Ron's Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week: 1/2/11

Where Have All the Wild Ones Gone?

Another year has come and gone,
the endangered list grows ever long.

In Africa, there is never enough food,
to feed the hungry, milling throng.

Tribal customs still live strong,
and "wild meat" comes to town.

In Asia, the land grows ever bare,
farmed by humans struggling there.

No habitat left for fish, fur or fowl,
a plundered nest so stripped and foul.

In South America, the jaguars' growl.
Is as lonely as the coyotes' howl.

The Arctic ice is so thin and bare,
the polar bear struggles just to live.

It does not matter much to bears,
how much we donate or give.

The rich and reckless love their sushi,
while wild blue fin tuna struggle to survive.

Shark fin soup is a Chinese staple,
but how many sharks still remain alive?

Whale meat can feed a nation,
but when all whales are dead and gone.

Will the ocean ecosystem,
continue to thrive and carry on?

These questions are strong and deep,
questions without answers we must keep.

In our minds as we move on.
Where have all the wild ones gone?

RWH: 12/29/10

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Poem of the Week: 12/26/10

Old Friend

This time of year,
I think of you, old friend.

When we were young,
with so much fun,
we thought would never end.

Oh, what times we had,
some so happy,
some so sad.

With secrets we will never share,
with anyone but our own.

And legends that grow,
like interest on a loan.

Those moments so sharp and clear,
though memory tends to disappear.

Whither near or far apart,
you are always in my heart.

A part of my very soul,
when times get dark,
and times get old.

And though I cross you from my list,
I remember you with a certain bliss.

Forever, you are a part,
of who I am, and ever will be,
My friend.

RWH: 12/24/10

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Poem of the Week: 12/19/10

Cat and Mouse Christmas

Three nights before Christmas,
a storm front came through.
It snowed all the night long,
and a mighty wind blew.

From behind the refrigerator,
a shivering mouse appeared.
In the wee hours of the morning,
before dawn's light dare neared.

Lured by the bright lights,
shining in the living room, afar.
The mouse cautiously scampered forth,
past the dining room bar.

Rounding the corner into the light,
fireplace embers still warm with glow.
He could smell nuts and seeds, and,
with an evergreen sneeze, let go.

To his startling sight, a tree so bright,
covered with ornaments and sparkling pearls.
And far beneath packaged with wreath,
treasures wrapped in ribbons and curls.

The mouse could not resist his urge,
and scampered quickly across the room.
hiding amid the boxes and bows,
under the bright lights in the shadows' gloom.

Sesame seeds and nuts like beads,
told the mouse where to chew.
He caught a faint sound, coming around,
and stopped, just before he broke through.

To the mouse's horror, across the floor,
came a cat, stealthily stalking.
He dived from sight, from the bright light,
as quiet as toys in the Christmas stocking.

The cat was intent on a wondrous scent,
that beckoned her beyond her control.
innocent eyes had placed that prize,
wrapped around a scratching pole.

Purring like mad, she approached with a glad,
look of Cheshire content on her smile.
Clawing and biting, the cat tasted her 'nip,
and then rolled on the floor for a while.

The mouse watched in surprise, and surmised,
that that cat was no threat to he.
He proceeded to chew and soon,
he knew, the taste of Christmas to be.

Both cat and mouse enjoyed,
the good tidings of Christmastide,
until both were both sated and sublime.
So ready for that sleepy sleigh ride.

With the embers near her head,
the cat curled up to sleep.
The mouse followed soon,
in the wane of the moon,
and joined the cat in her bed.

When the children came down,
to admire their last evenings' work.
They broke out in laughter, joy,
smiling, and even a smirk.

For before their very eyes,
Kitty was curled up in sleep.
Like the lion and the lamb,
the mouse she did keep.

On her belly as comfy as he could be,
the mouse was enjoying for all to see.
The best Christmas present ever,
in the faces of the children's glee.

RWH: 12/19/10

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Poem of the Week: 12/12/10

Dangling Marsupial

Caught by a dangling marsupial,
I was distracted by my surprise.

The participle of the perforated pupil,
floated submerged before my eyes.

Faced with a bloated structure,
I had the refuse of gorging all pies.

Lacking in laconic lackluster love,
alliterated to locate less lucid lies.

Sleep cast a lightning quick shadow,
but allegorically didn't have my size.

Forced into a sleepless star dance,
I tripped over many artificial tries.

Shot from a cannon's belly birth,
always wore explosive IUD ties.

Concerned about apostrophe knees,
I, we, they, you and occasional mys.

Stuck with the proverbial iconic its,
it's no wonder I get over its capitalize.

While the dangling marsupial hangs over me,
it's time for plural's Is to say my bye-byes.

RWH: 12/11/10

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Poem of the Week: 12/5/10

Peace on Earth

All is well under a cold night sky,
but many still fight,
and many still die.

So many want peace on Earth,
during times of plenty and of mirth.

But when times become dire and dark,
charlatans rise to make their mark.

Strong men rule with an iron fist,
moralistically threatening the very bliss,
that is peace on Earth.

Like lambs to the slaughter,
we send our young to barter,
their lives for the price of peace.

There will come a time,
when all men will dine together,
on the meager morsel of mirth.

When we will finally see,
that what we thought were "they,"
were really "we" all the time.

Sharing the same Earth,
struggling from our birth,
to survive and make it fine.

This only life on Earth,
so peaceful, so divine.

RWH: 12/4/10

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Poem of the Week: 11/28/10


We don't diminish experience much,
We're prone to exaggeration.

Reality pales with its age,
but not its storied station.

Some stories end in death,
with no one to ever tell.

If only there were living dead,
to rise and describe their hell.

Some stories are suppressed,
never to be revealed.

Some stories are carefully crafted,
like fine steel is annealed.

Stories passed by word of mouth,
so often get confused.

And then the stories are written down,
so that the confusion can be sealed.

A good story can become a legend,
with the power to be of use.

Legends keep the people happy,
and keep them long amused.

When woven into rituals,
so easily to be abused.

The exaggeration of patriotism,
is way beyond control.

But when tuned to feed the frenzy,
the meek become the whole.

Rise up and strike the enemy down,
with only what's in our soul.

"My country, right or wrong,"
without clear reason,
presents a cowardly role.

RWH: 11/26/10

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Poem of the Week: 11/21/10

Piggly Wiggly

Piggly Wiggly came out to play.
But Piggly Wiggly was too phat,
got picked on and that was that.

Razorback Boar was Wiggly's Dad.
Didn't put up with the porker's abuse,
got so randy, he attacked a moose.

Piggly Wiggly wanted a stuffed goose,
a goose was dandy but it was no use,
because all they had was turkey juice.

Razorback put a stop to that.

Banned the goose with juicy jerky.
"No turkey gonna give him malarkey."

"I ain't no turkey." Wigley confided.
But it was decided, Razor abided,
"It's to the cookhouse for you."

Razor lost his only phat son,
but Wigley's bacon was yum.
And the gander cooked his goose.

Until he got loose...

RWH: 11/20/10

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Poem of the Week: 11/14/10

One Night Stand

Pulled in at dusk,
my throat full of dust,
looking for love or lust,
followed by a cold beer.

This nondescript town,
in the middle of down,
their faces a frown,
what am I doing here?

It says I'm to play,
but at the end of the day,
I really can't say,
maybe the end of a career.

The piano's onstage,
it's showing its age,
when my fingers engage,
notes flow bright and clear.

I get my free drink,
and began to plink,
my voice starts to link,
one man at the bar,
gives a cheer.

They trickle in,
I sip on my gin,
I sing with a grin,
and without fear.

The crowd starts to warm,
they can do me no harm,
a few pats on the back,
and I'm out of here.

She came from behind,
hugged me with a grind,
her perfume was blind,
as she breathed in my ear.

With the night gone,
hand in hand, we stagger on,
to her flat just before dawn,
like we did last year.

When I finally wake,
I'm late for my next date,
coffee and a breakfast plate,
a kiss and pat on the rear.

Her eyes full of trust,
and my fulfilled lust,
I drive off into the dust,
and gradually disappear.

RWH: 11/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 11/7/10

Snow Leopard

High in her Himalayan home,
she surveys the span of her roam.
Perpetual snow and rocky ridge,
she knows her range,
she knows her edge.

She hides in a computer,
and is rarely seen.
Her stealth is incredible,
her logic is keen.

From her ledge she perceives,
prey far below.
Its brown coat,
standing out in the snow.

More than a leopard,
or even a tiger,
she's faster and stronger,
than those far below her.

Stealthily she stalks,
while the snow falls.
Her prey is apprehensive,
perched on vertical walls.

She languidly rests,
relaxing inside her lair.
You know she's in there,
she's so sleek and so fair.

Her attack is swift,
but agonizingly long.
After many misses and slips,
her prey is brought down.

She gives birth to apps,
as though they were kittens.
Everyone embraces them,
so soft, they are smitten.

It's a long, hard climb up,
but she is incredibly strong.
She slips and staggers,
but carries on.

She twitters and tweets,
textes for tips and treats.
Multimedia is her playground,
surfs with the ether elites.

To her kittens so fair,
in the rarefied air.
Warm and waiting,
for their supper.

So she lies in wait,
for the next update,
to replace her, in a line,
that is certainly her fate.

Her kittens must learn,
soon, before it is too late.
How to survive for themselves,
so highly endangered is their fate.

RWH: 10/30/10

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Poem of the Week: 10/31/10


I'm scared as hell.
Can't take it anymore!
The zombies are rising,
to settle their score.

Their Bibles held tight,
ready to fight,
they now hold a rally,
almost every night.

With crosses held high,
they deny her worth.
A bloody vamp's right,
to choose her own birth.

With a weird kind of zeal,
they want to repeal,
and blow out the candle,
of the less fortunate of Earth.

They'll go to war,
over a flag covered coffin,
but send only the young,
to maim and off them.

Like moneychangers of yore,
they want their fair share.
But the Temple of money,
will give them no more.

"We are dying," they cry.
"And can't pay for more.
" Their flabby diabetic guts,
medicated to the core.

But fatcats are running,
their empty masquerade.
Science says they're not real,
but they still parade.

With bats in their belfry,
they theorize and dream.
A sense of reality,
that makes me scream.

You'll see them on Tuesday,
driving wooden stakes in the ground.
A party of vengeful parties,
driving democracy down.

RWH: 10/30/10

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Poem of the Week: 10/24/10

Autumn Air

I float like fluff on the autumn breeze.
Drift into nowhere with the greatest of ease.

Wood smoke and pet stroke meant to please,
the pungent smell of dying leaves.

Daydreams of days in the warmth of the Sun.
The crunching of leaves when on the run.

Days without thought of care, only fun.
Down by the pond, fishing for the one.

I long for nothing in these days so full.
The colors of plenty are a mighty pull.

Through the valley and over the hill,
with vistas of beauty our glass to fill.

Garlic and gargoyles and ghastly ghosts,
float through the mind like unholy hosts.

Watching the sun set from the rim of the coast.
Those golden days of glory are the most.

Hunt the deep brush for a wild turkey to roast.
Watch fire in the hearth as we raise a toast.

RWH: 10/23/10

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Poem of the Week: 10/17/10

Holler Weenie

Holler when the weenie is done.
Are we having any fun?

Digging up old loans,
from bankruptcy clones.

Turning over rotting flesh,
polling for the new and fresh.

Providing digging jobs,
for those not digging jobs.

Slimy snakes in a squeeze,
trying to do what they please.

YouTube showing all,
are you ready for your fall?

Down in Sleepy Holler,
where the zombies only foller.

Vampires are sucking blood,
you can bank on it, Bud.

Get your retreads out of bars,
have them dancing with the stars.

They shoot horses don't they?
Just head for Vegas and play.

Lying in the grave of sorts,
watching daily stock reports.

I thought I saw a ghost,
at the local IRA roast.

When your weenie is almost roasted,
Holler so that I can properly toast it.

RWH: 10/16/10

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Poem of the Week: 10/10/10


The devil is in the details,
and not some hellish place.
For he or she is not to blame,
nor, the human race.

There is no God above us,
no devil down below.
Just you and me and our misery,
when we understand too slow.

As science slowly sorts the truth,
we like to lie a lot.
For truth is dull and boring,
and keeps us on the spot.

Set forth by our ancestors,
far too many years ago.
The myth of an ultimate power,
shaping things below.

But that power is waning,
with each new truth revealed.
Those that want to keep the power,
always seem to be well-heeled.

The status quo is what they want,
and human rights repealed.
So they can continue the charade,
their sovereignty still sealed.

But as we peer into life,
and find our detailed destiny.
Revealing who we really are,
and why we're not that free.

RWH: 10/9/10

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Poem of the Week: 10/3/10

Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves Southeast Texas,
and goes somewhere else to play.
Summer drags on until November,
dropping a hurricane along the way.

Autumn leaves me breathless,
When and where it is fully displayed.
A palette of many colors,
woven into a fine brocade.

Autumn leaves are precious,
we press them into books.
Where they become faded,
and lose their precious looks.

Autumn leaves me speechless,
at men and their games.
As football frenzy strengthens,
my hope for mankind wanes.

For autumn is a time to reflect,
and prepare for winter's wrath.
Not a celebrated war of cities,
down gambler's addiction path.

Autumn leaves me helpless,
with the passing of the years.
September's song was sweet,
but December slowly nears.

Autumn leaves me wistful,
that with every passing year,
our dreams will be forgotten,
after coming, oh so, near.

RWH: 10/2/10

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Poem of the Week: 9/26/10

Feel So Bad

I feel so bad,
yes, I feel so bad.
Ain't the worse day,
that I ever had.

But it's a bad day,
there is no doubt,
I feel like shit,
that's what it's about.

Woke up with a pain,
in my collarbone.
Headache so thick,
legs spasming to roam.

Of course, I stayed home,
and tried to work,
but that headache kept nagging me,
like a jerk.

The jerk in my legs,
turned to pain,
and the turmoil in my head,
became a migraine.

Of course I struggled,
and got this poem out.
A stomach upset's coming,
I have no doubt.

I'll see you next week,
when I feel better.
Back to my old self,
a real go-getter.

RWH: 9/25/10

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Poem of the Week: 9/19/10

Heavy Metal

Heavy metal days, heavy metal nights,
rock until you roll, express your rights.

Uranium on the black market,
to set your soul to glee.
Uranium in your cranium,
from the dust is free.

Gold hung around your neck,
is sure to weigh you down.
So when your ship capsizes,
you will surely drown.

Platinum pierces your private part,
taken from its tattooed heart.
Makes you part of the scene,
cheated when it turns to green.

Swords are on your table,
eat all the fresh fish you're able.
Before you act like the Mad Hatter,
dip your catfish in the batter.

Get the lead out, old paint.
But for the children, it's too late.
If there were real lead in your pencil,
writers couldn't even stencil.

Arsenic and old lace,
in your coffee without a trace.
Alzheimer's blamed when you die,
can't wipe that smile from her face.

Rock on until the day you die,
heavy metal is in the water, earth and sky.

RWH: 9/18/10

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Poem of the Week: 9/12/10


Memories fill these silent halls,
of the time of hate.
Memories painted on the walls,
before it was too late.

When memory fades with time,
blended into gray.
Like poetry without its rhyme,
greets a cloudy day.

The paint of youth is sharp and clear,
shows no fear of message.
The paint of youth is held so dear,
a cornucopia of its passage.

Who would want to desecrate,
these priceless memories fair?
Who would want to fade to white,
these vivid works so rare?

Only those without any vision,
blinded by their power.
Who seek to shackle every wisdom,
in their brief, little hour.

Whitewashing the past,
and revising history.
To curry favor,
and fulfill a personal destiny.

We must rise up against this tyranny,
and stop the desecration.
For freedom demands free will,
intellect without persecution.

Until this message is understood,
the University will not be free.
But only a puppet to the system,
corporate America has come to be.

RWH: 9/11/10

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Poem of the Week: 9/4/10

3-D (Warning Erotic)

My world was flat,
but now it is round.

I think it's a Dolby,
I can hear the sound.

There's got to be something wrong,
with my eyes.

Because I got to wear glasses,
just to see their size.

Jumping jeepers Jupiter!
That went right past my nose.

Next thing you know,
they'll make me wear ladies' hose.

Now that's a sight that I'd like to see,
her trying on stockings in 3-D.

She can skip the panties,
for the scene.

And do a little triple X,
in between.

So when I can't find,
my real live blowup doll.

I can flip on my 3-D,
and do it in style.

RWH: 9/4/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/29/10

August Heat

When the August sun burns hot,
my love for you comes to thought.

Free of clothes in this heat,
our dance of love is so sweet.

Our dance of love burns eternal,
our dance of love becomes inferno,

in the August heat.

And when the nighttime comes around,
the beat picks up to the sound.

The heat surrounds us like a glove,
as we dance to the beat of love.

As if in a hypnotic trance,
our senses heighten to the dance,

In the August heat.

The moon and stars dance the night,
to their rhythm we hold tight.

When the ecstasy of desire,
overcomes, we retire.

To in the morning awake,
emerge, and feel the sun bake.

In the August heat.

RWH: 8/28/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/22/10

Rowing River

Rowing river is where I be,
twixt the mountain, and the sea
Rowing, not paddling, is for me,
up this river of time
Up this river of rhyme

I've been rowing,
all my life
rowing ain't easy,
but she's my wife

Married to her,
I should not be
But like my right arm,
my right hand's for free

Up this river of time
Up this river of rhyme

Into her waters,
I dig deep
Her flow is smooth,
and it is steep

Two strokes up,
swept three strokes back
It's not for trying,
that I lack

Up this river of time
Up this river of rhyme

Will I make that mountaintop?
Only time will tell
Will these rapids ever stop?
Before the final curtain fall?

Rowing river is where I be,
till time decides to erase me
Like a pod of a pea
Floating down to the sea

Down this river of time,
leaving this river of rhyme

RWH: 8/21/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/15/10

Snakes, Snails and Puppy Dog Tales

Those were the days,
when life was so new,
and we were free,
whatever to do.

After breakfast,
before Mom could shout,
we' d slam the screen door,
on our way out.

The sky was blue,
the grass was green,
the world was our oyster,
in between.

There were snakes under rocks,
and flowers under trees,
a honey tinted morning,
with the buzzing of bees.

A stick was our sword,
a milkweed, our enemy.
We'd dispatch it with precision,
set bitter milk free.

There were always frogs,
down by the pond.
Butterflies and dragonflies,
at the wave of a wand.

And if we were lucky,
we'd see a skunk.
And keep our distance,
to avoid smelling punk.

I practiced hitting,
with our bat and a rock,
broke a Nash's rear window,
to my father's shock.

Set a building to smolder,
while smoking butts.
A police woman pulled us over,
making smoking for nuts.

I swam under water,
holding my breath.
Dove off the high board,
with no fear of death.

I'd take any dare,
my friends would throw,
I knocked them off easy,
like pins in a row.

Raking leaves in the fall,
we'd make a big pile,
savoring the musty odor,
as we rolled for a while.

In snow pants and a heavy coat,
we'd build a snow fort.
Throw snowballs like crazy,
until our earlobes hurt.

Those were the days,
but now they are gone.
Still those precious memories,
of childhood's days live on.

RWH: 8/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/7/10

Hero in the Gulf

In geological time,
bacteria have evolved,
to live on the Earth riches,
and the Sun as it revolved.

To each genome its niche,
since prehistoric time,
until the world was covered,
with almost imperceptible slime.

A. borkumensis was,
born in hot tar pits of grime.
That bubbled to the surface,
from time to time.

Eventually this bug,
was washed to the sea.
Seeking out hydrocarbons,
and gobbling them with glee.

In the 19th century,
men discovered oil.
It was there all along,
but smelly and foul.

Whale oil was used,
to light the night.
But whales were becoming scarce,
and oil burned smoky bright.

Automobiles needed gasoline,
and the lust for oil's riches began.
"Black Gold" in gushers,
where-ever and when.

The rush to find oil,
left death and destruction.
Countries torn apart,
by callous corruption.

There was no thought,
of the land and the water.
Ecosystems were savaged,
like cattle to slaughter.

But then air pollution,
raised its ugly head.
Coal, oil, and gasoline the culprits,
filled our lungs with dread.

Dilution was the solution,
out of sight, out of mind.
Corporate made its profits,
trash the world behind.

Like cancer upon the land,
the ugly sores grew.
The obvious was overlooked,
and so the truth was, too.

The Gulf of Mexico trash heap,
where all our insults go,
received a decisive lash,
over 100 days ago.

Technology could not stop the leak,
nor could government decree.
It took so long to stop,
even with a spending spree.

With billions spent and climbing,
pitiful oil was scrubbed and saved.
But so much was missing,
the bottom a watery grave?

With millions of years preparation,
our little bug grew to its repast.
And gobbled 70% of the oil,
a hero in the Gulf, at last.

RWH: 8/5/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/1/10

Solar Crazy

The stars came out,
and marched along the Milky Way.
The faithful knelt aghast,
and began to pray.

Mercury was burning,
Eddie wished to be that hot.
So Queen became champions,
of a world that was not.

Venus grew before our eyes,
and revealed her inner beauty.
Her orbs were pubescent,
her glow, her ardent duty.

Mars ran low across sky,
his manhood omnipresent.
So red his Doppler shifted,
he cackled like a pheasant.

Jupiter threw off Io,
parading his big red spot.
We would have had Io for dinner,
but she was way too hot.

Saturn turned on her rings,
encircled by her beauty.
Fairly glowed with Stardust,
a beautiful round booty.

Neptune sailed out to see,
what the commotion was about.
Broke the ice with a single slice,
and passed the vodka out.

Uranus turned his better side,
and began to throw up.
His big ascend was obvious,
it was so corrupt.

When Pluto became impotent,
he turned his tail and hid.
We never saw that sphere again,
his ego was all id.

And so the stars paraded,
and we lost all doubt.
The Man on the Moon was crazy,
until the faithful prayed out.

RWH: 7/31/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/25/10


Across the continental divide,
to reach the shining sea.
The tall trees beckon,
as far as the eyes can see.

Hot sands blur the vision,
of ever changing dunes.
The birds' song is so varied,
a thousand native tunes.

Mountaintop view brings tears,
as cold wind pierces sight.
But awe the glorious sunrise,
from the sea to banish night.

White sand languid palm trees,
wave fronds in the breeze.
The hurricane is coming,
changing the shoreline with ease.

A thousand lakes of legend,
whose tranquil presence leads.
To Voyagers hale and hardy,
who plied these pleasant leagues.

Bayou dressed in ancient moss,
mysterious to the bay.
Cougar screams a wild pig kill,
as alligators sleep through the day.

A bull elk trumpets on high,
thousands of bisons graze below.
White goats traipse the high range,
where eagles drift so slow.

An autumn forest is peaceful,
a winter scene, serene.
Springtime brings its brilliance,
and summer grows between.

For all the land its glory,
a toast raised high, unseen,
for glory knows no boundary,
when nature starts to preen.

RWH: 7/24/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/18/10

Angel Air

I breathe the Angel's air,
for she is fair and far away,
like the fairy tale I weave,
for her flaxen locks I grieve.

Locked away in a faraway castle,
her hair grown long like a tassel.
A figment of an imaginary time,
pieced together for this rhyme.

I'm not much for slaying dragons,
what an ugly, improbable beast.
Like making bread with sardines,
it's all ingredient and the yeast.

I do like castle's dining halls,
a table overflowing with wild meat.
Before I slay the dragon in me,
I must have a little debauchery feast.

There are will be mead, wine and ale,
for if I am to fight an imaginary dragon,
I must fortify my will, and get high,
high enough to fly in the Angel's air.

So, off to the clouds I go,
to fight the beast, to and fro.
Of course I win the Angel fair,
fly off to her castle in her air.

Soon, I stroke her flaxen tassel,
in a faraway land high in the castle.
And then suddenly, I awake and choke,
it's only the cat's tail, that I stroke.

RWH: 7/17/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/11/10


If only this once to have a chance,
if only you'd take my hand in dance.
This once, this last chance, intrance,
you'd call, enthrall, that's all, this chance.

Off into the dark of night,
your body feels so right,
as I hold you so tight,
and we become one in flight.

Escaping the thought of alone,
under the pale moonlight, 'til dawn.
So take my hand and dance,
until the pain is gone.

and, I awaken from the dance.

RWH: 7/10/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/4/10

Pale Moon Setting

I spotted a pale Moon setting,
in the bright Monday morning sky.

I should have taken it as an omen,
but I let the thought pass me by.

Alex was brewing up a storm,
in the warm Caribbean sun.

Not to worry, I thought,
odds are hundred to one.

The devil is in the details,
and not in a clear blue sky.

I went about my business,
you know, working to just get by.

The market was as bright as the morning,
to catch the wave, I bought what I had sold.

By afternoon, the tide had turned,
my fast move was growing old.

The week went unexpected,
the market took a long, slow slide.

And I was down the chute,
taken, once again, for a ride.

By Friday all I had was work,
and Alex, that denied.

Streets turned into lakes,
and my van, no boat to ride.

I stayed home to write this poem,
and wait for a fairer tide.

Until the pale moon rises,
and I am on its right side.

RWH: 7/2/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/27/10

I Write the Poems

My apologies to Barry Manilow...

I write the poems that make hearts sing,
I write the poems that make bells ring.
I write poems that make you cry,
and the poems that make you ask, Why?

I write the poems because you are mine,
I write the poems because you rhyme.
I write the poems as high as the sky,
and the poems you are the apple of my eye.

I write the poems because they are there,
I write the poems that come from nowhere.
I write the poems that make me sigh,
and the poems when you make me high.

I write the poems of my dreams,
I write the poems bursting from seams.
I write the poems from my soul,
and the poems when you make me whole.

I write the poems about hurt and strife,
I write the poems that save a life.
I write the poems that wrench your world,
and the poems where truth is unfurled.

Like a flag-waving above the din,
helping us escape the fix we are in.

I write the poems.

RWH: 6/26/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/20/10


She drifted in with the tide,
a soft night ride, by my side.
To flutter in my ear,
like a butterfly so near.

I can taste her sweet nectar,
doing justice as I reflect her,
in the mirror of my mind,
from the front, and behind.

She floats like that butterfly,
on the tip of a tail wind.
And sings as she floats,
a song never penned.

She breezes in and breezes out,
planting thoughts and leaving doubt.
Enchanting like a fairy princess,
slaying my heart, defenseless.

Breezy is the name I gave her,
easy are the thoughts that claim her,
it is so hard to blame her,
when they do not come true.

And so I leave the window open,
and hope that she will come.
And ease my heart before it's broken,
or at least, leave a token.

RWH: 6/19/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/13/10

Oh Mama!

Oh Mama, oh Mama, what have you done?
Why have you borne him like every mothers' son?

Don't you know that he's the one.
Chosen for the evil done?

Chosen from Mother Nature's girth,
chosen to save the Earth?

But he is lacking; he is lame.
He only wants to play the game.

The one he learned at his mother's breast,
an old story, you know the rest.


He was so innocent; he was so wise.
Why did you fill him with a pack of lies?

Why did you train him like a dog,
Instead of teaching him Socratic dialogue?

Why did you protect him,
from what you thought was sin?

By overprotecting him,
you let the evil in.


And so the evil is unleashed,
and rampant upon the land.

Your evil son's legacy is unraveling,
and evident on every hand.

But you know not what you have done,
for he is your only son.

Oh Mama, oh Mama what have you done?
What have you done, oh what have you done?

RWH: 6/12/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/6/10

Tipping Point

She was our jewel,
floating in space.
In perfect balance,
4 billion years of grace.

With all of her seasons,
firmly in place.
She changed with perfection,
she changed with pace.

Her primordial seas,
gave new life,
to microbes and bacteria,
took edge off of strife.

Of all the inhabitants,
that lived on her skin.
Insects reigned foremost,
on the plant life within.

Next came the fishes,
and animals of the sea.
The source of all life,
later to be.

Of all the animals,
gracing the land.
Only we were rational,
in command.

All these kingdoms,
were ours for taking.
And take we did.
We took without thinking.

We squandered what was given,
called it progress, called it living.
Our numbers grew without check.
Our needs grew without giving.

A parasite on our planet,
we took and took and took.
Until our Earth could take no more,
and left us on the hook.

Like a fish on a line,
abruptly pulled to air,
food and water no longer safe,
we cannot breathe the air.

First, the food ran out,
and the water became foul,
diseases ran through us,
anarchy raised its howl.

Holed up in our tunnels,
without a drop to drink.
Our hopes of staying alive,
slowly begun to sink.

But the tipping point fury,
outran our failure to act.
Until the last one standing,
still thought by react.

RWH: 6/5/10

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Gasoline Alley

Poem of the Week: 5/30/10

It smelled of gas and grit,
and sometimes, piss and shit.
But it was home to the fool and hardy,
in the month of May.

They came by auto, ship and train.
To the central Indiana plain,
to test their cars with vigor,
like there was no other way.

Peugeot, Mercedes, and Delage came.
Europe's finest in the pouring rain.
To be met by Marmon, Miller,
and local Offenhauser fame.

It took a month to get them running,
with smoke and oil and booze.
The grease monkeys rode on board,
for it was a long walk to lose.

No seatbelt was the rule,
but goggles were a must.
Better to fly off in a crash,
than bug in your eye be crushed.

Cursing was the rule,
when things didn't turn out right.
You could hear those blessings many,
in the garages late at night.

The qualifying was over,
the day had finally come.
To see who would be the best,
after a long hot day's run.

Pushing 100 was what they did,
but the bricks were unforgiving.
Those who lost control over the wall,
were lucky to rejoin the living.

Five hundred miles was the goal,
these men put to the test.
Only one would win,
and be a very best.

RWH: 5/29/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/23/10

Soilent Sea

The old man went out one day,
to fish the Soilent Sea.
Its iridescent beauty,
belied the truth that be.

He passed the tar babies,
playing on the beach.
Lots of tar balls to play with,
within easy reach.

One hundred days or more,
the old man had fished in vain.
Greased against the baking sun,
or drenched in slippery rain.

His pension had been cut in half,
the big oil crash brought it down.
Further cuts were on the way,
there was no end to frown.

His village was starving,
he had to catch some fish.
Black Gold had meant him nothing,
to survive was his only wish.

The albatross around his neck,
the old man wore with pride.
It fell into his boat one day,
as he cleaned it gently, it died.

A turtle floats up occasionally,
its meat tastes like hell.
He takes the turtle up anyway,
can always use the shell.

There are no fish, no shrimp, no eel,
the Gulf is nearly barren.
It's terrible to see the dolphin die.
Even the vultures die from carrion.

And so he set sail one more day,
upon the Soilent Sea.
The old man's days already numbered,
what will be will be.

RWH: 5/22/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/16/10


The pterodactyl flies,
the pristine skies,
of a volcano infested,
landscape elective.

From keen eyes,
nothing that swims or flies,
escapes undetected.

Nothing that walks,
misses the gaze,
of this reptilian,
surveillance collective.

With frame strong and light,
and muscles of might,
skin flared for lift,
and glide.

Radar and rudder,
between telescopic sight,
navigation so subtle,
time on her side.

The mighty pterodactyl,
floats on thermals,
and glides downstream,
a thousand miles,
is but a day's ride.

Carrion or fresh,
she craves fish or flesh,
to regurgitate to her,
high nested young.

Queen of the skies,
she is highest and last,
to see the setting sun.

RWH: 5/15/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/9/10

Wheeling Free

I'll be wheeling free,
with only thoughts of thee,
some day

Sailing the sea,
your hair windblown free,
one day

Floating over a tree,
soon you and I are we,
to say.

We saw the shining star,
in the blackness of who we are,
to light our path for free

We read the rights of man,
as far as the distance of ran,
because we can

Yes, we can

Because we're wheeling free,
no grease beneath our skids,
no egos, ifs, buts, or ids

Free wheeling be we.

RWH: 5/8/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/2/10

May Flies

May flies in the face of spring.
Rainbow catches her in mid flight,
just after the dawn's first light.

Misty tastes the green buds,
On a wild cherry tree.
A blossom bursts for me.

Moss gathers no speed in morning sun,
snail slimes on, on the run.
Mocking birds picking him off just for fun.

Dappled leaves rock to and fro,
as if undecided where to go.
Hiding the ants a leaf to row.

Downstream to wait watery fate,
under the clear blue sky.
A dangle of feet, you and I.

Soft moss engages your bottom,
the hot sun makes you wanton.
Sweat slides down your mountain.

As I climb to the sky,
and wet my whistle when it gets too dry,
before the sun passes the afternoon by.

Martins purple the coming storm,
we rush for cover, safe and warm.
as May flies like a fling.

RWH: 5/1/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/25/10

Grammar Time

From the edge of time,
I sought a rhyme,
but couldn't find the sign.

There is a fine line,
between fair and fine,
didn't know the difference.

The spelling was checked,
the logic was wrecked,
and the main point slid off,
in the distance.

But how to know,
when the brain is slow,
and drifting into insistence.

Faster than light,
a fine line write,
pops into view.

Seized for the day,
and not flown away,
old saw becomes brand-new.

RWH: 4/24/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/18/10

Color Me Rainbow

Color me red as a divine rose can be.
Color me thorn bit flowing free.
Color me rampant, rouge in a rage,
roses become petals as they advance in age.

Color me orange on a shiny green tree.
Color me as brassy, bold and bright.
Color my sweet fragrance throughout the night,
tough on the outside; inside juicy and light.

Color me yellow as the daytime sun.
Color me seeking a shade on the run.
Color me transparently bright in the blue,
a delightful submarine song for me and you.

Color me green as a frog on a lily pad.
Color me eyeing the fly on a reed.
Color me jealousy and color me greed,
a syndrome that makes me go to seed.

Color me blue, as the sky is true,
color me mirrored in the sea.
Color me melancholy and affected,
a teardrop depression often reflected.

Color me indigo as a sunset sky.
Color me prune puddin' look in your eye.
Color me deep as love in a sigh,
that sleepy drift where you and I lie.

Color me rainbow if you will,
color me violet on the short grass hill.
Color me as timid, shy and shrill,
violets are not shrinking when giving a thrill.

RWH: 4/17/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/11/10

Spring Came

Spring came softly, silently, unaware,
she came naked as winter trees,
on a gentle breeze,
to the moment she would seize.

Spring came veiled in rain,
a softness without shame,
like teardrops laughter brings,
and flowers, perennial, springs.

Spring came warm and ready,
ripe and bursting with glee.
She flowered the red and ruddy,
with whites of transparency.

Spring came hot and heavy,
with bird song on her breast.
And bees buzzin'' round the honey,
instinct knows the rest.

Spring came in deep of night,
her pheromones found my nose.
She fertilized my mind with dreams,
sensing her feral fragrance as I rose.

Spring came with a glory,
never before discussed.
my landscape turned to fury,
and my garden turned to lust.

Spring came in with stormy seas,
and spent her splendor with ease,
and then, with the heat of summer,
left, with a, "Thank you, please."

RWH: 4/10/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/4/10

No Satisfaction

Won't give you no satisfaction, I won't.
Don't have to bend to your will, I won't.

While you fail to accommodate,
my mind's on, its getting late.
It is time you saw the light,
before they overturn your slate.

And abandon what you thought was right,
the world based on survival, coercion, and might.
The one where strict rules held the fragile fabric of life,
where wealth and influence brought so many strife.

For one that was just, kind and fair,
where those held in hierarchical bondage,
could hope for freedom,
could breathe a new air.

By challenging your rules,
I am set free.
You can't disable,
or handicap me.

You see, long ago,
I saw through your lies.
Your intolerance of difference,
your ignorance with my eyes.

Your jealousy of accomplishment,
denial of creative youth.
Your focus on the me and my,
under the guise of being couth.

Your greed is showing,
like a gold tooth.
Obviously so frivolous,
no need for proof.

So I will parry your every thrust,
you lie so transparent you lose my trust.
The guile of your glory,
is an old old story.

And when you have lost,
the trust of your minions.
You will get your just desserts,
regardless of your unjust opinions.

You will get no satisfaction,
from defeating me.

RWH: 4/3/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/28/10

Abuse of Power

Hour by hour, abuse of power,
rolls down the rusty lane.

Racking up a score,
until the raven says,

And the clock returns,
to "before."

Wasted nights and wicked rites,
sapping the left from right.

Darkening clouds of discontent,
shatter the great good night.

Never before has such an ire,
darkened the skies of delight.

Dead poets slip from the site,
their entrails bordering on fright.

Sooner or later, the amplified it,
will raise its mighty might.

And the meek will rise to ostracize,
bring the abuse to light.

Dissolving in the afterglow,
of truly equal right.

RWH: 3/27/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/21/10

Spring Storm

She moved in from the northwest,
hotter than the norm.
Her lightning eyes flashing,
they called her,
Spring Storm.

Her mighty teton majesty,
came rolling grayly thin,
the thunder of her highest points,
nearly did me in.

I've seen this kind of storm before,
but never soulful and so intense.
I've tasted her electric bitterness,
but never so quaveringly immense.

Her kiss was unexpected,
a strong and mighty whiplash.
Blew my windowpanes away,
so I could see the slash.

She made in my oblivion,
that sprang far before the fall.
Hard as a rock of obsidian,
I faced her throbbing all.

She tore my threads to threadbare,
she sucked my soul to fire.
I could not stop my stroking,
for fear of her awful ire.

Her rain came with its mercy,
a deluge of dirty delight.
To wash away the sin of shame,
and remembrance of many lonely night.

Her whirlwind became a sweet breeze,
her fiery flashes soft rainbow gone.
I wondered if it was just a dream,
as I savored the sweet green grass,

and breathed the coming dawn.

RWH: 3/20/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/15/10

Roaring 20s

The war to end all wars was over,
and so was the deadly flu.
It was time to think of life and living,
a time for me and you.

You in your flapper finery,
your long cigarette holder askew.
Me in my knickers and straw hat,
we strolled down the avenue.

Watched movies both silent and sinful,
until the night was new.
And then danced till the night was gone,
drinking the latest bootleg brew.

To the sound of the Count and Duke,
the Charleston, the Lindy Hop so brand-new.
We were bee's knees, to the tees,
and nouveau riche, too.

We were Bearcat and Stutts,
Tin Lizzies in ruts, always on the go.
When I asked you to "cut the rug.
" You never, ever, said "No."

You were my peach,
we'd summer at the beach.
And welcome the winter snow.
A warm fire with no place to go.

We were high wire,
our hearts were on fire,
it lasted as long as a flame,
a decadent decade in name.

Came 1929 and the dire bell rang,
we sang our last "Old Lang Syne."
But as we look back, can't help but lack,
the luster of that wild and wonderful time.

RWH: 3/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/7/10


I'm not living like a sage,
but I'm living in a wireless age.

Where all things are possible,
once they are done.

Think of an idea,
and make it run.

It is utterly amazing,
all this stuff,
is transmitted with ease,
as if that's not enough.

With magical fingers,
we make it play.

Soon cloud computing,
will "make our day."

Imagine shooting someone,
with a 44 Magnum,
and getting clean away.

Imagine "Avatar,"
and having it play,
on your lap with no top.

Driving while brainless,
if that isn't enough.

Making the inner your outer space,
if you got the right stuff.

Going wireless is easy,
going wireless is fun.

But watch what you wish for,
and where you run.

RWH: 3/6/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/28/10

Of Sleep Deprived

Of sleep deprived,
I have arrived,
to a place of wrought.

To stare at the screen,
without a dream,
interceding on my thought.

To try to compose,
while the end of my nose,
dives into the extreme.

Asleep at the wheel,
I try to feel,
the edges of my stream.

But it is for naught,
for without a thought,
I'm live at some scene.

Only to awake,
after a brief break,
start over from when.

Woe is the cost,
of all this time lost,
I will never ever have it, again.

While MacArthur Park,
Melts in the dark,
I drift off in the rain.

RWH: 2/27/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/21/10

Only a Game

What if war were only a game?
And countries competed all the same.
Put their best to the test,
Win or lose no one's to blame.

Our soldiers come home free,
with only bumps and bruises.
Their minds stressed ultimately,
by their checks and chooses.

Where only the fittest can survive,
but everyone returns alive.
Where competing means we thrive,
And the winner take the spoils.

To be bathed in fine oils,
topped with a wreath of ivy coils.
With the gods the mind swirls,
what thinks the mind beneath those curls?

To have the maiden of his wishes,
unfettered by religious switches.
Turning life, "on" or "off",
to some patriarch's twitches.

If only war were a game,
they held the war and no one came.
Everyone laughed and came home sane,
for all the world to see...

Oh, what a wonderful world it would be!

RWH: 2/20/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/14/10

How Far the Spring?

How far the spring?
I shan't not know.
For I am ensconced,
in deepening snow.

Winter drags on,
and tears at my soul.
My legs are like stumps,
numb feet have no goal.

I must keep the wind,
to my back.
swoops down to kill me,
in a sneak attack.

My food almost gone,
winter rages on.
I'm trapped in the snow,
with nowhere to go.

And the cold seeps in,
my coverlet of skin.
Until I think I may die,
before the spring sky,

Nourishes me again.

RWH: 2/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/7/10

The Scribe

He chooses his words with care,
his vocabulary is thin and bare.

His sheepskin parchment is rare,
His penmanship he cannot spare.

He mixes his ink with care,
from a formula older than air.

And from the heart, from the very start,
writes with skill and without error.

When day turns to night,
he writes by candlelight.

He writes for days until he is done.
Until he and the manuscript are one.

He writes whenever he chooses,
as often as prompted by the Muses.

He thumbs in a reply,
on his keyboard in the sky,
and sends it to whomever he chooses.

The thought has come and gone,
and so he moves on,
to whatever still amuses.

He thumbs his last pitch,
and ain't it a bitch,
into a wall he crashes.

RWH: 2/6/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/31/10

It's in the Water

It's in the water,
they always say.

But who would have thought,
it would come so easy,
it would come this way.


We all knew the water was bad,
science would save us;
it's all we had.

But science can go wrong,
like the flip of a switch.

Our life was heaven,
and now it's a bitch.

Water was our lifeblood,
our source, our tool.

We thought it would last forever,
but science made us a fool.

With no time left,
we huddle and pray.

But water is thicker than blood,
to our last day.

RWH: 1/30/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/24/10

And Haiti Sings On...

The Earth, she grumble,
the Earth, she groan,
the houses, they tumble,
and Haiti sings on.

Oh Christopher Columbus,
why did you come,
to my island paradise,
to the beat of a drum?

Oh King of France,
why did you dance,
on my color and culture,
for sweet rum sugar,
and new cotton pants?

For that we put France down,.
But the world goes round and round,
and Papa Doc took the high ground,
beating us bloody to the sound,
of drum beats as Haiti sang on.

And so we put Papa down,.
Behind the smile our faces frown,.
There was no joy in Port-au-Prince town,
but Haiti still sang on.

In the late summer,
the hurricane come,
rip at our houses,
and always drown some.

And now our houses kill everyone,.
Regardless of station, every mother's son,.
But with the cry of pain in every street,
the singing of Haiti never retreat.

We thirst for water and hunger for food,.
We cry for shelter and relief that is good,.
Our cries fall unheard like tapping on wood,.
Haiti sings for redemption that is unheard.

The world pours in, but it is too late,
too little is coming, and the grief is too great,.
There is no saving those already crushed,
those buried alive not given grief's trust.

After the pain of injury is healed,
after the death is swept away or sealed,
the tragedy of starvation,
and disease revealed,
still, Haiti will sing on.

Will Haiti ever be strong?
Is Haiti's tragic history just too long?
Surely, with the strength of its people,
and its song, Haiti will live on.

RWH: 1/23/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/17/10

From the Bottom

From the bottom of my heart I can see,
that you and I were meant to be.

From the bottom of the sea calms my heart,
for it is here that you can make a new start.

From the bottom of the pit you can climb,
from the depth of despair to the height of sublime.

From the bottom of the edge is a ledge,
where you can hold onto whatever hope you pledge.

From the bottom all you have to do is look up,
to see that you are more than a half full cup.

From the bottom the sky is black with stars,
and you can see forever,
even to Mars.

And if you ever get to the top,
remember those on the bottom,
are looking up.

RWH: 1/16/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/10/10


I ain't braggin' nor flag-wavin',
it's just these winter blues,
got my ass a draggin'.

Cold as ice, the wind blows new,
cuts like a knife, lightning blue,
through, man... through.

Sky is clear, so bright hue,
cold as ice, cuts right through,
favors not, me or you.

Throat is dry, skin is too,
itchy rashes soon accrue,
all those gift bills now are due.

All those resolutions,
promised are, too,
slipped up again, didn't you?

Tax times comin' don'cha know,
as sure as is the April snow,
in it come, and out it go.

I ain't lazy, I'm just flaggin',
these old blues they got me draggin'.
slanderin' this poem,

While I'm laggin'.

RWH: 1/8/10

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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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