in.

RWH: 8/7/05

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Poem of the Week: 7/31/05


Lighting strikes but once in a life,
to survive alone can give one peace,
knowing that you've beat the beast.

For lightning does not know its power,
it's time of strike, nor the hour.
Just that it will end with ease.

It's nature's way of release,
of ions built up in the yeast,
of the brewing storm.

Where heat and cold come to clash,
and mighty winds do sheer,
to strip the charge from the earth,
and twirl it in the air.

Until the difference becomes too much,
and the two forces attract,
ever onward, with no going back.

The flash of lightning rips the air,
and crashes in a sonic boom,
that shakes the earth to its womb.

And all below come to fear,
the lightning's fiery path.
Striking all, large and small, without wrath.

Splicing atoms in its heat,
lightning gives an acrid treat.
Nitrous oxide in the rain's sheet.

Fertilizing the soil beneath,
nitrogen for plants to feast.
Full circle for the mighty yeast.

To harness its mighty power,
men have tried but failed to flower.
The time has come for that hour.

When lightning takes its rightful place,
As a workhorse for the race,
That will take us to the stars.

RWH: 7/31/05

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Poem of the Week: 7/24/05

Cakewalk in Baghdad

The Mesopotamian sun sets on another day of heat.
Like days of old, secret lovers stroll the street.
Sporadic sniper fire splats against the wall,
women and children nimbly dodge and fall .

The bougainvillea in the last light a vermilion treat.
The smell of dates ripening in palms ever so sweet.
The rata... tat tat of automatics firing in the street,
has everyone's hearts skipping a beat.

Boats on the Euphrates wind their timeless ways.
Secret lovers line the banks since fertile crescent days.
A helicopter upriver comes, silent like the hawk.
An RPG in its innards vermilion explodes, we gawk.

The lovers kiss in the glow of the blast,
the flaming wreckage on the water cast.
The bazaar is quiet now, as people ply its lane,
here the day ends as men gather to talk plain.

A man in black robes comes to mingle,
and blows them all to bits in a single,
second of a martyr's twisted glory.
The night falls silent amid all the gory.

In long lines they wait in the dawn's early light,
to sign up for duty and their people's plight.
A small car careens off a Hummer's right.
The blast blows the recruits from day into night.

Baghdad, Oh Baghdad. Why do I mourn?
A fabled city so brought to scorn.
No longer will I dream of Arabian nights.
Babylon's gardens and beautiful sights.

No Greek scholars to grace your mosques.
No mathematicians recovering theories lost.
No great treasures of history to see.
Baghdad, Oh Baghdad. I mourn for thee.

RWH: 7/24/05

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Poem of the Week: 7/17/05

Let Me Free

I am tiger, let me roar.
I am condor, let me soar.

I am turtle, let me swim.
I am a monkey, let me in.

I am boa, let me slither.
I am siren, please come hither.

I am panda, let me be.
I am rhino, don't dehorn me.

I am macaw, let me fly.
I am wolf, hear my cry.

I am salmon, to swim the sea.
Do you love, to eternity?

Do you love,

If you do, then let me free.

RWH: 7/14/05

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Poem of the Week: 7/10/05


In an ironic twist of fate,
she turned the tide,
before it was too late.

All the signs led to the site,
opening up her story,
to the white, bright light.

A brilliant flash,
of great insight.
A salty dash.

While others struggled,
in the murky night,
of their own stupidity.

Never to get the ironic essence,
the subtle nuance,
in their waning morbidity.

So profane is life,
feeding on its own strife,
that it knows no liquidity.

The eyes of spies,
search the skies,
for signs of her prophetity.

And through it all,
she stands tall,
in charge of her own irony.

RWH: 7/10/05

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Poem of the Week: 7/4/05

Her Touch

Subtly, like passing strangers,
but, oh, we know the touch.
You bend to prepare me,
and show too much.

Your breasts are mine.
My groin feels a thrust.
I cannot hide it,
You smile like you must.

I rise to the occasion, standing.
Your sweet spot in my hip.
My thing in your thrill.
Puts a curl to your lip.

Your breasts heave with danger,
but love my brushing touch.
You throw me to the bed.
I spasm too much.

Fingers on my stockings,
slide down my thighs.
Linger a moment,
and massage my sighs.

Stretching limbs to full extent,
brushing me privately with intent.
Tweak a little, this way or that.
Feel the heat as it grows fat.

Now, you tuck me into bed.
Naked, with little tucks of spread.
Arrange me this way or that.
Touch me gently where it's at.

Cleaning gently in the night,
nimble fingers feel so right.
Stroke me gently out of sight,
till I come with all my might.

Morning comes you dress me up,
pull my stockings to the cup.
Run my fingers up your thighs,
look down your top with eager eyes.

Regret your leaving with the morn,
your touch still hot, I feel reborn.

RWH: 7/4/05

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Poem of the Week: 6/26/05

Little Words

The perps are in the parlor,
the burps are in the beer.
Mold grows in the fridge,
is the end still near?

The urbs are in the city,
neither here nor there.
Forgotten little oases,
for trash and bums to share.

The perks are in the boardroom,
the smell of sweet success.
Do I smell graft and bribery?
Bet your sweetheart's ass.

The pervs are in the bedroom
hacking their lusty high.
The little girl they're chatting with,
is middle-aged and FBI.

The cops are in their squad cars,
with all their senses turned up.
To swarm down on a perp,
like bees to the honey cup.

We call the generations,
x, y, and z.
We could think of a longer term,
but there isn't time, you see.

So we invent little words,
to speed us on our way.
Now if I can only abbreviate,
"Have a nice day!"

Btw, byob, and stop lol, you perp!

RWH: 6/26/05

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Poem of the Week: 6/19/05

After the Nuclear Winter

It is a still, still cold.
Clouds of molasses brown.
The Earth looks old.
Great edifices leaking down.

The genie has left the bottle,
like the prophets foretold,
acid etched upon the sky,
an alien environment unfold

Just inhuman humanity,
not smart enough or bold,
to stop the escalation,
before it was too late.

And the energy that
could have saved the earth,
was squandered in hate.

There'll come a nuclear spring.
A gradual warming up.
Flowers will not bloom,
nor bees fly to their cup

There will be glowing bacteria,
multiplying with greed,
on nuclear byproducts,
with all deliberate speed.

Within a billion years or so,
creatures will once again roam.
Knowing not their characteristics,
based on their primal home.

If they become intelligent,
Will they understand their birth?
Will they make the same mistakes,
or this time, save the Earth?

RWH: 6/19/05

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Poem of the Week: 6/12/05

Adding Up

Sometimes, life just doesn't add up.
Cream in your coffee, doesn't fill the cup.

We dream and scheme all our lives.
Work mind and body to the core.

It seems that only heartache and sorrow survives,
if Mother luck keeps the score.

Still, we press onward to our last breath.
Convinced we were right as is our gift.

Convinced that we can turn the tide,
and close the opening rift.

Between our youthful, boisterous ways,
and the deadly routine that steals our days.

You'd think a life well lived would count for some.
But fate is cruel and can leave you with none.

For no matter how much you've accumulated in life,
you will die alone, too; casting off your strife.

RWH: 6/11/05

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Poem of the Week: 6/5/05


She said, "Like..."
and he said, "Like..."
and they understood each other,
as a perfect mirror, a simile.

Like a flower in spring,
she bloomed in his thing,
as he wandered without fear,
his cell like an ear,
through the fever of familiarity.

Tongue stud like a rock,
belly bling like a frock,
to her midriff like a bare,
like nowhere, her hair,
through the aisles of her unsubtlety.

Trousers hung low,
like with nowhere to go,
grabbing his crotch compulsively.
Like an underwear show,
He was, like a nice little homily.

It was, "Like this," and, "Like that."
Like in a perpetual rap trap,
that their hearts entwined like harmony.
Two souls, "like in love,"
begin and end, with a simile.

RWH: 6/5/05

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Poem of the Week: 5/29/05

Wheels of Fire

On wheels of fire,
the men of summer run.
Round and round they go,
car and driver one.

Spindly are their vehicles,
wasplike with their wing.
Still, they're strong and agile,
with fiery wheels that sing.

Buzzing like hornets,
locked on their attack.
They jockey for position,
and give no room for slack.

For mighty is the warrior,
whose chariot comes in first.
And great is the glory,
to each young warrior's thirst.

Great too is the sacrifice,
for one small mistake.
Hitting the wall at 200,
can make the body break.

Long is the list,
of those who gave their lives.
To race those glorious Sundays,
and shine in their fans eyes.

The wheels of fire are burning,
in some young fan's eyes.
And it will be at Indy,
where she lives or dies.

RWH: 5/29/05

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Poem of the Week: 5/22/05

Cross-Dressing Cowboy


Yer just a cross-dressing cowboy,
Ya ain't no good to me.
Cain't rope cows a-side saddle,
Lord, just let me be.

My ranchin' days near over.
Taxman got me flat.
Mad cow disease a-runnin' wild,
Beef ain't where it's at.


God knows I love this land,
Worked so hard to keep.
Chapter 7 was upon me,
Was in trouble deep.


About to sell to the man,
When this idea comes.
From an outhouse magazine,
Right there under my thumbs.


Says they're city slickers,
Who'll pay to ride the ranch.
So I put an ad in there,
Calling my place--West Branch.


Come Sunday so many,
Arrived at my gate.
I needed help a-plenty
Fore it was too late.


Hired me one Joe Pansey,
Thought his name was strange.
Said he could rope and ride,
So I handed him the reins.


Decorated my ranch house,
To my guests fond raves.
Served them gourmet barbecue,
With swishes, winks and waves.


Finally got me a housewife,
After all these years.
But I just need a good cowhand,
And it's driving me to tears.


RWH: 5/21/05

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Poem of the Week: 5/15/05

Without a Word

Without a word you came to me,
breathless in the night.

Without a word you sang to me,
a silent Siren's plight.

Without a word you touched me,
felt your unseen fright.

Without a word you left me,
reeling in the light.

Of passions yet unfulfilled,
when blind are given sight.

Without a word, this poem,
I could never write.

RWH: 5/14/05

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Poem of the Week: 5/8/05

Wake up

Wake up to a new mown dawn.
Where have all the forlorn gone?

Gone to graveyards every one.
Gone before the dew was drawn.

See the signs set in the air.
Silent signs by those aware.

Can't you smell it in the snare?
Nostrils flaring to beware?

Ripped from the pages yet unwritten,
And cast upon the unknown smitten.

Now is the time to do or die.
Don't ask when and don't ask why.

Just wake up! I cry.

RWH: 5/6/05

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Poem of the Week: 5/1/05

Just A

Just a word he make,
Just a way he take,
Just a way he spake,
Just a way he break,
Make us all a take,
A step back,
And make,
A new world happen.
Just a minute.
Just a thought.
Just a moment,
That he ought.
Think about it,
Just a bit.
It's not, "him," or "them," that's it.
It could be you, or me,
That takes the step.
So think about it,
Just a bit.
Could be you, not him,
That's it.

RWH: 4/30/05

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Poem of the Week: 4/24/05


Caught in the turmoil, spinning around,
Reaching for calm, not to be found.

Don't know which way is up, or down.
All I know is that I'm losing ground.

Centrifugal force is squeezing my brain,
Blurring my vision of the great refrain.

Squeezing my synapses to be plain.
All my plans down the up drain.

Going nowhere fast in fluid milieu,
Sacrificing eyeballs for a view.

Sacrificing lifetimes for one like you,
Gone in the turmoil like a bolt from the blue.

And so I wait for the whole thing to end
While time and space conveniently bend.

Waiting and watching for the sign send,
As out of the vortex my mind will blend.

RWH: 4/16/05

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Poem of the Week: 4/17/05

Moon Stroke

I felt a bit well rounded at the seams,
Moonbeams, jungle themes.

Dust choked, mind broke,
Going through the reams.

Altered states, lactating plates,
In the pale light of Moon dreams.

Blood broke, a token toke,
All is not what it seems.

Babies boiled, plans foiled,
The gargoyle of life teems.

Panties wet, life's a sweat,
Thrilled to your pagan genes.

Take your pick, it's a kick,
Love to hear its screams.

Going through the motions,
Powerful potions, wet jeans.

Moon spoke, I broke,
Captive to dream's moonbeams.

RWH: 4/16/05

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Poem of the Week: 4/10/05


The dragonfly flies against all odds,
Silently above the lake.

Sun glistening off whirring wings,
Grateful for its mosquito take.

Yet there is something sinister
In its movements, something in its eye,

That makes us want to avoid it,
As it silently slips on by.

Is it the grotesque appearance?
Like some dinosaur that can fly?

Or is it something far worse?
Watching on the sly.

For we all know he is watching us.
Watching, bye and bye.

With his little camera recording,
Each time we cheat and lie.

Big Brother is not far from home.
Big Brother is in the sky.

Watching as we frolic by the lake,
From that pesky dragonfly.

RWH: 4/9/05

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Poem of the Week: 4/3/05

Dolphin on Porpoise

I once ate a dolphin on porpoise.
At the end of a Pompano pier.
My cousin said it was tasty,
Not being hasty, I ordered with fear.

"It's a fish," he said.
But my heart not my head,
Fought me instead, saying,
"Don't eat a relative so dear."

It arrived to my eye,
All steamy and wry.
Some call it Mahi-Mahi,
I had no choice but to try.

It was firm and light,
To my palate's delight.
Quite meaty and pleasant to chew.
I'd rather eat meat, wouldn't you?

Pope John Paul once said,
"My English she is no so good.
My Polish she is so polish.
And my Italian she is wood."

Unlike the great Roman actors,
Who spoke with English accents.
Leaving real Italians to grovel,
In the dirt without thespian tents.

What has this got to do with dolphins?
That's a very good point, my friend.
Just needed to make this poem longer,
And come to its proper end.

RWH: 4/3/05

Poem of the Week: 3/27/05

Just Life

Disaster all around us,
Falling from the sky.
Crime hits so close to home,
Leaves us wondering why?

Weather leaves us devastated,
Stalkers steal and wry.
Our identities are stolen,
With our dreams dashed cry.

Disease strikes regardless,
Of how hard we all try.
To lead the healthy life,
Grow old before we die.

Our life's love just left us,
So hurt we could just die.
Depression so engulfs us,
Our life's become a lie.

War is never ending,
Young men and women die.
To feed the fires of greed,
In a patriotic lie.

It is not Armageddon,
Or any wrath from on high.
It's just life happening,
Leaves us wondering why?

RWH: 3/26/05

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Poem of the Week: 3/20/05

The Neglected Toy

I was crafted long ago in a faraway land.
From the finest materials with loving care.
The skill that made me was handed down,
With secrets never shared.

Shaped and honed with strong hands.
A shining example; the epitome of art.
My parts moved with perfection,
As I made my brand new start.

In the window of that little shop,
To catch the wandering eye,
And to be scooped up,
By that rich man passing by.

At the end of his long journey,
His children to his arms.
He showered them with presents.
I, among the many charms.

They played with me a furious,
And tried to tear me up,
But I was built for the serious,
And they could not disrupt.

But they soon grew tired of me,
As is their childish way.
And I was left in mud and rain,
Outside for many a day.

The mistress washed me off,
And put me on the shelf.
Where I lay long neglected,
With a tired old stuffed elf.

And then one Christmas, the mistress,
In an act of kindness staid.
Gave me with great flourish.
To the long-suffering maid.

Wrapped in old newspaper,
Oh, what a prize I made!
They played with me with fever,
Until they too, relayed.

That they no longer wanted me,
For outdoors I soon strayed.
So when the snow came to the park,
The winter there I laid.

In the spring, a young sweet thing,
Saw me in the ice.
She chipped me out and picked me up.
Treated me real nice.

So in the toy box I did go,
For when nieces and nephews came.
They played with me forever,
And then were gone again.

Like all maiden aunties she grew old.
Her nieces and nephews gone.
Once again neglected in my box,
She put me in the attic, alone.

She lived beyond 100,
Her house in disarray.
Her grandnephew found me.
Just after they took her away.

His kids did not like me,
I had no batteries, lights or bell.
I ended up in the garage.
The other toys called Hell.

Time came for a garage sale,
And I basked again in the sun.
Many overlooked me,
But one bought me, marked down.

Stuffed now in a closet,
Neglected once again,
I thought my life was over,
My neglect would never end.

And then my owner.took me out.
To an Antique Roadshow place.
Where I was dazzled by the lights,
And examined face to face.

So now I'm often fondled,
And talked about with grace.
About my fine patina,
From my special place.

On the fireplace mantel,
Far from childish reach.
A toy for many seasons,
A lesson here to teach.

RWH: 3/19/05

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Poem of the Week: 3/13/05


We depend on the weather,
To do what it knows.
We expect in the spring,
Rain for new clothes.

We expect our friends,
To be there in need.
To know that they are true,
In both word and deed.

We trust that our technology,
Works every time.
Make simple the tasks,
Otherwise so trying.

We eat right and exercise,
To keep our bodies in tune.
So that everything is easy,
And life is our room.

But when the weather goes wrong,
And we are caught in its grip.
We curse the Almighty,
For giving us a bad trip.

When our friends deceive us,
Lie, cheat and steal.
Shock, depression or anger,
Into our minds will wheel.

When our technology breaks down,
And refuses to be fixed.
It cuts off our right arm,
And makes us feel hexed.

And when our body betrays us,
Through accident or disease.
We wrack in the its misery,
As death comes to ease.

We are all dependent,
There is no doubt.
Some just take longer,
To find out.

RWH: 3/12/05

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Poem of the Week: 3/6//05

Dream Lover

Dream lover where are you?
I've searched forever to find one true,
So true blue, one just like you.

So many lovers, like grains of sand.
Some held far off; some close at hand.
When will I find one like you?

A beautiful heart, a beautiful mind,
Incomparable beauty so hard to find.
So true, and so like you.

The years pass quickly like sips of wine.
The longer I know you the more I find.
Ones like you are hard to find.

Life is short and time grows dear,
My search grows nearer year after year.
Oh, when will I find one like you?

I've dreamed of a lover all my time,
I've dreamed of a lover with perfect rhyme.
One like you who fills my mind.

Dream lover, when will I find?
Searching in all the wrong places.
Looking at so many faces.

Only to find that the image in my mind,
Has been waiting patiently just behind.
You are the dream that I find.

RWH: 3/5/05

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Poem of the Week: 2/27/05

Cut Back

Cutbacks run deep across the land.
Consultants cut with a diffident hand.

CEOs watch with a confident glee,
Fortunes rise with the fall of each employee.

Please the stockholders is all they do,
Cut costs to show a profit or two.

Outsource operations to foreign lands.
Let cheap labor get the dirty hands.

American know-how and American guile.
Not since robber barons have we seen such style.

Unseen, the lonely underemployed lurk.
Unemployment run out; feeling like a jerk.

Years of education down the drain.
Well earned seniority held with disdain.

Along with the money goes self-esteem,
The car, the family, the American dream.

An undercurrent of despair in a prosperous land.
Can't you hear their mournful cry so close at hand?

And so I ask you as the new century unfolds,
Have we learned from the past, or are we too old?

RWH: 2/26/05

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Poem of the Week: 2/20/05


Come, float with me for a while.
Imagine a dream with a subtle smile.
Imagine horizons wherever you view,
Placid waters green upon blue.

Come, sit with me for a while.
Imagine a dream like a crafted cloud.
Gentle breezes caressing your skin,
While the sun gently warms your brow.

Come, dance with me for a while.
Imagine a dream with her in your sway.
Glide to the sound of the steel drum round,
And calypso your life away.

Come, prance with me for a while.
Imagine a dream, white beaches serene.
Dig your feet in; let the granules to skin,
Massage them ever so clean.

Come, splash with me for a while.
Imagine a dream with foamy cream,
Where life was scrolled from the sea.
Rejuvenate! Make young, the old of me.

RWH: 2/12/05

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Poem of the Week: 2/12/05


Emotion smotes the potent notion,
Lubricates mind to motion,
Sets us up and apart from the,
Cold-blooded fishes of the ocean.

Emotion is cranial grease,
A pumping blood flow release,
Compelling feeling increase,
Overcome the fearsome beast.

Emotion is no small notion.
A sea larger than any ocean.
Rudderless, a single sanction.
That never finds satisfaction.

Love is a powerful emotion.
Casts out hate without motion.
Soothes the mind like a lotion,
Floats on a perpetual ocean.

Hate is a fruitless emotion.
Eats the heart out by accretion.
Pounds you with its punctuation.
Like a violent surfless ocean.

RWH: 2/6/05

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Poem of the Week: 2/6/05


It's good to practice moderation.
In everything we do.
But there are places where moderation,
Colors a different hue.

There are no moderate Christians,
Nor moderate Islamics, too.
For if you say you believe the myth,
Then, you believe the rest is true.

Two thousand years of science.
Have debunked a myth or two.
Yet we cling to this myth mighty,
Captive to its wondrous view.

So we straddle the living fence,
And pray to whom we do not know.
On the off chance that history is right,
And off to heaven we'll go.

On the route the old book tells us,
To throw in with the extreme,
Edging closer to a fear-shaped world.
Heaven or just death on a particle beam?

RWH: 2/6/05

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Poem of the Week: 1/30/05

Flatulent Muse

He wanted to frill her morose muse.
What did he have to laconically lose?
Perhaps just full frontal vagina views.
Since when is that big bad news?

The twirl of her hair in his serene sky,
Made him think of his face in her pie.
No one but Shirley could surely deny,
Why he dove in and didn't ask why.

There was no obtuse abuse on his part.
Lovemaking to him was a lucid lost art.
He couldn't bear their being blown apart.
When their gases exploded with a foul fart.

And so they reside in the sycamore sky.
Two lovers blown like jetsam on hiatus high.
Their sweet song, the sound of a silent sigh,
Their love as everlasting as a lecherous lie.

A new constellation bears their name,
Her muse will never be the sardonic same.
Unfettered from merely mortal mental game.
Like the gods they achieved immortal fame.

RWH: 1/30/05

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Poem of the Week: 1/23/05

Imposing Prose (The Player)

His prose was imposing, beguiling, composing.
Impeccable words so smooth, fine and inviting.

The girls would swoon at the sound of his voice.
They were swept away and had no choice.

To be led into his inner sanctum by binding ties.
Trapped in his web of finely woven lies.

Caught in his grip of imposing prose,
Living lives without meaning except what he knows.

If only I could reach them with rhythm and rhyme,
To know the joy of song and dance in their time.

Fly free a prancing and break loose their bonds,
Like fairy godmothers waving magic wands.

With feathery pen and swift, satirical nose,
I'd break through his heavy, imposing prose.

And cast him out for the lout that he is.

RWH: 1/22/05

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Poem of the Week: 1/16/05

Promotion Ocean

There are many fishes in the ocean,
Some swim schools, some take notion.
To swim alone in dangerous shoal,
Where violent waves break and roll.

It's easy for a follower to be,
Just school like fishes in the sea.
But careful who you follow and where,
You may end up in the fishnet's snare.

Where you're going, you must lead,
Self-promotion is a dangerous breed.
Without followers, you can never succeed.
To toot your horn, you must have a need.

So flash your fins and flip your tails,
You never know when your ship sails.
The captain always leaves on time,
Aspire to greatness and get in line.

When your followers pave the way for you,
You are clearly in the lead and in full view.
The sharks are waiting in the shoal,
To gobble you up while you twist and roll.

On and on, and on again.
Like the seashore waves roll in.
Some will rise and some will fall,
You cannot hope to catch them all.

So, float gently with the tide.
Watch the waves that you may ride.
When all things wash into motion,
You may be in for a big promotion.

RWH: 1/16/05

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Poem of the Week: 1/9/05

Wandering Man

I am a wandering man,
Traveled far across this land.
Felt feet bare in the sand,
From the Keys to Redwood stand.

World wandering fit my plans.
So I traveled to exotic lands.
Savoring cultures rich and unique,
New language from which to speak.

Crossing cultures on my way,
It's our sameness that held sway.
A universal language that I heard,
We are the same flock of bird.

Traveling science with my mind,
There are insights that I find.
Some are good and some are not.
But life is not a good book's plot.

My days of walking are long over,
Driving still smell sweet cut clover.
But with this mouse I'll travel on.
Over the Internet until I'm gone.

So when this mouse arm gives out.
And I grow too weak to shout.
I'll travel on in my mind,
A wealth of memories there I'll find.

RWH: 1/9/05

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Poem of the Week: 1/2/05

The Tides of Our Lives

The tides of our lives ebb and flow.
The sea is our source and so we must go.
To watch the waves and the gentle tide.
Roll into the sunny shore by the seaside.

The source of our lives is the place between,
The deep water reefs and the grasses green.
The estuary of waters half wet, half dry,
An incubator from which all creatures vie.

But nature evolves at its own pace.
Knows not of the troubles of the human race.
Cataclysm is but a heartbeat away.
Eons of calm into violence will sway.

Life is fraught with pain and strife,
No one can escape it--for such is life.
How we face challenge is what matters, my friend It's how life is lived--a new beginning, not an end.

RWH: 1/2/05

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       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

       Impolite Stories: Sex, Politics & Religion    Love of Controversy Stories

       Verge of Apocalypse Tales    End of Earth Stories?


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