Ron's Poems - 2006

Poem of the Week: 12/31/06

Ode to an Adventurer

They named him Terry,
but he preferred TJ.
Always in a hurry.
Always in his own way.

His father disappeared at 14,
to his great dismay.
To say he idolized him,
would understate the say.

His father was 101st Airborne,
who helped bring Hitler down.
Helped guard Berchtesgaden,
brought fame to their little town.

His father built a trucking company,
the biggest man around.
Hunting and fishing his legacy,
sharp of eye and sound.

With money from mowing lawns,
a Triumph Bonneville at 16.
Three years and three wrecks later,
motorcycles were not his scene.

He tried college for a bit,
but that was not his style.
Started a fraternity to meet his need.
A degree with spite of it guile.

He met her in Manhattan,
small town meets big city.
While Robert Kennedy lay in rest,
they married without a pity.

He tried corporate America a while,
but it was not his liking.
Set himself up in electrical contracting,
and sent corporate America hiking.

Like his many other hobbies,
he easily took to flying.
Started a commercial flight operation,
but stopped, afraid of dying.

Sold his empire on the Maumee,
to get a little cash in hand.
Went to Florida a boating,
divorced, "to live off the land."

Cruised the Caribbean waters,
with her in a '49 Chris-Craft.
Were soon cruising the highways,
in a pickup camper draft.

Miles and many jobs later,
they finally ended the ride.
To Montana went a hunting,
to become a big game guide.

Off to the Northwest Territories,
where grizzly and caribou collide.
Tread the Nahanni wilderness,
where nature and beauty abide.

Bought a British Columbia resort,
in the Stikine River canyon grand.
Smoked salmon was a virtue,
but the natives owned the land.

Traveled on to Tucson,
a new woman by his side.
Eventually they'd marry.
One daughter, 3 wives--his pride.

Back to Florida he wandered,
from Naples to Sebring.
Pro bass fishing became his passion,
multiple enterprises he'd bring.

Forty three years after,
and ten years too late,
his father was found in Boise,
at least he knew his Dad's fate.

For if the full story could be told,
his tales one could not believe.
like Hemingway, TJ lived life large.
And wore it on his sleeve.

Terry J. Wenzel died when his truck rolled over
the night of December 27, 2006 in North Dakota.
He was 59. Many will remember him.

RWH: 12/30/06

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Poem of the Week: 12/24/06

Found Again

Life is a hurry of busy steps,
that gradually wrap around.

After a few first cautious probes,
our curiosity knows no bounds.

Following our parents watchful way,
we learn to keep our founds.

In school, we travel grade by grade,
old lessons in new rounds.

Headlong into puberty we race,
to find we must slow down.

To deal with life's uncertainty,
until our sense of self is found.

When we can break free,
and lay our own path down.

But no one can go it alone,
so we search for guidance sound.

And find it where we can.
I sought the wise and rested.

For the fundamental plan,
for what is true and tested.

And where to make a stand.

For I had mentors many,
as I traveled across this land.

Some that I've lost track of,
and some still close at hand.

With the power of the Internet,
resting in my mouse hand.

I've sought them out aplenty,
to touch them man to man.

For those of you who think,
you'll never pass that way again.

Seek out your mentors plenty,
and give them a great big hand.

Before they pass away.

... RWH: 12/23/06

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Poem of the Week: 12/17/06

Twas the Season

Twas the season without reason,
for the skies were rainy gray.
A three legged frog hopped a log,
into the bass's tray.

The shoppers were a shoppin'.
In the wave, popcorn a poppin'.
the polar ice was a meltin'.
polar bears were slippin' away.

The Lions and Saints,
are Super Bowl greats.
While tigers languish in cages,
their Viagra slaughtered in stages.

The trees on the block,
all lit up with color and flock.
While the killing in Darfur rages.
Demons out of their cages.

The star in the East,
signaled a cold, quiet peace.
While the West was embroiled in war.
Will Baghdad become like Darfur?

Three Kings to the manger,
came like a foreign stranger.
Bearing an improvised bomb.
Can we last long?

The stockings were stuffed,
and the plate was overflowing.
While kids in the garbage,
searched to keep growing.

The season was slipping,
into a new kind of hell.
And the revelers couldn't hear it.
They were blind to the bell.

Can't you feel the smell?

RWH: 12/16/06

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Poem of the Week: 12/10/06


In land of life,
there lies a place between.

A place where peace can be found,
if we only choose to wean.

Ourselves from our crutches,
our little selfish ploys in life.

That keep us at the clutches,
of what we fear is strife.

We conjure up the enemy,
in what we do not know.

Wall off our mental territory,
until we cannot grow.

We find such great joy,
in superficial things.

And great anguish with,
what life just normally brings.

For those that throw off the crutches,
and walk out on their own.

May find a happy medium,
that understanding home.

So if you have all the answers,
yet fear the day you die.

Please examine your foibles,
and ask of their purpose, "Why?"

RWH: 12/9/06

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Poem of the Week: 12/3/06


I've been jousting windmills,
trying to be or not to be.

Out on the barren landscape,
as far as eye can see.

Life throws up its endless barriers,
just when you think you're free.

Just sneaky little reminders,
tossed from calm to stormy sea.

The more we try to simplify,
and rely on technology.

The more we are tied up,
in newfound complexity.

Just when you think you can't go on,
too tired to be a busy bee.

Think of nature's intricate path,
go out and hug a tree.

RWH: 12/2/06

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Poem of the Week: 11/26/06

The Wind

The wind blows wild and free.
In its darkest hour, it howls for me.

It jet streams across the night sky,
leaving no trace where eagles fly.

Except cloudlike white riverlets,
semitransparent to naked eye.

It hurricanes from a mighty south.
Sucking heat from tropic's mouth.

Ladens the air with heavy rain,
makes the fallow fertile again.

It tornadoes with a mighty furl,
a flag of destruction from to hurl.

It rides a front of powerful speed,
thunder and lightning as its steed.

It rises with the heated air,
and downdrafts to beware.

It breezes with the tropic trades,
billowing sail silently still evades.

It breathes upon the sweaty,
neck of the heat of day.

To dry the soul and blow,
the dust of time our way.

And when all is withered wry,
a draft creeps in where we lie.

Only to float upon the breeze,
a muse set free to fly with ease.

RWH: 11/24/06

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Poem of the Week: 11/19/06

Feast and Famine

There comes a time of year to be thankful.
When the table's full and hearts are too.

The mind wanders and I think of you.
I think of times we wandered through.

When the snow came early to the scene.
A Currier and Ives style hunting dream.

We trudged all day in the bright sun,
brought home the bacon to drinks and fun.

Stopped for a few days to just enjoy.
Life was our oyster, our new toy.

Now I sit, exhausted, before this machine.
My life is much fuller living my dream.

But my mind is still empty when it comes to this page.
It can't open up and see the new age.

I know food aplenty will soon come my way.
But my mind is in famine on poetry day.

So I'll trudge on through the holidays,
with you and the snow on my mind.

And someday, too, I'll leave this famine behind.

RWH: 11/18/06

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Poem of the Week: 11/12/06

Technical Difficulties

Beautiful computer, so perfectly free.
You just ain't what you used to be.
Your useful life, now cut to three.

Change is for change's sake,
and sometimes, for the sake of change.
The same old features--just rearranged.

So you want to get wired,
and get high on the Net?

Well your mind's going to perspire,
and your palms' going to sweat.

Learning languages so foreign and cruel,
esoteric acronyms that make geeks drool.

The computer's so stupid it can't understand,
you spelled wrong and brought down the band.

But Google can, and it's become the rule.
Google me now, but don't spell the fool.

The answer my friend is never in the FAQs,
the chat line is quirky and sometimes reacts.
Emailing is iffy for the feedback it lacks.
Technical support from accented quacks.

The manual is the last place to look,
they never have that problem in the book.

Through trial and error and the pulling of hair,
the two of you click, and suddenly, you're there.

A natural symbiosis of mind and machine.
Now life's so easy it's like a dream.

So don't wake me up with upgrades and alerts.
I'll keep living the dream until disaster flirts.

RWH: 11/11/06

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Poem of the Week: 11/5/06

Bloody Lies

We raise our eyes up and look to the skies,
but it's all been a pack of bloody lies.

We all kneel down before him and give tithes,
to a craven image full of bloody lies.

We pay for a missile that so rudely flies,
to a faceless family with its bloody lies.

We march to Armageddon with regrettable sighs,
powerless to correct our own bloody lies.

To the pulpits of power our pundits rise,
calling it leadership while they spew bloody lies.

To gain such power they must compromise,
in a web of deceit and backbiting bloody lies.

Power begets power and big money buys.
More power to broker its bloody lies.

If all are created equal in his eyes,
Then why all the hierarchy built on bloody lies?

A hierarchy of kingdoms wrought by rusty scythes,
of countless millions smitten by a bloody lies.

A Camelot of fortunes deceiving the eyes.
A shining castle of covetous convenient bloody lies.

We are schizophrenic when our faith denies,
that the thin veil of truth is nothing but bloody lies.

So whether you laugh or cry when a baby cries,
is that baby's life propped up on bloody lies?

Denies. Denies. Denies. Thrice he denies.
The fourth time, can we see through his bloody lies?

I hope so--so that war finally dies.

RWH: 11/3/06

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Poem of the Week: 10/29/06

Just-In-Time Technology

Sweet technology has no rhyme.
Its rigid structure can't write a line.
Pieced with paper clips and twine,
sometimes, it arrives just in time.

It started with a simple crutch.
Carved with a gentle loving touch.
To fit the arm and hand with care,
built for years of rugged wear.

With only an example as a guide,
unyielding stainless steel tough as hide.
He built a hand splint as yet untried.
A work of art and source of pride.

Electric Underwood was stolid and punk.
Keys stuck together; type full of gunk.
Thousands of pages at a one-finger plunk.
Requiring the patience of a stoic monk.

The mouse and desktop looked like a toy.
But for real work, it was an incredible joy.
Graphics and spreadsheets with ease,
high-quality presentations became a breeze.

Gel cell batteries and a 20 mile range,
Electric wheelchair no longer strange.
Able to take one almost anywhere.
Freedom of mobility without compare.

Cracking speech-recognition was a great feat.
Taking many a programmer down in defeat.
Speech recognition has written this line.
Speech recognition has reached its prime.

With a little f__'n magic and wiring galore,
a lowered floor van opened the driving door.
Zero pressure steering and a gas-brake that goes,
enables driving the way the mind knows.

No one wants to sit on a sore butt.
A pressure sore is the unkindest cut.
A cushion that floats, yet supports is the key,
allowing long hours and productivity.

With modern medicine right on the brink,
of a stem cell therapy that could be the link.
It's hard to believe anyone that would think,
that this technology's time had not come.

RWH: 10/28/06

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Poem of the Week: 10/22/06

Heretic (Hair a Tic)

His hair a ticking time bomb,
too soon gray or gone.
A fright wig of proportion,
to his look so frail and wane.

The last of the Mohawks,
went down with Mr. T.
Pirates are still wearing 'em,
in the Caribbean Sea.

Spotting mullets a rage,
all across the land.
At motorcycle rallies,
they are close at hand.

A crew cut is so manly,
an astronaut's delight.
You could play pool upon it,
in the dawn's early light.

A bald spot can be covered,
by shaving the entire head.
Be careful how you dive in,
you'll slide right out of bed.

The military cut's the rage,
in the Baghdad streets.
A helmet won't protect you,
when your hairline retreats.

So go wipe your nose,
and get a haircut.

RWH: 10/21/06

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Poem of the Week: 10/15/06

Thrill Killer

I have an obsession I must confess.
A slight intercession I can't redress.

I love to kill and it's my style.
To kill you I'll go an extra mile.

I pick my targets with caring craze.
Ponder my choices for many days.

If you're protected it matters not.
I always have a clear, clean shot.

I start with a camera or maybe the news.
I learn all about you to heighten my muse.

I write silly poems and send them to you.
You ponder the riddles but can't see through.

Sometimes you think I'm in love with you.
If obsession is love, I guess it's true.

All the time I'm plotting your kill.
Methodical precision like climbing a hill.

A sexual perversion I must admit.
Plotting and planning I get off on it.

How long it takes is not a matter.
I love to prolong the pitter and patter.

Hold off the orgasm until it's too late.
Thought of your organs on my plate.

Finally, I pick the where and the when.
My heart beats with joy as I settle in.

I have you in my crosshairs like a toy.
Thoughts of your bottom as sweet as a boy.

Blood rushes to my temples, my legs go weak.
The ultimate pleasure my body fluids seek.

The laser red dot says it's time to deploy.
I squeeze the trigger with infinite joy.

The plume on your forehand signals a hit.
There's blood on my lip where it's been bit.

I see you go down with a single round.
Air reechoes with reverberating sound.

Gather up news accounts and read with glee.
As bumbling bureaucracy tries to catch me.

My obsession's still unsatisfied and must be filled.
My account is overdue and has been billed.

I'm seeking a new recruit to give me a thrill.
Waiting and watching, just over the hill.

RWH: 10/14/06

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Poem of the Week: 10/7/06


It is so easy
to be politically correct
and adored.

It is so easy
to say the right things
so no one gets bored.

But the mind plays tricks
when it comes to
passion and lust.

The mind plays tricks
when greed and avarice
overcomes trust.

We cannot be
completely honest
for it is not a must.

What we must do
is be honest with ourselves
for who else can we trust?

Multitasking is required
in our hectic lives.

Separating work from home
like worker bees in hives.

When we separate
good from bad, exchange
morality for sad.

We are but a sham,
a hapless ham,
and have been had.

Might as well admit,
what no oath will get.
We are a hypocrite.

RWH: 9/30/06

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Poem of the Week: 10/1/06

Thrill of the Kill

We are hunters,
and we are bold.
We hunt in packs,
our enemies untold.

Food is our mortal sin.
We must have it to live.
We take life to take it in.
Take it in to live and give.

We kill a plant,
with little thought.
Plant a new one,
in the same spot.

Attack insects,
wherever found.
In the sky, water,
or on the ground.

Suffocate a fish,
by taking its water.
Scaling it alive,
to freshly slaughter.

We kill animals,
with hammers and guns.
Catch them unawares,
so nothing runs.

With every kill,
we get a rush.
High on adrenaline,
our faces flush.

Our bodies get hormones,
Endorphins flood our brains.
We thrill for the kill, but,
it's the kill that remains.

And so we kill,
for a noble cause.
Survival of the strongest,
or was it just, "because."

But when the killing's over,
and the dead rest supine.
Thoughts on the killing linger,
where good and bad combine.

Thoughts can come to haunt,
of the way the kill was done.
Long after the war is over,
and the battles have been won.

For there is no thrill in killing.
Just a job that must be done.
When we kill for pleasure,
our death's song is sung.

RWH: 9/30/06

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Poem of the Week: 9/24/06

Unexpected Hospitality

In the central highlands,
of the northern clime,
runs a river mighty,
brings to mind, sublime.

In the land of the Chippewa,
where Ojibwa, too, did reign,
the French called her Flambeau,
for the fiery sky and rain.

Amid the virgin forest,
trees as old as weir.
We put canoes of metal,
into water dark as beer.

At times she can be angry,
after weeks of spring rain.
Taking lives with abandon,
a torrent of rocky pain.

This time she was placid.
An August kind of thing.
The rapids tamed by nature,
in her ever wax and wane.

So we put our paddles deep,
into water edged mossy slime,
and wandered down river,
searching for the sign.

Of waters peeking white ahead,
and a roar that comes to mind.
A mighty rapids upon to sped.
And a pathway to safety find.

Like the Voyagers of yore,
sometimes a portage is clear.
The pathways are well-worn.
From moccasins to hooves of deer.

And oh, the splendor!
The eagle and the bear.
The heron flying overhead,
and the ducks swim in to dare.

White pines standing sentinel,
from carved rocky overlooks.
White birches lining the riverbank,
like pages from ancient books.

And oh, the stories they could tell,
of warriors brave and bold.
Who killed an elk upon this spot,
in the glorious days of old.

Two days we paddled and waded,
following the Flambeau's course.
Sleeping on the riverbank,
fighting the mosquito's curse.

Reaching the Chippewa Flowage,
seeking shelter for the night.
We spied a ramshackle cabin,
a most welcome sight.

The screen door, it was open,
to the roughhewn, rustic inside.
A table covered with bat dung,
and the musty smell of pride.

The kitchen was well-stocked,
with pots and pans and things.
We cooked up our last groceries,
in the warmth journey's end brings.

The guest book said, "please sign me."
And we were happy to oblige.
When an unexpected hospitality finds thee,
open and friendly with nothing to hide.

RWH: 9/23/06

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Poem of the Week: 9/17/06


Peekaboo, I see you.
Transparently through and through.
A ramma damma ding dong.

Peekaboo, I see you.
See you through my all night long.
A ramma slamma ding dong.

Peek it in, peek it out.
That's what it's all about.
A ramma slamma sing song.

Peek it up, peek it down.
Make my erotic world go round.
Bama jamma ling long.

See me Sue? Peekaboo!
In living color translucent do.
Spamma bamma live long.

Peekaboobie, peek it out.
Makes me want to scream and shout.
Sing, sang, sung-along.

Peek your booty, peek it in.
Come on, show a little skin?
A ramma lamma ping-pong.

Can't resist a little skin.
Fuel my fire, all night long.
A ramma damma ding dong.

RWH: 9/15/06

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Poem of the Week: 9/10/06

Tracks in the Ash

Thirty-five thousand years ago,
they walked on this land.
And then they disappeared,
hard for the mind to understand.

For they were clearly human,
and they walked with ease.
Like lovers stroll at sunset,
and feel the onshore breeze.

Time has made the imprint,
forever cast in stone.
We were not the first to this place,
and we were not alone.

The key to our future,
may lie in our past.
Why some of us have prospered,
and why some of us have passed.

What was their life like?
A question hard to ask.
They left few clues behind them,
a monumental task.

But slowly we will piece together,
the mystery of their lives.
For our future depends upon it,
like bees depend on hives.

RWH: 9/9/06

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Poem of the Week: 9/3/06

Toil Not

Our world was built,
on the labor of hands.
To mark our place,
in the shifting sands.

Labor was needed,
to rise from the muck.
To harvest ahead,
with a little luck.

Labor was honored,
in its own right.
Manhood was expected,
in the survival rite.

A cruel man could get,
someone else to toil.
Slavery brought riches,
the freedom to spoil.

A rich man could think of,
many things to be done.
His workers would labor,
until the day he had won.

A smart man knows that,
to labor, itself, is good.
He labors himself,
whenever he should.

Labor saving devices,
everywhere abound.
Nothing more cathartic,
than getting down.

On hands and knees,
to dig a deep hole,
until your fingers bleed,
and your heart is whole.

RWH: 9/2/06

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Poem of the Week: 8/27/06

Holding Back the Sea

Starting as marshlands,
where river meets the sea.
Where food was plentiful,
and fresh water was free.

Boatmen who poled,
marshlands in the breeze,
found food aplenty,
and a life of ease.

They built their houses,
on nearby high ground.
Boats ready to flee,
floods came to drown.

Trade was good,
both in land and out.
With wealth came edifices,
beautiful, stately and stout.

But the sea is relentless,
moving in, moving away.
Dikes and levies built,
to keep the sea at bay.

Oh such wealth!
Such power to be!
Such dignity to shine.
Legendary city by the sea.

Menouthis, Kekova, Phasis,
to name but three.
All have succumbed,
to the powers that be.

Venice, Amsterdam, Old Orleans,
are trying to hold back time.
But the sea is as relentless,
as the Ancient Mariner's rhyme.

Storms will come to ravish.
Tsunamis will slip silently in.
Subsidence into the muck.
Earthquakes will always win.

Tides will have their way.
Coastline will erode to bay.
until the sea and marshlands,
reclaim their light of day.

RWH: 8/26/06

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Poem of the Week: 8/20/06


Yesterday's gone,
so we seize today.
Live in the moment,
before going away.

There is no heaven,
no hell to burn.
Only the moment,
from which to learn.

Uniquely prepared,
to learn from the past.
We can capture it,
and make it last.

The past teaches us,
how to live today.
It also teaches us,
how to find our way.

The question is simple.
And it is profound.
How long will humans,
want to be around?

You may wish for heaven.
You may wish for fame.
You may wish for fortune.
As you play the game.

But our wish for the children,
should all be the same.
That their lives be better,
than our lives have been.

Do you want them to suffer,
famine, pestilence, and war?
Do you want them to struggle,
morality, madness, and more?

As we rapidly burn up,
our legacy's core,
and species vanish,
like never before.

Are we too smug to realize?
Too self-assure?
To read the signs clearly,
and just ignore.

It's so much easier,
to trust in a Lord.
Continue in ignorance,
and let the world go overboard.

Tomorrow will come,
there's no doubting that.
What tomorrow will be,
is drawn from our hat.

I am optimistic,
that we will conquer our fear.
Leave the Earth behind--better.

But not next year.
Imagine a fundamental difference,
in the way we think.
No more, "them" and "us",
and other fatalistic link.

Imagine working together,
to make the future bright.
Giving all of life's species homeless,
a place where they can light.

It means we must give up,
our fruitful, multiplying ways.
Growth is its own disaster,
growth has seen its better days.

I raise my cup to tomorrow,
and all the wonders it will bring.
for its image is in my mind today,
and all we have to do is sing:

"Imagine" by John Lennon

RWH: 8/19/06

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Poem of the Week: 8/13/06


A small boy travels to a distant land,
knows not his custom, language and hand.

Knows not his value, faith, and face,
knows not his virtue, love, and place.

He's alien in this nation of rules and laws.
By virtue, a rebel without a cause.

Trapped in his place of walls without walls,
an alien by nature when his nature calls.

He seeks out others of similar fate,
he seeks them out before it's too late.

They convince him that their cause is just.
They convince him they alone he must trust.

In a nation without station a plan is hatched,
in an intricate pattern the flax is thatched.

One life for the cause with heaven at stake.
He is now in a trance and will not awake.

He's knock, knock, knockin' on Heaven's Gate.
Please, please stop him before it's too late!

Should have never reached this state:
ostracized, separated, alienated and berate.

When will we learn to confront our fears,
the alien in our nature that causes tears?

RWH: 8/12/06

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Poem of the Week: 8/6/06

Weep What You Sew

Life is a coat of tattered fragments,
that mother pieced with care.

Growing up was never easy,
with danger everywhere.

Although you learned your lessons,
your father wasn't there.

So they were lost upon you,
along with the burdens you bear.

You sewed together a patchwork,
of friends with which to share.

But the world came down upon you,
in a place you called nowhere.

And the weeping it was mighty,
and you cried, "Revenge, I swear!"

Got down on your knees a praying,
caught up in the snare.

That you were lost for trying,
your coat had laid you bare.

RWH: 8/5/06

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Poem of the Week: 8/6/06

Weep What You Sew

Life is a coat of tattered fragments,
that mother pieced with care.

Growing up was never easy,
with danger everywhere.

Although you learned your lessons,
your father wasn't there.

So they were lost upon you,
along with the burdens you bear.

You sewed together a patchwork,
of friends with which to share.

But the world came down upon you,
in a place you called nowhere.

And the weeping it was mighty,
and you cried, "revenge, I swear!" Got down on your knees a praying,
caught up in the snare.

That you were lost for trying,
your coat had laid you bare.

RWH: 8/5/06

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Poem of the Week: 7/30/06

Close Encounter

As I looked out one cool, October night.
My eyes beheld a wondrous sight.

Mars had come to dance round the moon.
A sight to make all lovers swoon.

His winged feet had flown him so near.
His rugged redness against her sheer.

As was foretold by the ancient seer,
to join again in the 25,000th year.

Humanity became so enthralled,
children laughed and old men bawled.

Wars stopped and everyone danced in the street.
Never had the world seen such a treat.

People begged NASA to send a rocket.
Everyone wanted a piece of Mars in their pocket.

Alas, our euphoria was very short-lived.
For the gift slipped away like sand that is sieved.

The Earth turned on its axis to meet the might.
Of the warrior Mars and its gravity that night.

The oceans were tossed from their basins,
volcanoes erupted and earthquakes hastened.

The Armageddon wished for had come to pass.
And all souls went to heaven for the repast.

The Earth and Mars continued round the Sun,
A billion years later humanity returned to its fun.

Only to be swallowed by the source of its run.

RWH: 7/29/06

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Poem of the Week: 7/23/06

Russian Roulette

Only in Russia can it be,
for each one that dies,
made are two babies.

It seem this math of the seers,
double the people in twenty years.
But this is not so, and so the fears.

The Russian health system is so bad.
Smoking and drinking is killing the dad.
The high cost of living causes this sad.

Women are opting not to have child.
It cost too much in economy so wild.
How would we feed or teach the mild?

Problem requires strong intervention.
Government subsidy--no new invention.
Putin is offering $10,000 pension.

Woman still think his idea is nuts.
Can't afford vodka, caviar and such.
Must afford the kid to teach much.

Putin insists will be good for country.
More man-child to work and die early.
More man-child to be cute and cuddly.
More man-child to kiss on the belly.

RWH: 7/22/06

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Poem of the Week: 7/16/06

Computer Complex
(It's a mental condition)

The first computer programs,
were hardwired on the spot.
All cathode ray tubes,
expensive and hot.

One tube burned out,
your program was shot.

Transistors made computers,
cooler and small. Typing
Hollerith cards for programming,
made it easier for all.

A card out of place, mispunched, or
syntax error and the program would fail.

Magnetic tape and disks spun round,
storing data with a high-pitched sound.
An IBM Selectric connected by wire,
time-shared cards to the paper pound.

Could word process with this big machine,
combining it with graphics was still a dream.

The Selectric gave way to the CRT.
Graphics, icons and the desktop display.
All it needed was one little mouse,
and computing could come to the house.

The disk operating system was so floppy,
Operating these made computing sloppy.

Steve Jobs put it all together in a box.
Called it an Apple and gave it a mouse.
Like to Pied Piper they flocked and played,
Had to get one for the kids today.

Programmers turned up their noses,
at the threat a toy for kids poses .

Steve Jobs hired Bill Gates for serious code.
so his computer could do real work.
With Macintosh and Office he scored big,
but anti-mousers called him a dork.

"The Macintosh is just a toy," they cried.
"If required to use a mouse-I'll die."

The geeks, they joined, with Gates and his DOS.
Mastered multiple keystrokes and cryptic codes.
Convinced all of business that they were cool,
harder was better in business modes.

But Bill was losing with his crappy disk system,
had to meet Mac's innovative inroads.

With Windows he copied what Jobs had wrought,
a poor imitation that the geeks bought.
The geek world went wild and produced the PC,
a cheap computer that failed readily.

Everyone bought computers with Windows with glee,
only to find they weren't what supposed to be.

Many generations have come and gone.
Processors, Windows, monitors, on and on.
The complexity of Gates' idea has come to a head,
an ungainly, bloated code that many dread.

That the hackers of the Internet love to exploit,
with viruses, trojans, phishing, spam and the like.

Thus a new era of Apple as a business machine,
a window to the Internet that works like a dream.
While Bill Gates takes his billions and hightails it out.
The weight of Windows we are all finding out.

So who in this story has the last laugh?
The smart computer user with a Mac in lap.

RWH: 7/15/06

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Poem of the Week: 7/9/06


S is for success.
S is for stress.
S is for syndrome.

Climb the ladder of success.
Much is expected and much is learned.
Much depends upon our genes.
Much depends how the worm has turned.

Appearances mean a lot.
And how the game is fought.
Stress comes with the territory,
and doesn't count for naught.

Never let them see you sweat,
the truism ringed with hell.
Leadership demands it,
before the final bell.

And so you learn to hold it in,
appear as cold as stone.
While adrenaline pumps your heart,
known by you alone.

The more you succeed,
the more you need,
to do it all again.

The syndrome of success is strong,
Draws you in again and again.
24/7 is your song.
You stay high on its run.

Spend your time in leisurely pursuits,
that are always more than fun.
Lots of time in the sunshine,
but rarely feel the sun.

If you are lucky you'll be rich,
beyond your wildest dreams.
But if you can't change your ways,
your house of cards and schemes.

You are doomed to walk the line,
between hatred and respect.
It is how you take to hatred,
that you can not neglect.

For that old addiction,
that brought you to the top,
that fight or flee affliction,
the one that never stopped.

Will eat away at your insides,
your mind, your soul, your heart.
Time for a wake-up call,
Time for a new start.

All the success in the world,
isn't worth a thing.
If you check out before your time,
before your bell can ring.

RWH: 7/8/06

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Poem of the Week: 7/2/06

Stiff Necked, Too (Adult)

Woke up with a stiff, necked this morning.
Wake up with a stiff, necked most mornings.
Go to bed with a stiff, necked too.
In fact, I've got a stiff, necked all day through.

Driving can be fun if stiff necked you go,
feel the cool breeze on your hidey ho.
Stopping at intersections can be tricky,
drivers looking down on chastity key.

She says that I am stiff, when necked,
because I'm thinking of other things.
I'm just pinching memories so hard,
stiff among her wondrous blings.

They say that I am skinned, not necked,
not circumcised by rabbi's priest.
Since when has a rabbi come to part,
a stiff, necked from his piece?

When she comes I will get it up,
Lift off and tweak the joystick, too.
Fly through the air like Superman,
just to do a different do.

If the stiff necked get off their religion,
and let sexual freedom come true,
I'd get it up and make a mooner,
Before the day is through.

Don't have to walk on water,
or fly through the air with ease.
Just tweak my joystick gently.
And feel the morning breeze.

My stiff necked not caused by a pill,
or its wagging by a spouse.
It's caused by thoughts of wonder,
When all clothes leaves the house.

So I'll just grin and raise it,
until that big prude turns and runs.
She comes back to amuse it,
and my stiff necked day comes.

RWH: 7/2/06

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Poem of the Week: 6/25/06

Stiff Necked

Woke with a stiff neck this morning.
Wake with a stiff neck most days.
Go to bed with a stiff neck too.
In fact, got a stiff neck all day through.

Driving when you can't look side to side,
just ease out and hope you don't collide.
Watch the mirrors with religious zeal.
Keep from harm with slow-moving feel.

She says that I am stiff-necked,
because I don't buy her things.
I'm just pinching pennies too hard,
And stiff arming diamond rings.

They say that I am stiff necked,
not open to be saved by Jesus Christ.
Since when does a dead man come,
to save a stiff neck from its vice?

When he comes I will get up and walk,
and traipse on water too.
I'll fly through the air like Superman,
just to get a different view.

If the stiff necks get off their religion,
and let stem cell research go through.
I'd get up and walk much sooner,
than any dead man could do.

Don't have to walk on water,
or fly through the air with ease.
I'll just buy an airplane,
and a pair of water skis.

Stiff neck's not caused by attitude,
or the nagging of a spouse.
It's caused by stressful movement,
Just plain overuse of the mouse.

So I'll just grin and bear it,
until that great day comes.
I get my fingers back in use,
and my stiff neck turns and runs.

RWH: 6/24/06

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Poem of the Week: 6/18/06


As I go gamboling down to my destruction,
I choose not to read the road signs.

The subtle lines, silent, amid my finds,
and continually take the wrong path.

I'm so smart my system's iron tight.
So many tries the next one just might...

No... I know that it will hit,
Bayes law and a matter of whit.

Hocked my car, my house, and my retirement.
Borrowed from friends, relatives, and the sharks.

Robbed Peter to pay Paul, and through it all,
I'm cool and calm until the dog barks.

Without a bone, without a home--a gambling gnome,
waiting for that lucky break, that big take,

That never comes...

RWH: 6/17/06

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Poem of the Week: 6/11/06

Reality Game Shows

So you want your fifteen minutes of fame?
Stretch it out longer if you play the game.

All you got to do is fill out a form,
embellish it with idiosyncratic norm.

All the better to get selected,
if you're not so well-connected.

When you get the call act surprised,
don't tell them where your real lies.

Money, honey is what you're after.
Smooth operator, sly, a real crafter.

So size up your fellow contestants,
eyeing their surmountable resistance.

Once on air, start acting the fool,
you'll get more camera time to tool.

Cut the legs off those who are weak,
don't let them know your mean streak.

And if you risk--risk it all.
Go for broke and take the fall.

So when some other guy gets the prize,
you're smart ass ways are not wise.

Home with your tail between your legs,
a local celebrity--bring out the kegs!

So you didn't win the big buck today,
That's okay, don't give a f**k, anyway.

RWH: 6/8/06

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Poem of the Week: 6/4/06

Night Terror

As the sun wanes in the evening sky,
birds flock home like days gone by.

Home to roost and home to nest,
to the place they've chosen best.

To keep their babies warm and well,
protect them from the pending hell.

That comes in the night.

A lightning flash is the first sign,
the storm is building fast.

Will the nest be strong enough,
to hold against the wild wind's blast?

Will the hail, hard and fast,
strip the tree leaf from limb?

And beat her senseless in the nest,
Trying to protect her young?

Or will the possum stick its pink nose in,
teeth bared, until she flies?

Taking eggs where the dinosaur lies.

Or the hand of the raccoon touches her side,
startled, she flies out somewhere to hide.

Only to return to an empty nest.

Sometimes, in the wee hours close to dawn,
comes the whisper of wings with talons on.

In the owl's grasp she struggles in vain,
beheaded in flight, her blood flows like rain.

If the eggs hatch at all, her chicks will die.
Such is the peril for the freedom to fly.

Such is the terror of the ancient night sky.

RWH: 6/3/06

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Poem of the Week: 5/21/06

I Remember

I remember Pickett's charge and the lead filled air,
brother against brother, falling side by side there.

I remember San Juan Hill and Teddy's hearty yell,
we lost more men to yellow fever in that jungle hell.

I remember the winter of' '18 trying to hold the line.
Mud, gas, and pneumonia, next shell could be mine.

I remember the hell of Omaha Beach with dread,
the air so filled with fury and the water bloody red.

I remember Hiroshima and Nagasaki in horror,
the death of civilians would bring an end to war.

I remember freezing above the 38th Parallel line.
Though we made the Yalu, we lost it all in time.

I remember rotting, somewhere near Da Nang,
as Charlie snuck on in while Bob Dylan sang.

I remember reaching Baghdad, calling Saddam's hand.
Desert Storm blew back to Kuwait, like the desert sand.

I remember Somalia sun, Mogadishu shining by the sea.
Our dead soldiers dragged through the streets with glee.

I remember the shock and awe as we rolled into town.
Four years later and counting, IED surprises abound.

I never served and went to war, but I remember well,
History has taught me-the glory of war is only its hell.

RWH: 5/28/06

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Poem of the Week: 5/21/06

The Artist As Poet

Images come into her mind so vivid,
like the mix of acrylics on her palette.

She paints words in swift strokes,
like the troubadour sings a ballad.

She writes of love and loss with passion,
like they were her last words so pallid.

The hues to fit her muse are valid.

She writes from many observations,
with an anguished artist's inner eye.

She colors her words carefully,
how many shades the blue sky? Forever touching up the words,
she never quite puts it quietly by.

Her masterpiece brings a sigh.

RWH: 5/18/06

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Poem of the Week: 5/14/06

Pruners and Planters

"Nature is the best landscaper,"
a wise architect friend once said.

If you've ever visited a true wilderness,
you'll understand his turn of head.

Where the old and new thrive together,
In a never ending drama of weather.

Deer favor the buds of young saplings,
forcing branching into full growing boughs.

Clearing the brush and opening a path,
for the sun to shine in and heal our sorrows.

Bears, birds, and squirrels pick the forest clean.
droppings spread seeds with a fertilizer green.

When winter comes with ice on the branches,
the weak ones fail for taking their chances.

Some plants need fire to grow strong,
burning the old-growth so the new come on.

All things need pruning to live and thrive.
The lesson for humanity is slow to arrive.

RWH: 5/13/06

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Poem of the Week: 5/7/06

Well-Meaning Fools

The world suffers its well-meaning fools.
who often jump in before sensibility rules.

Afraid to confront what they know not.
they carry their protection like a frock.

Steeled by their conviction from deep within.
they go forth and proselytize to free us from sin.

The fact that they don't know a nit from a gnat,
Only bolsters their faith in the lean from the fat.

Relying on ancient truisms long passed down.
before the mysterious, they flock and fawn.

The cure for all ills is right in their grasp.
they cure themselves with it until their last gasp.

Well, I've walked on water after a sharp freeze.
and flown through the air with the greatest of ease.

I've held my breath longer than most men should.
I've risen from my deathbed and walked on wood.

The palaces of kings are built by humble tools.
The highness surrounded by well-meaning fools.

RWH: 5/6/06

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Poem of the Week: 4/30/06

Slow-Moving Front

Thinking of Otis Redding...

There's a slow-moving front come in,
can you smell the flowers?

Yes, a slow-moving front's come in,
I been sittin' here for hours.

The leaden sky is darkly gray,
pregnant with spring showers.

Jogging my slow-moving frontal lobe,
from dreamy ivory towers.

Trying to compose my thoughts,
while making bridal bowers.

Slow-moving front's dragging by,
reflecting all my sorrows.

Slow moving job hunt passing by,
I been sittin' here for days.

Eatin' all my equity,
can't seem to change my ways.

Until that damn front passes by,
and I'll again see brighter days.

RWH: 4/29/06

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Poem of the Week: 4/23/06

Night of Terror

Thirty Thousand Years Ago...

Lightning rips the fabric of the night,
piercing closed eyelids with shards of light.

The crack of thunder startles the womb,
her fetus kicks from pending doom.

The flash reveals huddled flesh,
in the tree from the lions' fresh.

Climbing to escape the lions' snare,
only to inhabit the leopards' lair.

Nervously picking flecks of salt,
the sweat of the day has come out.

The wind strikes like a wall of wrath,
tearing at all limbs in its path.

The huddled hang on for dear life;
tree branches whip and cut like a knife.

Stoned by hail before history's dawn,
it is all they can do to just hang on.

Raindrops come like slugs of lead,
pelting the cold and huddled dread.

Washing the stink of the dry season away,
soaking souls through until dawn of day.

When sunlight reveals a resplendent land,
and they can slip down to the day at hand.

RWH: 4/22/06

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Poem of the Week: 4/16/06

Thank God for Holidays

You know I don't thank God for much.
Don't believe that he is almighty as such.

I do thank him for creating the Sabbath,
a break in the weekly shuffle and babbath.

And Saturdays are so serenely nice,
so thank you for taking God's advice.

On Fourth of July and Memorial Day,
we thank the Lord and Country we pray.

His one concession is poor Labor Day.
God gave up one for Karl Marx 's say.

All turkeys would still be wild,
if God had not declared Thanksgiving mild.

To give the kids and the Devil his due,
he created Halloween just for you.

God's son made Christmas greatest of all,
Counting days to Santa, shopping the mall.

Martin Luther and the Presidents get equal time,
the days go by so fast, we hardly unwind.

And Easter, of course, comes in the spring.
Rabbits' eggs so fresh and birdies sing.

So come all ye religions from far and wide,
we need your holy days for more free ride.

RWH: 4/15/06

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Poem of the Week: 4/9/06

The American Nightmare

Come, all ye huddled masses to this shore.
Come, like millions who have come before.

Opportunity is endless and easy to endure,
Come, come quietly, to the golden door.

It is so easy to slip in, lie, cheat and steal,
your way to America with all its appeal.

They are so rich and stupid and view work with dread,
with hard work and cheating, it's so easy to get ahead.

Once you are firmly established a foothold here,
sponsor your entire family without any fear.

Your hard work and honesty is valued so dear,
they easily overlook how you really got here.

Each generation millions more come.
Easily assimilate and become USA one.

Changing the land from rural to urban.
Creating safe havens to wear a turban.

It is easy to overlook the growing blight,
when your lawn is mowed impeccably tight.

Clippings are mixed with vile trash, you see,
and the fertilizer works its way to the sea.

Highways are built to carry the burdening fare,
millions of new autos going mostly nowhere.

Houses and suburbs spread like wildfire,
urbanization and crowding become our welfare.

Millions escape to gated enclaves,
the price of freedom actually enslaves.

Fear creeps in and steals our minds,
the American dream slowly unwinds.

And the home of the brave and the land of the free,
that we picture in our dreams will cease to be.

RWH: 4/8/06

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Poem of the Week: 4/2/06

Administrative Leave

A vacation with pay, more or less,
while others are left to sort out the mess.

A time to contemplate what was done,
before the axe or a reprieve is won.

A convenient reminder of what to do,
when everything finally catches up with you.

A time to ponder, to ensure fate,
perhaps to act, before it's too late.

A time of rumors great and small,
Will anyone ever learn the truth of it all?

So while you are clawing your way to the top,
administrative leave may bring it to a stop.

Think about it.

RWH: 4/1/06

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Poem of the Week: 4/2/06

Pet Peeve

Have you ever seen or heard your pet peeve?
I'm sure it's disgusting like when you relieve.

Do you remember that hero, Steve Reeves?
Just thinking about him gives me the heaves.

Do you remember that folk singer, Burl Ives?
Just thinking about him gives me the hives.

I'll bet you've never pet a peeve.
Try it and be left with the empty sleeve.

Blood pumping from the stumpy leave,
all that's left is a bloody bereave.

So, remember, don't pet your pet if it's peeved.

RWH: 4/1/06

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Poem of the Week: 3/26/06


Melancholy came over me,
like dew on a window pane,
suddenly becomes the rain.

A longing, inside, that grew,
into a chasm, deep, blue and wide,
from which, my dread cannot hide.

Running a shiver up my spine,
for all the times I white lied,
to keep the pain pushed aside.

Like when winter is upon me,
and I see no way for will to survive,
waiting for melancholy to arrive.

It's times like these,
Times not so joke and jolly,
caught up in melancholy.

Uneasy feeling, thoughts reeling,
my melancholy comes a stealing,
and I try not to cry.

RWH: 3/25/06

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Poem of the Week: 3/19/06


Now that I have escaped the bounds of Earth's grace,
and viewed the planet from outer space.
I can see clearly now the edge of existence.

Now that I've traveled with the camera's eye,
to a place that will never see the sky.
I can see clearly now the organs of my persistence.

Now that I've Googled deep for the answer,
and found it waiting like an impatient prancer.
I can see clearly now the truth of a sentence.

Now that I've searched for a few good men,
down through history and its store of them.
I can see clearly now the source of their resistance.

Now that I've dreamed the impossible life,
and fathomed its senses through trial and strife.
I can see clearly the means of its sustenance.

Now that I've climbed to the peak of perfection,
and seen my life take on a new direction.
I can see clearly now my death in the distance.

RWH: 3/18/06

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Poem of the Week: 3/12/06

Dubya Dubai

Mohamed came down from the mountain,
and saw the earth was free.

We'll have to fix that he said to himself,
camels running wild cannot be.

We must drive out the infidels,
and keep our women in tow.

So that we can populate the earth,
and make it to our moral.

With UAE, we will control the seas.
We'll transport WMDs with ease.

Dubya is so dumb he let us do it,
smoked our hash pipes--welcome to it.

Dubya, Dubai, Eeyeeii,
I see contrails in the sky.

I see ships a sail for port.
I see ships a sail for hurt.

I see hatred in their holds.
As an old story slowly unfolds.

How the Greeks conquered Troy,
with gifts of greed and treacherous ploy.

Do not let Islam in our house,
a state religion with no spouse.

They dupe you Dubya with their offer,
Deceive you with their dirty, oily, coffer.

Do business with them we must,
but we cannot entirely trust.

Dubya, Dubai, Eeyeeii,
not a lovely, way to die.

RWH: 3/11/06

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Poem of the Week: 3/5/06


I have faith that after the darkest night.
the sun will rise in the east morning light.

I have faith that new leaves, at last.
will reappear after the deep winter fast.

I have faith that it will rain on me.
and the gentle rain will flow to the sea.

I have faith that love will strike.
and young people will love make.

Long after this world that I know.
is changed and gone, faith lives on.

I have no faith in the politics of man.
no belief that religion controls or can.

Make me into something that I'm not.
For deep inside I know what's rot.

The world's knowledge will steer me right.
so that I don't have to lose sleep at night.

Worrying about it.

RWH: 3/4/06

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Poem of the Week: 2/26/06

A World of Hurt

Finished the annual report the other day,
the prognosis is rosy--say, what'd I say?

The spin-doctors spin and the world goes round,
can you still hear that still, small sound?

That underground rumble of global unrest,
it smolders and simmers and puts us to test.

It cries in the stomachs of hungry babes,
it hides in the eyes, sunken like caves.

It lingers in the conscience of a growing aware,
it waits like a cat, to pounce and snare.

It floats in the flotsam of extinction debris,
down the Amazon to the death of the sea.

One day it will rise up and take us by surprise,
fear and loathing we will see with their eyes.

As the world turns and society churns,
to the sound of explosions in the street.

Women screaming and nothing to eat,
as the world crumbles under the heavy feet.

Of oppression and greed.

RWH: 2/25/06

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Poem of the Week: 2/19/06


Subtle unease floats in the breeze,
of my sub cranial unconsciousness.

A willow waves in the still of night,
I lurk in the shadows, full of fright.

For the edge of life is upon us.

The smell of the air, the curl of your hair,
all signs pointing to the Apocalypse.

A certain unease, held in the crease,
of our collective cognitive countenance.

Tells us that we're scared.

A persistent unease, borne on the grease,
of ten million slippery thoughts.

A fear of the night and its alter almighty,
whose wrath is not taken lightly.

The transformation is at hand.

Do not release your sinking unease,
or launch an epidemic of melancholy.

A path of destruction deep and wide,
revealing the greatest human folly.

Fear is our enemy and life our love.

I'd put the latter up above,
and ease out of that unease.

Put all that superstition behind me,
and float my balloon in the breeze.

Putting my mind at ease.

RWH: 2/18/06

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Poem of the Week: 2/14/06

Love Is

Until the mountains sink in golden sands,
and rivers run out of bank in deserted lands.

Until the red of roses turns a bitter blue,
love is forever me and forever you.

Until the sun stops dancing,
on rippled waters true.

Until the moon pales in the sky,
and birds refuse to fly.

Until the heart beats its last beat,
and lungs fail in the heat.

Passed to each generation,
with care and veneration.

Love is me and love is you,
it envelops every nation.

RWH: 2/11/06

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Poem of the Week: 2/12/06

Sun Dancers

Sun dancers dance on rippled waters' wave,
sparkling like diamonds to soothe and save.

Trees wave their boughs to me in the wind,
shedding their leaves like tears I have sinned.

Pale moon casts shadows of stark contrast,
an eerie landscape conjuring nocturnal's past.

Full grain ripples in waves of content,
to soothe my senses like letters I've sent.

Clouds billow and pillow in the softest bed,
a white on blue canvas to lay my head.

Sun dancers dance in the grace of the sun,
On the edge of the canyon, life's begun.


RWH: 2/11/06

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Poem of the Week: 2/5/06


Retribution comes to those who wait.
Sound the chorus before it's too late.

For the easy seekers, small or great.
There is no easy, so clean your slate.

For the oppressed, small or great.
Wait and listen, for your time and date.

For in the greater scheme of things.
Time has a way of lifting its wings.

Aspire to greatness as much as you can.
It will come least expected, but never when.

You planned.

So relax and let it happen.

RWH: 2/4/06

Print this poem here.

Poem of the Week: 1/29/06

Waxing Taxing

Nothing's surer than death or taxes,
so I'm here to tell you what the facts is.

They passed the Paperwork Reduction Act,
to save us from that monkey on our back.

So each year they add more forms.
"Please fill out carefully," each one warns.

They kindly tell us how much time it will take,
so that we can do it during a coffee break.

"Make sure you have all your information at hand."
A pile of old bills wrapped in a rubber band.

So after you've struggled for hours and give up,
the has a program to cheer you up.

Says, do your taxes online for free.
So I click on the button, wait and see.

Several companies say they'll do it for me.
When I click on them, they all ask for a fee.

I say, okay, they're saving me time.
I pay my money and ease my mind.

The system hangs up--wrong browser-nice.
Two computers, three browsers later-still no dice.

I'm back to paper and the computer's on ice.
To top it off, I won't even get my slice.

Guess I'll wait until the last minute to pay.
And go back to writing poetry my way.

RWH: 1/29/06

Print this poem here.

Poem of the Week: 1/22/06

Hanging Gardens of Houston

At the dawning of a new age,
in a land, rich beyond compare.

Stark concrete glass, and steel,
gave way to something rare.

They dredged her bayous deep,
and drained the swampy ground.

Drove all the little creatures away,
And the gater's booming sound.

The choking dust of summer,
Followed winter's mud and rain.

Concrete the whole damn thing over,
into one hot, hard, uninviting, plain.

Strip malls and billboards,
to line the busy streets.

Freeways and bypasses,
to keep us in our cars' seats.

Building another freeway,
tearing houses down.

This time, something's different,
we smile, rather than frown.

The grooved walls of trench cascade,
like ancient Nineveh stone.

Bridges gracefully leap the span,
like rainbows in the morn.

Vines grow up the walls,
casting green delight.

Pines, myrtles and eucalyptus,
top the great walls' height.

White plumed grasses line the edge,
catching morning light.

A calm in the morning commute,
to dream of Babylon gone by.

Where plants thrive on carbon dioxide,
in the new, Mesopotamian sky.

RWH: 1/14/06

Print this poem here.

Poem of the Week: 1/15/06

Let It Go

Let go of this winter funk your in.
Take your clothes off,
open the drapes,
and let the sunshine in.

So, she let you down,
they let you down,
he let you down -- all three.

You can't change another person's mind,
by feeling sorry, sick and lonely.
Can't do it by getting drunk,
Not bathing, stinking like a skunk,
or wearing that pathetic look.

Get up and out of bed,
take your vitamins, clear your head,
and put your plan to ground.

Put on your running shoes,
your boxing gloves,
your swimming trunks,
or get on out of town.

Your whole life awaits you.
It's in you alone, that you must trust.
Forget what he, she, they think,
breakthrough with zest and thrust.

Yourself into the game of life,
play it to the hilt.
You'll never get anywhere,
on self pity, agony, and guilt.

So lift your head up from the sand,
and watch the stars come out.
Your life is a precious luxury,
don't drag it down with doubt.

And when the heat warms your body,
and you've cast the demons out,
your life will reach a fullness,
free to sing, dance and shout,

"Glory, hallelujah!, I'm out!"

RWH: 1/11/06

Print this poem here.

Poem of the Week: 1/8/06

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

(Rollover, Mr. Roberts)

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood,
sexual predators all around.
I think I'll go for a walk,
take in the city's sound.

My check engine light's on empty,
and my brakes are out of round.
My air bags' about to out gas,
with that hideous popping sound.

The IRS is out to get me,
and the charity I've found.
To expense my lavish lifestyle,
please tell them I'm out of town.

Must remember not to cross the street,
my neighbor's pit bull's lair.
Last time he got hold my leg,
and dragged me here to there.

Neighbor came home to find her dog,
wagging his behind.
Found me in a stack of bones,
long-lost lovers find.

She's a he, or I think she be,
the difference is so profound.
I follow her like a lap dog,
my hung tongue slurping sound.

It's a beautiful day in the neighborhood,
can you hear that lovely sound?
Ethnicities a crashing in the distance,
it's a great time to be around.

RWH: 1/7/06

Print this poem here.

Poem of the Week: 1/1/06


I resolve to evolve; beyond the petty life,
that nails me down and holds me back.
Where there is no limit, no slack.

I don't need to lose weight.
I don't need to quit cigarettes.
I am not addicted to drugs or alcohol.

I resolve to revolve like an evolutionary door.
Sorting through, and casting off the chaff.
A coat of colors true, so I will not lack.

I don't need to cast off codependence.
I don't need to leave my spouse.
I don't want to change my house.

I resolve to solve the mystery of life.
Why we create so much strife, and
why we can't just get along and not attack?

I don't need to exorcise demons or
live my life in fantasy. The ecstasy
of merely living is good enough for me.

I resolve to dissolve all the fear in my way,
Won't let fear and superstition guide my day.
Faith in my own knowledge is where I'll stay.

And may the devil take the rest.

RWH: 12/29/05

Print this poem here.


       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

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

       Verge of Apocalypse Tales    End of Earth Stories?


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