Ron's Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week: 12/27/09

The Clock Ticks on...

One tenth of the century gone,
and the clock ticks on.
What have we learned,
in the new century's dawn?

We learned that hatred,
is just around the block.
When the twin towers fell,
like Jack in the Beanstalk.

We learned that war,
can be unexpected.
When shock and awe,
toward us, is deflected.

We relearned the danger,
of going to and from space.
But we must press on,
To find our place.

We learned making money,
is not what it seems.
When we are caught up,
in Ponzi schemes.

We learned that warming,
like a tropical isle.
Can bring us disaster,
and a new lifestyle.

We learned that America,
is not the center of power.
When we bow to Asia,
and its economic tower.

We learned that hurricanes,
cost more than we can pay.
with billions in damage,
and millions in harms way.

We learned that tsunamis,
come from earthquakes.
And the millions more die,
then when the earth just shakes.

We learned that the economy,
can be brought down by greed.
The signs were everywhere,
but no one would heed.

We learned that a black man,
would be allowed to lead.
But will he overcome,
the racism of hatred and creed?

Will we be ready,
when the next surprise comes along?

Only time will tell,
and the clock ticks on.

RWH: 12/27/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/20/09

Jack Frost

Jack Frost travels far and wide,
covers the world in a single stride,
following the morning tide.

Jack Frost turns the world to white,
heralds the winter's come at night,
heralds its cold and gripping might.

Jack Frost nips at nose and ear,
dries the eyes and makes them tear,
but still is kids' happiest time of year.

Sunlight bright, Jack's delight,
it will melt him though...
clouds and snow, to hide he'll go.

Jack Frost creates a landscape scene,
softening all that was ever mean,
as if transferred from a white dream.

Jack Frost obscures window panes,
on houses,
cars, and moving trains,
making driving cars almost insane.

And so it goes, when Jack Frost is done,
and we see the bitter winter sun,
we know we're in for winter's run.

RWH: 12/19/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/13/09

Somewhere There Are Christmases

Somewhere there are Christmases,
where the light of love shines bright.
Somewhere there are Christmases,
where the land is bleak with blight.

Where snow falls this time of year,
and sets to cheeks its rosy cheer.
Or turns to cold rain and mud,
making mere existence drear.

Where colored lights fill the nights,
and bring all hearts to joy.
Or where the electricity is cut off,
and children work but have no toy.

Somewhere there are lavish gifts,
bestowed upon the dear.
While unemployment checks,
run out the first of the year.

Somewhere the sounds of family,
reverberate through the house.
or the foreclosure last month,
left it quiet as a mouse.

Somewhere they are singing,
Christmas carols with glee.
But there are children crying,
from sea to shining sea.

We give generously at Christmas,
to share our wealth with the poor.
And ignore their plight the rest of days,
as though generous no more.

For some there are no Christmases,
in far-off away foreign lands.
Yet they work very hard to please us,
with gifts they make with hands.

Somewhere there are Christmases,
if only in our dreams.
Christmas is not for everyone,
or at least, so it seems.

RWH: 12/12/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/6/09


I'm a hellcat on a hot blade,
on my way to Mars.
Escaping the velocity,
keeping me from behind bars.

I'm a roamer runner on the run,
looking for my lost gun.
Aren't we having fun,
with our butt in a bun?

I'm a rooty tooter on a train,
kinda, sorta looks like rain.
Got a run because I'm to blame.
Out she went and in she came.

I'm a loner on a loony lane,
trying to balance on the plain.
Trying to escape this picture frame,
on a horse that's way too lame.

I am a singer of salty seas,
via the netscape with wicked ease.
Can't find the forest for the trees,
while you do what you please.

I'm a tight roper on a tease,
I'm a seizure about to seize.
Watching the monkey while he pees,
and the hellcat, freeze.

The moron was on a mission,
the hellcat cut him off at the knees.
But how could the cat do that,
when he was in the freeze?

RWH: 12/5/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/29/09

Utopian High

The future is not as bleak as it seems,
although we all have had bad dreams.

It is hard to count the ways,
the world is imperiled.

Some people think,
that it is God's wrath unfurled.

Some people think,
that it's nature's revenge.

Some people think,
that it's in the cycle of things.

Whatever it is; its power is great.
Some people think, it's already too late.

When I get sour lemons,
I make lemonade.

We've come too far,
not to make the grade.

We've made too much progress,
to go retrograde.

A study of history,
shows us the way.

We've always made progress,
day to day.

We've always made progress,
dear to dear.

We've always made progress,

Oh yes, there have always been wars.
pestilence, famine and political boars.

Weak man's attempts to put us asunder,
that led many young man to an early down under.

The fact is that in spite of all the ups and downs,
as time goes by there are fewer frowns.

We are not despots. We are not clowns.
Success is our weakness. More ups than downs.

I see a bright future, when all is said and done.
A shining Utopia, when, over ignorance, we've won.

RWH: 11/27/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/22/09

A Fine Madness

-in all cases please feel free to substitute "she" for "he."

There is a fine madness in the mind of man,
it slips in quietly, as though on the lam.

It slips in the cracks in his defense,
and it helps him get off the fence.

But that is his demise.
Most men catch it.
Only the few become wise.

He wasn't born that way; his heart was pure.
But his culture awaited, wanting to make sure.

That he learned all their mores, good and bad.
That he learned their prejudices, like all he had.

But then he came to a place called school,
where he learned about other things,
like the Golden Rule.

School opened his mind to the world,
and with that many contradictions unfurled.

Some contradictions were easily slayed,
but others were angrily displayed.

Sometimes he had to fight for what was right,
even if he looked a fool in his friend's sight.

Choosing his friends became the rule,
his friends made him strong,
his friends made him cool.

But he had to grow up and get on with his life,
go to college, get a job, and take him a wife.

Some looked to college, as training for a job,
others to cool, gain knowledge, or hobnob.

For some the pressure of college was too great,
a fine madness got him and it was too late.

For those without college options were few,
work for his father, flip burgers, or stew.

Over why he couldn't have the finer things in life,
while a fine madness crept into his strife.

If he chose the military, with long boredom,
followed by brief shots of instant terror,
if alcohol didn't get him, a fine madness lay there.

And so, like most men, he fell in love and married,
so often too early when he should have tarried.

A fine madness crept in and split them apart,
their promises of forever were never smart.

The middle of life he struggled with money,
the house, the car, the kids, and, the honey.

He had no time for thought or general reflection,
what his buddies did, was his only expectation.

He grew tired of his work and other men's rules,
sought retirement early, not like other fools.

He blamed the government for his dilemmas,
and sought its protection and its tools.

A fine schizophrenia that caught him unawares,
government was bad when it cost him,
good when it countered his terrors.

As he grew older and hoped to be wise,
a brain disease came over him that he despised.

Forgetful and inarticulate, he gradually gave in,
to the prejudices of his childhood, allowing them to win.

Afraid of his life, and fearful of death,
religion overtook him, to his last breath.

RWH: 11/21/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/15/09


Without the lowly chicken,
mankind would not get far.
If you don't eat the eggs,
you can pickle them in a jar.

Chicken meat is tender,
of unoffending taste.
When a plate is full of chicken,
nothing goes to waste.

The chicken's mighty cousin,
a wild and wary bird.
First vexed the Pilgrim's blunderbuss,
until the natives heard.

Showed those weary travelers,
how to catch the beast.
Roast it to perfection,
and gather up a feast.

Turkeys like to herd,
like their ancestors did.
They'd rather run than and fly,
but fly after they hid.

For there were monsters out there,
ready to gobble little Turkesaurs up.
No self-respecting Turkesaur,
wanted to be a Lasso Raptor's sup.

And so they developed hair for wings,
to make a flying escape.
Turkesaurs also dove into burrows,
to out reach the long claw's rake.

When the meteor came,
those that flew were flame.
Those that dove were game,
to live and reign.

Among the world of beautiful birds,
one of the ugliest by far.
That doesn't taste like chicken,
but tastes like dinosaur.

RWH: 11/14/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/8/09


Soar o're the starlet sea.
Soar o're the momentous mountaintop.
Soar through the night and come to me.
See the world before your stop.

Come to the coveted comely cove.
Come to the rainbow's random reds.
Come to me wherever you rove.
Comb the world to its sea beds.

Run to the river's raging rapids.
Run to the reach of rolling range.
Run to me through countless cupids.
Run to the canopy of strange.

Sail the salty, stormy seas.
Sail the calm of sunlit strait.
Sail to me in balmy breezes.
Sail before your luck is late.

Drive to the defying death divide.
Drive straight through to the other side.
Drive to me on that old back road.
Drive to me before I get old.

Walk a wild and winding way.
Walk the night into a new day.
Walk to me through thick and thin.
Walk your heart out until you win.

And soar again...

RWH: 11/7/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/1/09

The Morning After

As the dawn broke,
on the terrible sight,
hardly anything,
had survived the night.

Candles were burned,
down to the core.
Smell of burnt pumpkin,
permeated the air.

Costumes were ripped,
and thrown asunder.
Poor souls that wore them,
still deep under.

Tricks that were played,
from plans well-made.
Would vex the town,
for the next decade.

When the mailman came by,
the dog tried to reply,
but it was still too hoarse,
from all that howling.

Cupboards were bare,
but mom didn't care,
she'd had enough candy,
to lure the darlings.

Speaking of candy,
we all know it's dandy,
but that stupor and after taste,
killed his randy.

And up on the hill,
the scarecrow is nil.
The crows snitched his clothes,
and perch on the sticks, so handy.

RWH: 10/31/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/25/09

Autumn Light

The autumn light this time of year,
eclipses summer light by far.

An eerie feeling is in the air,
as we feel what great artist's share.

They go there for the light.
They go there for the color.
They go there for the sight,
of the Sun dancing on the water.

And we come too, to catch the sight,
of dust floating in the light.

Slanting beams through cracks and seams,
lazy days in and out of dreams.

A time for calm and reflection.
A time to study light's deflection.
A time to hustle and prepare,
for winter's coming predilection.

Sitting in the warm sun, dozing,
soon, my time will come.

And I will only paint write,
in the autumn light.

RWH: 10/24/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/18/09

Another Life

If I had known you,
in another life.

I would have known you,
free from strife.

I would have known you,
in your younger years.

I would have known you,
before your fears,

took you down.

If only I had been around,
to build you up.

If only I had been around,
to fill your cup,

to overflowing.

If only I had been there,
a hand to fit your glove.

If only I had been there,
to fill your heart with love,

to overwhelming.

But that will have to wait,
until a new gate opens up,

And another life is forming.

RWH: 10/17/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/11/09

Dying Young

Life is fickle, or so it seems.
Life is long, only in dreams.

The good, they die young.
The bad are left to carry on.

No prayer has ever closed death's door.
When death comes knocking once more.

Who will be remembered,
and who will not?

The good and bad together,
That's all we've got.

Do you want to be forgotten,
after you are gone?

Or do you want to linger,
long after the finger of death,

Is placed on your chest?
labeled, like all the rest.

After thinking about it a while,
will you have the guile?

To put on your ghastly hood,
and write really, really good.

So, like Edgar Allan Poe,
when you write and early go,

You will be remembered.

RWH: 10/10/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/4/09

Parallel Universe

There is a parallel universe,
it is scientifically so.
I am the one that saw it,
but who am I to know?

In a parallel universe,
you are always mine.
In a parallel universe,
couplets always rhyme.

In a parallel universe,
there is no need for war.
In a parallel universe,
no one's keeping score.

In a parallel universe,
recession is a mathematical term.
In a parallel universe,
there is no need to learn.

In a parallel universe,
the weather is always right.
In a parallel universe,
day can be night.

A parallel universe,
is anything we want it to be.
I saw a parallel universe,
and it means everything to me.

RWH: 10/3/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/27/09

High Definition

With high-definition and high-speed,
we know now better what life will be.
We know now better what life has been,
we will know the what, how, and when.

It is easy to see the mistakes we made,
when life was slow and our vision obscured.
We saw what we wanted in plans that we laid,
and made sure that the images were blurred.

To forestall the future we became insured,
a hedge against happenings sometimes absurd.
All because we got the word,
and it wasn't always the best voice heard.

With high-definition we can zoom on in,
see our foibles before they begin.
Point out the flaws in former poor vision,
straighten the crux with renewed revision.

A mind is clear and lightning fast,
we cluttered it with dogma in the past.
We clutter it with trivia day and night,
but now we can focus from wrong to right.

The choice is ours and the time is ripe,
we can fritter our vision on trivial din.
Do we have the guts and eat the tripe,
so we have the supervision to win?

RWH: 9/26/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/20/09

The Golden Bough

A golden bough upon your head,
rest little baby,
no need to cry.
Daddy's rich, your Mom's good-looking,
rest little baby, warm, safe and dry.

The future foretold you'd live this way,
no toil and sorrow will come to you.
No illness or injury on this day,
only fabulous fortune tried and true.

Everything you want is at your side,
it is just the way the bough bends.
Without asking you'll have a pony to ride.
The best of friends good money sends.

On a golden bough you will ride,
through a life of wealth and plenty.
You will never see the seedy side,
except when rake and randy.

When the bough bends deep,
you feign but do not weep.
True to your self you always keep,
when life gives pits you get candy.

But when the bough breaks,
and the earth quakes,
will you give up the gold,
for what's handy?

RWH: 9/20/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/13/09

You Haunt Me

Deep in the night, the firefly light,
sparkles in the mid summer dew.

Distance narrowed, sounds arrowed,
as I grope through the damp for you.

The bark of dog, the chirp of tree frog,
conspire in the mist to deceive me.

A pale of light, dim in the night, beckons,
I am drawn to it against my desire.

I climb to a limb, an eye on beware,
like a moth to the light of fire.

An image comes clear, framed in a mirror,
once again it is you, taunting.

Checking your hair, you know I am there,
I can hear soft music playing.

Soon your T-shirt is gone, sharp tan lines, linger on,
my reason of senses desert me.

You play with your jeans, an eternity it seems,
to reveal pouting pink through the mist.

My time is near, my purpose is clear,
I know now the promise in your gist.

Just for fun, your stockings may run,
put them on, take them off, inspecting.

Combos you try, candy for eye,
I teeter on my perch, genuflecting.

Tiring of teasing, practically sleazing,
you give me that "come hither" sign.

I'm out on a limb, too slender to shin,
but I must finally have you for mine.

Off in a rush, the pressure's too much,
no time to think of my pride.

I'm falling again, deep into sin,
and awake with only sweat by my side.

RWH: 9/12/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/6/09

Impossible Moments

When that impossible moment comes along,
take a moment to hum a song.

Take a moment to take a deep breath,
take a moment to think of the best.

For this is the best time that ever was,
and the future will be better if we just pause.

And take stock of what we want,
and separate it from what we flaunt.

There is always a way to save the day,
if we just relax and find it.

There is no use fussing and such,
when we don't get our way very much.

Many are starving for lack of food,
while we complain about what is good.

That, when given thought and time,
turns the impossible to the sublime.

Impossible moments are more frequent now,
more and more becomes less somehow.

So, relax and let these moments pass,
so you can bend down and kiss green grass

RWH: 9/6/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/1/09


Took a botanical sabbatical,
and learned what a fort is worth.

Known for its stockyards,
and Billy Bob's,
the last place you'd think on Earth.

Mid the grand prairie grass,
and occasional oak.

Where the buffalo roamed,
and oxen pulled Conestoga yoke.

Lay a glen of natural hope,
where water ran free,
and deer could lope.

Of reflecting pond,
and butterfly free.

. A most enchanting place to be.
magic forest of ancient tree.

Filled with flower and dappled sun,
where children laughed on the run.

A quiet seclusion here or there,
to stop and breathe the warm evening air.

And dream...
If all the Earth had a botanical theme,
wouldn't it be wonderful?

RWH: 8/31/09

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Poem of the Week: 8/23/09

Love and Hate

I love computers, there's no doubt.
They work for me, day in and day out.
They work for me, until they crap out,
and then they crap on me.


My soul is in the computer in binary code.
It is not written down like some old ode.
It is not written down like some I sold.
And then they rip my heart out.


They told me to unplug in a thunderstorm.
Several devices plugged in around here is the norm.
Surge protectors connected to save them from harm.
And then they break my arm.


Poem of the Week: 8/23/09

I hate my computers when they do this to me.
I want my computers to set me free,
not do some damn number on me,
and then make me take a hit?


I hate my computers when they are bad.
I hate my computers when I am sad.
I hate my computers enough to be bad.
Get out my gun and shoot.


Guess I'll just have to eat my crow.
Off to the computer store I will go.
Pay for the fix so my addiction will grow.
Bloodsucking ho!

So? Where do I go from here?

RWH: 8/22/09

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Poem of the Week: 8/16/09

Without a Flaw

Without a flaw, the world would yaw,
and capsize on its inflection.

Without a flaw, your perfect jaw,
would jut in the wrong direction.

Without a flaw, the sea would saw,
and cut through superstition.

To be at awe, through thick and thaw,
is thy predilection.

The flaw is real. It's like a keel,
on a ship of its own disruption.

So if perchance, you're flawed at dance,
enter the competition.

Quick on the draw, with pen strokes raw,
a dice for the right diction.

There oughta be a law against a flaw,
in common sense perception.

But law is law and flaw is flaw,
once married become perfection.

RWH: 8/15/09

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Poem of the Week: 8/9/09

Let the Good Times Roll

-A Song-

Let the good times roll,
this ain't no stroll,
let the good times roll.

You may be hungry, unhappy, and down and out,
but don't you let them, make that 10 count.

Get up, get out, and get on down,
don't you let them see, see you frown.

No job? No car? No house? No spouse?
Don't you let them see you cry, my my.


It's time to get up and dance,
let them see you prance.

Do something kind, do something nice,
give your fellows some good advice.

Don't let the blues get you down,
track the good times like a hound.


Remember the child in you,
and don't think twice.

You can still learn from this advice,
so grab yourself a great big slice.

Work is where you make it.
Learning's where you take it.


RWH: 8/8/09

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Poem of the Week: 8/2/09

A Beauty Rose

A beauty rose from Alpine snows,
to shatter my existence.

A beauty rose from murky morose,
to challenge my persistence.

A beauty rose eclipsed my nose,
with the aroma of my insistence.

No one knows a beauty rose,
in the flower bed of resistance.

No one chose a beauty rose,
amid the flower of splendor.

I chose a beauty rose,
to put my life asunder.

Would you choose a beauty rose,
to pillage or to plunder?

No one knows a beauty rose,
for she still lies down under.

RWH: 8/1/09

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Poem of the Week: 7/26/09

Until Never

She promised him until never,
and he obediently complied.
He thought she meant, "forever,"
In his na've ignorance, she lied.

He waited for her, forever,
out in the cold and wet.
While she took many a lover,
and hardly broke a sweat.

For she was above his station,
so high he could not reach.
The old ways said it was so,
in what the eldersteach.

The rules could not be broken,
and on them she relied.
Her decisions made for her,
to his entreaties, she just sighed.

He steeled himself in sorrow,
and traveled far alone.
His might and strength a marvel,
brought to a perfect hone.

The old ways always crumble,
when they go beyond the breech.
The rabble needed a leader,
their distant call to reach.

He rushed to their deliverance,
and brought the pious pomposity down.
He crushed their arrogant ideas,
and refused to wear a crown.

He found her in a hovel,
on the mountain side.
He carried her off to never,
he carried her as his bride.

She waited for him until never,
he thought never was too late.
We all know never never comes,
but it comes to some who wait.

RWH: 7/25/09

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Poem of the Week: 7/19/09

Struggle to Perfection

There is a vicious struggle going on,
just outside civilization's door.
A struggle of 3 billion years,
that most of us ignore.

It started in the temperate places,
shaded from the molten rock,
and from the boiling seas,
in tepid acid schlock.

A complex organic compound,
sparked by lightning's charge.
Into a single cell amoebae,
with a lust for life large.

Only to die in a moment,
fragility held no grace.
Suddenly a viable cell,
and then nothing in its place.

A trillion or more times,
this happened, until one cell split.
The splitting continued,
and the reproductive light was lit.

With reproduction came life.
Quickly filling its little niche.
Starving on its own success,
success in life is a bitch.

But on and on the struggle,
both grew and enriched.
Many life forms followed,
and most of them were pitched.

Into the sea of extinction,
fertilizer for those to come.
Better life replacing poorer,
the battle had begun.

All were parasites of the planet,
eating its very stone.
Some plants and some animal,
depending on their genome.

All were food for each other,
both in life and death.
For death was also inevitable,
just another part of life.

Danger lurked in every instant,
and only the strong survived.
To live to reproduce,
was how new life arrived.

Some new life was lovely,
some new life despised.
But all new life was tested,
by its ability to survive.

A giant perfection engine,
spinning silently in space.
Nature's beauty is obvious,
who are we to erase?

The perfection of the ages,
we should all embrace.
Who are we for destroying,
in the name of the human race?

RWH: 7/18/09

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Poem of the Week: 7/12/09

Almost Home

I'm almost home,
no matter how far I roam,
I'm almost home... with you.

It's a long road I've traveled down,
and its end is near in sight.
I've soldiered on many a shore,
and never gave up the fight.

But freedom is a lonely cause.
And I never got it right.
So many times I took that road,
but, never saw the light.


You were always on my mind,
when through my fears I wasted.
Years went by and I don't know why,
those bitter tears I tasted.

Watched them die and don't know why,
it wasn't me they wanted.

Hellfire deep and on the heap,
all humanity's fears I taunted.


The end is almost near now,
I see it coming around the bend.
of war and all I fear,
It's coming to an end.

I'll see you in my dreams tonight,
I'll see you to the end.
I'll see you through the flashbacks,
I'll see you again.

I don't know when, but I'll see you again.

I'll see you again... and again... and again...

I'm almost home.

RWH: 7/11/09

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Poem of the Week: 7/5/09

Star-Speckled Bonanor

We rode our Star-Speckled Bonanor,
into the [sic] outer space.
Looking for flying saucers everywhere,
but couldn't find a ufoin' trace.

We rode the Milky Way a while,
and churned it into cheese.
We skirted the black hole at the center,
and slipped on its elastic ease.

So off we flew to Andromeda,
hoping for a human face.
Lots of creatures large and small,
but not from the chosen race.

Our next stop was Orion,
what a gosh-awful place.
So far from nowhere,
our only thought was--erase.

We stopped stopping altogether,
and joined in human embrace.
A soap opera of colossal proportions,
where winning was only in the chase.

And never again found happiness,
or the center of the universe.
But poured out poetry piteously,
in rhymed and unrhymed verse.

RWH: 7/4/09

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Poem of the Week: 6/28/09

Blue Marvel

We all live on a blue marvel,
and it goes round and round.
We all live on the blue marvel,
what a wonderful place we found.

We have such a wonderful cultural past,
we should all love it, don't you ask?
We sure all want our culture to last,
and if you don't like mine, you can kiss my...

We can all leave if we want,
think about it a moment, for that's a thought.
A few have left, looked and come back,
to marvel at what we have and lack.

Spiritually, we are quite a bunch,
most of us have it, that's my hunch.
The spirits tell us what's for lunch,
but will they help us in a crunch?

Oh, aren't we a lovely lot,
some like it cool and some like it hot.
Unless passion ties its perennial knot,
and then cool is hot... hot... hot.

We fly in the sky and dive in the sea,
both are blue as blue can be.
Just an illusion of refracted light,
we want to make them brown you see.

Two by two we populate the planet,
and watch our numbers grow.
Billions by billions we squeeze into,
that little place we used to know.

The blue marvel goes round and round,
and we hang on and on, but don't fly off.
But when hot gets hotter, and push comes to shove,
we must fly off or fry... so say, "bye-bye."

RWH: 6/27/09

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Poem of the Week: 6/21/09


Ingenuity is always at work,
to find a better way.
Complex tasks can be simplified,
father time to slay.

We rely on power to do the trick,
to ease our shoulder strain.
Build complex structures,
to even work in rain.

Edison invented a wondrous tool,
the electric light.
Just so any fool,
can work both day and night.

There is a cost for all this power,
hidden out of sight.
Has us eating the earth alive,
by bigger, and bigger, bite.

We have become so removed,
from the simple life.
All the convenience and ingenuity,
lead to strain and strife.

By losing touch with all that matters,
as we forge on to newer life.
we can't go back to our roots,
when the edge comes like a knife.

And we fall into ruin,
without the skills to survive.
With no good food or water,
only a simple few remain alive. start over.

RWH: 6/20/09

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Poem of the Week: 6/14/09


Complexity didn't come easy,
it didn't come fast or slow.

Complexity crept in and made its bed,
but how was I to know?

Have always been the simple type,
knowing less was more.

Swept the clutter from my mind,
and focused on the chore.

That's how great things get done,
when I was in the fore.

Before the stuff of rightness,
was peeled from my core.

When need outstripped its counterpart,
and greedily called for more.

It all was so easy, these helpful aids to life,
creepingly keeping up with the Jones's strife.

I want to once again linger at the wane of day,
shed the crutches time has placed in my way.

And breathe the air of relief again,
as stars twinkle on, one by one, in the Milky Way.

RWH: 6/13/09

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Poem of the Week: 6/7/09

Faith and Fury

We had good faith that fateful day
We'd storm the beaches and blow Hitler away.

God was on our side with all his might.
He'd guide our way as day turned to night
of the hell of war.

Like never before the sky turned smoke
The din of big guns roar as if God spoke.

Staccato fire from machine guns cut our ranks
Bloodied the water, for firm sand gave thanks.

Bodies on bodies, will anyone survive the day?
I reached for my buddy's hand as he was blown away.

Gung-ho with body parts and blood galore
We gagged on the bile and pushed on for more.

Pinned down by fire, we sacrificed lives
to break through their wire and into their hives.

Through the tangle of hellfire and into the breech
we climbed to the headland and secured the beach.

Surveying the smoldering carnage that lay below
it was hard to believe we'd settled the score
and gained a foothold... once more.

RWH: 6/6/09

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Poem of the Week: 5/31/09

Aquarius Rising

Aquarius rising once again, bubbling
from the equinox in the Land of Zen.

Monotonous monks drone to the sound,
of row, row... row your boat, a round.

Syncopated synapses sing singsong,
dance in the twilight of summer long.

Cerebral Cyclopes close one eye strain,
dancing the dervish down the deepest drain.

Of flower-powered vehicles vying for vain,
whirly gigging on the Ruby Ridge in the rain.

Forest of copulating capillaries chlorophyll,
green grows the oxygen air of the still.

In your pure and naked wondrous wile,
laid bare in the sunshine of your smile.

RWH: 5/30/09

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Poem of the Week: 5/24/09

Hamburger Hill

We took the high ground,
but what the cost?

Young in their prime,
maimed and lost.

Old men of means,
keep the score.

While power and glory,
belie the gore.

Of the truth of the meat grinder,
that is the story of war.

RWH: 5/24/09

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Poem of the Week: 5/17/09

Love Eternal

Love eternal patiently waits,
while fleeting passion storms her gates.

The allure of love floats in the warm spring air,
lovers stroll in nature's beauty laid bare.

Unaware of tribulation and trials to come,
for they are young-and in love.

Like the calming coo of the dove,
they mate for life and live above.

Where gods mete out their mighty deeds,
and love eternal often leads-to trouble.

So they repeat their vows redouble,
and marry in a flurry floating on that bubble.

Soon to burst when life begins to tumble,
into boredom, anguish, lust and rubble.

But there are those so free and clear,
who have faced pain and conquered fear.

That thrive on life and live its gain,
revel both in sunshine and in rain.

And find, to their content--eternal love.

RWH: 5/16/09

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Poem of the Week: 5/10/09

Last Chance

At first she, named after a he,
was only a 1923 scientific scheme,
an early rockoteers' hair brained dream.

In a Galilean moment,
astronomy would be rearranged,
yet years floated by, and nothing changed.

Her prototype languishing,
in a university laboratory.
the funds she sought finally came her way in '83.

While awaiting her new ride,
her meticulous moving parts,
were assembled with great pride.

Finally, in '90, she was lifted high,
to escape Earth's relentless grip,
beyond gravity, to orbit she'd fly.

Up where clear space made her,
vision so free to everyone's glee,
until they found she couldn't see.

So she was up there awaiting her dance,
circling, while men below struggled,
to give her a chance.

Finally, with a plan in place,
In '93 they came to her grace,
hoping to get her back in the race.

The first shots they took,
were stunning to behold,
the Universe was as young as it was old.

Her reach was immense,
to the beginning of time.
Variety and beauty, simply sublime.

Galaxies galore, with black holes a more,
the birthplace of stars turned to dark mater.
Pulsars and supernovas to savor.

Planets first seen, some hopefully green,
with sky and blue, blue water.
Theories to challenge and ponder.

Five times she was fixed, and in betwixt,
her magic continued in wonder.
But her batteries weak, her orbit to flounder.

Brave men are in place to come to her grace,
and repair her one last time.
One last chance, one more dance,
before her final, slow decline.

Burned up in space will not erase,
her contribution to man.
As we look out from this fragile slice,
She's shown us the future of can.

RWH: 5/9/09

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Poem of the Week: 5/3/09

Unfulfilled Horizons

Far away, in the land of my sorrow,
she waits today into the morrow.
With little hope but for to barrow,
the tears from a sleeping swallow.

To write in the water of the rain,
the same sweet sorrowful refrain.
That all will hear in time and twain,
the sound that sits upon my brain.

And weighs me down in the night.
Keeps me up so skewed by sight,
Of visions swirling in the fight,
to fill my seasons with her sight.

While life beats on in every breast.
Cares not for the burden of the bitter test.
Cares not for those slain and lain to rest,
or those who haven't reached the crest,

of unfulfilled horizons.

RWH: 5/2/09

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Poem of the Week: 4/26/09

Scary Situation

Yesterday, my voice file crashed.
So, what's the big deal? You ask.
I was using my voice because,
my shoulder was not up to that task.

You see, I click with one finger.
So do I, you cry, no big deal.
Not with a handsplint you don't,
with that deaf, dumb, and blind kid feel.

You click with one and type with ten.
I click with my shoulder and type with one.
So I'm slow with responding,
and it never is fun.

You get carpal tunnel syndrome,
and have it repaired.
I get a sore shoulder and stiff neck,
and it gets me scared.

Because I can't turn my head,
from left to the right.
Can't see that car coming,
that gives me a fright.

A thousand clicks a day,
may be too much.
But my life's work depends upon it,
so I must do that touch.

I use my voice,
to ease the pain.
But using a voice file,
can be a strain.

I lost two hours of editing,
when that file crashed.
I must save more often,
before my hopes are dashed.

That voice file was gone,
and not coming back.
Reviving it was fruitless,
I cursed the skill I lack.

On this new day,
I went to the website.
A procedure was there,
to my delight.

I manually retrieved,
an old backup voice file.
And I'm writing this poem,
with a great big smile.

My smile only falters,
with this pain in my neck.
But we all have those pains,
so what the heck.

RWH: 4/23/09

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Poem of the Week: 4/19/09


Men are want to fight,
as is their manly right.
Tumbling down the ages.

Encouraged child to child,
to fight the more wild.
The elders see as advantageous.

For fighting marks the man.
And fighting with his hand,
seems to make him courageous.

The black eye, the cut lip,
the skinned knuckles vie,
for the weak and the strong,
where the winner lie.

but fighting takes its toll,
and makes its bloody mark,
on defeated and victor alike.

For what is fortune and what is fame,
if brutal hits upon the head,
eventually slow and lame.

The pugilistic arts have survived,
for just one aim -- to watch one man,
brutalize another for gambling gain.

If I were want to kill a man,
I'd do it swift with might.
I would not do it punch by punch,
over many a hot night.

But then no bets would be played,
and no man would watch death delayed.
Mano to mano, so to speak.

While a punch drunk man lies,
bleeding in the street.

To Norman Mailer, pugilistic writer (1923-2007)
The only major writer I ever met.

RWH: 4/18/09

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Poem of the Week: 4/12/09

Jailhouse Blues

Come on Huey, gimmie the news!
Can't shake these jailhouse blues.

Can't rock this rock I'm on,
Alcatraz, come sing my song.

The Bird Man has two in the bush,
show your behind, bird, I'll eat your tush.

I'd swim the San Francisco Bay,
for one night with you in the hay.

But I'm under lock and key,
the key to your heart is where I'd be.

Surfing off of seal rock,
Angel Island for my flock.

But that tide's got a hold on me,
gonna wash me out to sea.

Out on past the Golden Gate,
to Davey Jones Locker's fate.

So save my soul and gimmie the news,
help me shake these jailhouse blues!

RWH: 4/11/08

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Poem of the Week: 4/5/09

Mom Farts

A miserable cough is still with me so I thought I would do
something funny from a funny story I read recently.
My real mother has never been known to you know what.

My mom farts.
But she's so sweet,
she's in everybody's hearts.

Mom goes to the store.
Let's one go between aisles 3 & 4
Smiling so no one's the wiser.

The store clears out.
For mom's farts are silent, but stout,
and make a skunk seem a miser.

Mom loves horror movie shows.
Whenever she goes and sees the ghost,
everyone realizes its Smell-O-Vision host.

More like a rotting corpse,
a zombie's last remorse,
or the curse the mummy's most.

At the restaurant she's a riot.
With each course she's quiet.
But even the chef goes on a diet.

When mom's in church,
her morning fried egg takes a lurch,
bringing the fire and brimstone that fried it.

Mom's the last one out,
the Reverend takes her hand and shouts,
"Hurry, Armageddon is upon us!"

RWH: 4/4/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/29/09

Purple Haze

The morning fog has burned off,
but I am still in this purple haze.

Weather ways its winding path,
but I have been this way for days.

Floating far off in the distant daze,
of flowery na've pious paisley ways.

Seeking some magic mountain,
where the guru of peace, stays.

Piercing the fog of war forever,
through a psychedelic maze.

Jimi's electric guitar wails,
cuts through my heart with laze.

To the god of everyone else,
where I no longer praise.

Pulled up from my bootstraps,
my old icons I royally raise.

Until the veil of darkness parts,
to reveal my perfect purple gaze.

RWH: 3/28/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/22/09

Was Accustomed

He was ensconced in a fashion he was accustomed.
Four bare walls of stone. No light. No water except,
the slimy seepage creeping down the walls.
A pot for his excrement. A daily plate of gruel in,
exchange for the pot, so foul and full of maggots,
that he relished their protein.

He could not remember how long he was so accustomed.
He only remembered, his thoughts, his schemes, dreams.
His thoughts of relativity, drama, great art, and mathematics.
They filled his days with wonder and his nights with passion.

For the lord who put him there was a stupid, greedy little oaf,
who knew only to procreate, eat, beat and fight, and fear,
that the world around him was going to take away his dear.

And take away they did, like countless greedy before,
a short, brutal life of terror and war, of no consequence.

But he came forth hence, forgotten in the dark, no pretense.
Each day richer than the day before. A semaphore.
Of tropical volcanoes and black beaches under blue sky.
Of verdant farmland reaching to mountains of snowy peak,
and blue sky fading into black filled with stars and wonder.

He thought not of plunder or pillage but of them and her.
Of the wonders he could wrought with the anvil of his mind.
A science left behind where men would fly and discover,
the innards of the Earth and all that play upon the land,
in his hand as though it were only yesterday he held them.

He became so accustomed that he felt nothing of fear.
Year after year his mind grew until it was overflowing with mirth,
with no place to put it down except with scratches on the stone.
His wealth had grown until his time had come, when, one by one,
his faculties failed, but not his worth, and he became one,
with the space he occupied, merely bone and hide.

When they excavated his little cell they found his work upon the wall.
That one mind could so enthrall amazed them one and all.
And with these scratches soon deciphered saved them from the fall.

RWH: 3/21/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/15/09


I know someone wrongly imprisoned...

The statue of justice is purposely blind,
and she has been for a long, long time.

Clearly signifying the injustice given,
to those convicted and sent to prison.

A socially aware few make the laws,
guided by their own personal flaws.

In some cases it is purely political,
in others it borders on hypocritical.

Laws against victimless crimes,
and the laws that free diabolical minds.

Injustice all around, so unsound,
it borders on unreason, unbound.

Twenty years for possessing pot,
and brutal killing much less than that.

Lawyers much too close to judges,
personal favors, bribes, forceful nudges.

And money seems above the pale,
free the rich, throw the poor in jail.

Fill the prisons with the unwanted,
where a gang full of plots is being plotted.

Where torture and killing is commonplace,
replacing reason with anarchy and race.

Eyewitness blind justice must be replaced,
with careful forensics and scientific grace.

Juries of injustice must not rule,
when bad verdicts are meted out cruel.

Warehousing people is not the right way.
fair laws, rehab, and technology for today.

Fostering repaying a debt to society,
and restoring the forgiven to propriety.

And a quick death to those who fail the test,
why should we allow them to infect the rest?

RWH: 3/14/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/8/09


Got that trickle down feeling again.
It didn't leave me reelingly,
but it did leave me feeling,
that something isn't quite right.

Like when you wake up,
to nothing but the night.
Sure there was something,
that would give you fright.

But nothing is there,
it's just the air, nowhere,
everywhere and all around,
a sound without a voice.

Nothing to hear in my inner ear,
except the sound of silence.
And the incessant knocking,
over which I have no choice.

Of my worry, my creeping fear,
that I will outlive my years,
and my happiness will not,
hold back the tears of tomorrow.

The trickle will become a torrent,
and though I will abhor it,
the end will not come in calm,
but in terror and sorrow.

RWH: 3/7/09

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Poem of the Week: 3/1/09

Frustration Again

Equipment failure, upgrades, obsolescence,
taking too much time.

Why is it so hard to learn, earn, yearn?
While time waits for no one,
and marches on.

Just when you've got the solution,
the fates have their way and turn.

It's always the easy solution,
that makes the heart burn, burn.

It fills the days with useless ways,
and makes the stomach churn.

Oh when, when will you ever learn,
that the easy road will take a turn.

And you can't buy your way out,
so you scream and shout,
but no one hears your agony.

Suffering in silence, you slouch,
exhale, and let it out -- empty.

The tray needs filling,
but it's out of reach.

You cannot learn,
if you cannot teach.

And time marches on,
until none is left.

RWH: 2/28/09

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Poem of the Week: 2/22/09


My friends seem obsessed with death these days.

Fear not for your morbidity,
for when you're done, you're cooked.
Put all your stock in liquidity,
and then you won't be overbooked.

For sure as death and taxes,
taxing will come first.
Followed by that yearning,
of that unquenched thirst.

Life is a wonderful journey,
with many paths to follow.
Why focus on pain and suffering,
emotions that ring so hollow.

The sky is still not falling,
and the birds still love to sing.
Why all this talk of death,
why not one last fling?

The decay of death is reeking,
and heavy on the soul.
plan to go out smiling,
with a life lived to the whole.

RWH: 2/21/09

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Poem of the Week: 2/15/09

Fantasy Flyers

Fantasy flyers let not the Earth restrain.
Body not bound by mortal main,
nor tracks of train, for they are free.

To fly on silver heels,
like black-and-white movie reels,
in a not quite sense of reality.

To fly in angels' white things,
on the web of gossamer wings,
we believe these creatures to be.

To fly on carpets of gold,
like the sojourn sultans of old,
o're the sands of the desert's sea.

To fly in liquid bubbles of soap,
through the air without hope,
that a poke will pop our glee.

Over the rainbow we go,
neither too fast or too slow,
to make sure that all can see.

That we are fantasy flyers,
have never been liars,
because all can fly in poetry.

RWH: 2/14/09

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Poem of the Week: 2/8/09


Two paychecks away,
from the street.
dream house in foreclosure,
nothing to eat.

Can't sell the car,
can't drive it either.
May have to live in it,
until we get a breather.

Days were so sweet,
while socially climbing.
Spend all our time,
wining and dining.

We'd retire early,
on our 401(k).
Let poor slobs work,
while we play.

Our life was based,
on a workless deck of cards.
Structurally unsound,
now but shards.

What can we learn,
from the stress we are in?
To get off our workless asses,
and learn to work again.

RWH: 2/7/09

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Poem of the Week: 2/1/09

A Taxing Time

It is a taxing time,
for waxing and waning.
The bottom is falling out,
and the tears are raining.

Corporate CEO's are lined up,
and handled with anger.
Not one honest man,
has been found there.

Everyone complains,
that there is no work--none.
Yet everywhere one looks,
there is work to be done.

In less than a century,
we lost touch with our Earth.
We now rather give her money,
than cultivate her worth.

We grow our food,
in a supermarket aisle.
To help our neighbor,
we won't walk a mile.

When we do walk,
we are on the phone.
No time to say, "Hello,"
passing those all alone.

When all is lost,
even ones' self worth.
It is time to dig deep,
and find a new birth.

The artist who died,
amid his paintings of great worth.
Died not of hardship,
but of his contribution to Earth.

The time is taxing,
but don't die alone.
Leave something for others,
that's not your own.

RWH: 1/31/09

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Poem of the Week: 1/25/09

Were You There for Me?

I was there for you,
the day the ice broke,
and into life you passed.

I was there for you,
the day the hurricane blew,
and the wreckage found you out.

I was there for you,
the day the sun broke through,
blinding all your fears.

I was there for you,
the day you took the test,
and disregarded all the rest.

I was there for you,
at that job interview,
where your die was cast.

I was there for you,
the day they arrested you,
just desserts at last.

Were you there for me?

RWH: 1/24/09

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Poem of the Week: 1/18/09

Life Track

Life is so congested,
it's hard to pass on through.
Always thinking about me,
not caring much about you.

Filled with trivial conversation,
and trivial pursuits.
Headlong into oblivion,
fitted with whatever suits.

But there is that lonely path,
that few can travel well.
That frees the one from the crowd,
releases that protective shell.

Our track may be heavy,
our track may be light.
our track may wander,
or ply as straight as sight.

But it's our track to ponder,
it's our track to share.
Is your track on target? br> Or going... nowhere?

For all tracks end.
And all tracks fade.
Will your track last millennia?
Or fade in the shade?

RWH: 1/17/09

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Poem of the Week: 1/11/09

The Wind -- Again

The breeze moves gently,
o'er my windowsill.
Bringing warmth of sunshine,
and flowers' scent from the hill.

A gust of exuberance,
foils my flame.
twigs astrew,
must try again.

The flag is shredded,
snapping nigh.
Still raises our hearts,
to see it fly.

The leaves fly about,
as if they are dizzy.
We romp in them,
like in a Tin Lizzy.

We glide through the water,
as if in a dream.
The power of wind,
surging us upstream.

The rotors turn,
with a swooshing sound.
Effortlessly pumping water,
from the ground.

The windows rattle,
as the storm howls outside.
We cuddle under the covers,
its claws to hide.

In the silence of calm,
the wind has died.
We contemplate our souls,
and abide.

RWH: 1/10/09

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Poem of the Week: 1/4/09

Morning After

The morning after I awoke,
to a whole new scheme,
like in a dream that ended.

A whole new place,
a whole new space,
like a plan unattended.

Upside down, turned around,
nothing seemed in place.
Nothing left for the race.

"This is for you." It said.
Looking around, might be dead.
It was a blank slate.

Not to my taste, this plate.
So from the tree of knowledge I ate.
Hoping it wouldn't be too late.

I cannot draw her face,
I cannot draw this place,
it's impossible to draw forever.

The morning after left an aftertaste.
Alas, I can't erase.
So I am starting over.

RWH: 1/3/09

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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

       Verge of Apocalypse Tales    End of Earth Stories?

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


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