Poem of the Week: 12/31/11

2012

A new year is upon us,
coming up fast.

They say this year is different,
not like the last.

They say all kinds of things,
will happen in 2012.

New theories abound,
and old theories evolve.

As though it were some puzzle,
we are supposed to solve.

The world has its problems,
and they are clearer to see.

But I see next year,
no different to be.

The world gets better,
all of the time.

Some people suffer,
but others are fine.

For those that think,
the world's coming to an end.

I say, "Open your mind,
let it bend.

" A flexible mind,
knows how to survive.

Dinosaur thoughts,
are no longer alive.

RWH: 12/28/11

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Poem of the Week: 12/24/11

Solstice Serenade

The distant sun sets on the shortest day,
as the magic of the north land comes into play.

Stars come out one by one to accent the night,
wild creatures sleep under a blanket of white.

Wild creatures sleep, under a blanket of white.

Frost creates artistry on every twig and blade,
coating the night with a silvery brocade.

A richness of beauty as rare as the cold air,
the moon comes out casting reflections so fair.

While wild creatures sleep, under a blanket of white.

The stars and the moon add to the still of the night,
while Aurora Borealis move magic in curtains of bright.

Colors so moving, so fading, so enchanting, so rare, that come and go like a warm whim in the cool night air.

Unseen to the creatures, lying asleep below.
Wild creatures sleep, under a blanket of snow.

Wild creatures sleep, under a blanket of white.

The sun peeks through to a crystalline dawn.
Diamond flakes of ice and snow filter on down.

Trees laden with frost bow branches to the light,
the brilliance of day outshines the artistry of night.

And the wild creatures sleep, under a blanket of white.

The peace of the wild is so clear in the brilliance of day.
Shadows pierce the snow leaving no tracks as they play.

A lone fox listens for faint sounds of his prey.
And then pounces into the snow surprising his way.

And wild creatures sleep, under a blanket of white.

And dream of the day, when days are longer, than night.

RWH: 12/21/11

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Poem of the Week: 12/17/11

Snowed

Silently, across the white,
miles and miles melt from sight.

As vistas come and vistas go,
all buried and muted by the flow.

We live with ease against the chill,
leaving no tracks for those who kill.

It's hard to explain the utter peace,
the blue sky's contrast fails to cease.

. In the womb of nature's blinding freeze,
time stands still and the mind is released. gliding by as though as by ear.

While numbness sets in and delusions reveal,
secrets of the universe up too close not to feel.

With a brilliant opening up ahead,
into its doorway, we are sped.

RWH: 12/15/11

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Poem of the Week: 12/10/11

Holiday Hell

This time of year,
I am of good cheer,
and try to do my part.

Over the hill,
and through the woods,
I metaphorically start.

No more jaunts,
through ice and snow,
to reach my family's care.

Nonetheless, I do venture out,
to an occasion here or there.

Today I awoke,
out of body and mind,
the little snifflers got me,
one more time.

I had more shots,
than a dog's behind.
Rolling fever, doubletime.

I tried to function,
through the heat,
but all I got,
was painful feet.

Listlessly staring,
at this white sheet,
words come out staccato,
to a powerful beat.

Of blood in my temples,
and fire in my gut.
The day winds down slowly,
I'm in a rut.

Of holiday Hell,
that comes with the cheer.
Sure hope it doesn't happen,
again next year.

RWH: 12/8/11

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Poem of the Week: 12/3/11

Unemployment (Satire)

All the president's horses,
and all the congressmen.

Couldn't solve unemployment,
fighting like a territorial hen.

It seems the jobs had left,
flown off in great flocks.

To faraway places like China,
and other communist blocks.

Pumping money didn't work,
too many leaks in the pipe.

Rich entitled stonewalled,
claiming free market hype.

After all, for progress,
the creme must rise to the top.

Must have genetically,
engineered that cow,
for creme is all we've got.

There was a simple solution,
two guys in Ohio found.

Place an ad in Craigslist,
and applicants will abound.

After a careful screening,
select the ones to cull.

Show them around the woods,
and turn their vote to null.

The result, was quite profound,
for all the poor unemployed to see.

Unemployment dropped considerably,
this month, to politicians' glee.

RWH: 12/2/11

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Poem of the Week: 11/26/11

Turkey

Your time is here,
again, old friend.
Four more, this time,
until the end.

I am glad you are not,
our country's symbol.
For you are not beautiful,
nor are you nimble.

At least in your present,
bleached, bloated state.
No longer wild, wary,
and full of hate.

When you were in lust,
a harem to mate.
Taking on all comers,
with a leer and a gait.

You flew off the handle,
of many a branch.
Your territory was vast,
you bought the ranch.

But those days are gone,
except for a few.
Still a picture postcard,
when come into view.

You come to the table,
all hormones and fat.
Whether baked or fried,
it has come to that.

Stuffed to the gills,
one day of the year.
Just a launching pad,
for a day of good cheer.

As for me, I have found,
that pound for pound,
there is no sweeter treat,
than eating you... year-round.

RWH: 11/24/11

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Poem of the Week: 11/19/11

It Is Written

What began as the spoken word,
passed down through generations,
so it still could be heard.

The wisdom of the ages,
with survival as its guide,
the elders told the novices,
when to fight, when to run,
and when to hide.

Painted on walls with ocher and blood,
human expression began to flood,
the conscience of many,
from the hand of the few.
Telling what one did,
so that many now knew.

Greatness was reserved,
to be carved in stone.
For man could not live,
on blood and bread alone.

Man could not live,
without the written word,
for it seemed to confirm,
when he saw or he heard.

When they found out,
the power of the word.
They made it an institution,
that could not be deterred.

Buttressed by the motion picture,
to bear witness to the human soul.
The word took on new meaning,
that was so clear, so cool.

While reading, the imagination,
fired vividly by the words' mental fuel,
daydreams hotter than hot,
its visions would reveal.

And so we have arrived at this crossroad,
between fantasy, reality and real,
where everything we see or read,
has its own touch, taste, and feel.

Where even the video image can be altered,
and seemingly is no big deal.
So that you will eat,
their well-prepared meal.

And the alive and questioning you,
amid all this imagery of good, bad, and feel.
is not what it seems,
just a charade for the real.

So don't believe everything you read.
And don't believe everything you see.
For there are those out there to deceive,
and they are scaring me.

Aren't they scaring you?

RWH: 11/17/11

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Poem of the Week: 11/12/11

Suburbia

Miles of malls and parking stalls,
for the upwardly mobile elite.

Gyms and walking trails,
for drivers to use their feet.

Gated enclaves to lock us in,
prisoners of our faux success.

Keeping up with the Joneses,
was never meant to be like this.

A milieu of mindless monotony,
sprawls out across the land.

Where animals once roamed,
and the stars shone bright at night.

But Utopia has crept in,
creating a frightful sight.

While suburbia may seem safe,
and full of meaningful life.

Its demise is clearly written,
in the long history of human strife.

For change is always coming,
and change is often harsh.

Suburbia is not equipped to survive,
like the often flooded marsh.

It gets its water from miles of pipes,
that will, eventually, grow parch.

It gets its power not from the sun,
but from the fragile grid.

That ego is firmly in place,
but does not know the id.

We are jousting windmills, my dear,
just like the flawed, El Cid.

Suburbia is dying right before our eyes,
sprawl is selling for the lowest bid.

RWH: 11/11/11

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Poem of the Week: 11/5/11

Lonely Star

Hey there, lonely Star.
Yes, you. Know who you are?

The one you are pining for is gone.
You knew it wouldn't last long.

But you are a star, shining bright.
And the world is yours in broad daylight.

But when the nighttime rolls around.
There are no other stars, to be found.

So you shine alone throughout the night.
With only the moon to share your plight.

Only the moon can eclipse your light,
as you gently calypso out of sight.

Behind the moon to hide your tears,
as the world turns and shares your fears.

And cries bitter rain to flood the plain,
to drown out the fear and the pain.

A single reflection on the mirrored water,
you could be my girl, you could be my daughter.

Signaling me from your lonely abode,
to join you on the next upload.

Where we could circle two by two,
no more to be, a lonely you.

RWH: 11/3/11

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Poem of the Week: 10/29/11

Chill in the Air

There is a chill in the air,
as evening falls.

Everything is dying,
as winter, close by, calls.

The smell of rotting leaves,
is pungently real.

A creepy crawlly feeling,
begins to steal.

Into hearts and minds,
now having to deal.

With death and disease,
imagined or real.

As the night sounds,
of the wolf and the owl.

Put fear in hearts,
with the hoot and the howl.

And the wind plays tricks,
with the clank and the yowl.

Insane in their fright,
redemption they call.

For this one night,
they give their all.

But death still comes stalking,
without remorse.

And the wind howls,
in due course.

For there is no escaping,
winter's wrath.

Reminders are everywhere,
along the path,

to death.

RWH: 10/27/11

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Poem of the Week: 10/23/11

Grotesque

It came from a deep lagoon,
never too late nor too soon.

Like a dream gone awry,
so it would seem, by and by.

The product of evolution?
Nay, nay, or so they would say.

A freak for all seasons,
for a freaking good time.

Will tickle your organ,
and gasm it fine.

As if being scared out of your wits,
is required for every line.

Of your horror of horrors,
the movie of your mind.

A genetic aberration,
permeating the nation.

That is overriding time,
soon to find,

You!

RWH: 10/21/11

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Poem of the Week: 10/16/11

Quagmire

Help me, I am sinking,
down, down.

Help me, I am sliding,
no grip I have found.

To think I once cherished,
worshiped and adored ,
solid ground.

I'm up to my ass,
in morass,
with no one to ask,
but myself.

I'm underwater my friend,
and will not bend,
like a reed,
in the swamp of success.

Get me up,
and get me out of here!

Before I disappear,
in the face of my fear.

Sucked down a hole,
as black as my goal,
to an endless universe.

So heed this verse,
or the underworld's curse,
will have you sinking too...

into the quagmire of your desire.

RWH: 10/11/11

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Poem of the Week: 10/9/11

Dragon Daze

Those were the days, my friend,
those were the days...

When dragons roamed,
throughout the land,
and knights of yore,
took their stand.

Took might and right,
with their fabled band,
and slew the dragon,
for the maiden's hand.

When dragon dreams,
filled children's schemes,
and flights of fancy flourished.

Like pearls of olde,
plucked from sands of gold,
these dreams, they are cherished.

Deep in the haze,
of those golden olden days,
the memories have grown,
old and dim.

But childhood's best,
when left to rest,
in the hazy daze of youth.

In grown-up rhyme,
there is no dragon time,
only time for truth.

Until the restless mind,
grows tired of counting time,
and seeks those daze,
once so uncouth.

To fulfill once again,
the hazy dragon daze,
as foretold by an ancient sooth.

RWH: 10/7/11

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Poem of the Week: 10/2/11

Trimming Trees

Fall is in the air,
and in the slant of the Sun.
The time for trimming,
has begun.

Time for cutting back,
the excess of youth.
Time for cutting back,
and facing the truth.

To overshoot everything,
is a general rule.
It happens to everyone,
not just the fool.

For if you don't cut back,
before winter comes.
The consequence of inaction,
the blind mind numbs.

A little snip here,
a little snip there.
Before you know it,
you've got more to share.

For the pie is finite,
and you can't cut it close.
If your share is too large,
you will overdose.

So trim while you can,
before it's too late.
Or it will be trimmed for you,
at the pearly gate.

RWH: 10/1/11

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Poem of the Week: 9/25/11

Dragin' Days

Sometimes when you bow to the bard,
the days be long, the nights be hard.

Dragin' like a shadow on the wall,
Dragin' like a tale too tall.
Dragin' like a snail too small,
Dragin' like a smile turned scowl.

Our days are numbered 1, 2, 3...
Count them for they are free.
The days of our lives quickly flee.
While we're still counting 1, 2, 3...

The beast is in the yeast,
and the bread is in the pan.
Rise to the occasion,
as best you can.

For the days they be a dragin',
and the nights, they be so long,
that it's best you have a love alongside,
to consummate the song.

For many a bard has languished,
with lost love on the mind,
with many a day a dragin' by,
no fulfillment for to find.

So if your days are dragin',
get up, get out, and get ahead.
Don't you know your days are numbered,
before you know it, you'll be dead.

And dragin' days won't matter,
and neither will you.
Cuz you didn't rise to the occasion,
and stayed forever blue.

Waiting for them to cry for you.
Waiting for them to pray.
Your dragin' days will be over.
Won't matter any way.

RWH: 9/24/11

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Poem of the Week: 9/16/11

The Last Butterfly

The last butterfly floated,
on the wings of the breeze.

The way butterflies do,
with apparent ease.

The way butterflies do,
when they flit through the trees.

The butterfly happened to lite,
on a lone milkweed blossom.

The others were hiding,
or, at least, playing possum.

But it was no time for jest,
just another victim of drought.

Nothing is what it was,
or what it ought.

The trees were all gone,
but the milkweed hung on,

As the last butterfly's wings,
sang its swan song,

and died.

RWH: 9/15/11

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Poem of the Week: 9/2/11

I'll Fly Away

Now that I'm free to roam,
I'll fly away from my home,
away from home.

On my trusty steed with shiny chrome,
I'll fly away, fly away.

It makes no difference where I'm going,
she steers the course from its mooring.

My journey is never boring,
when I fly away, fly away.

From mountaintop to valley low,
there is no place I won't go,
when I fly away, away.

I'll be gone forever and a day,
when I fly away, fly away.

Won't you come with me sweet one?
From rainy day to blazing sun,
we'll fly away together.

No matter the weather,
always together, together.

And when our flying days are done,
we'll bask in the waning sun,
remembering all the fun we had,

Flying away, away.

RWH: 9/2/11

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Poem of the Week: 8/28/11

Eye of the Storm

From my viewpoint,
safe, dry, and warm.
Far away from,
the eye of the storm.

I still know the horror,
of being swept away.
Of winds so strong,
strong buildings sway.

Windows blown in,
and debris in the air,
dead birds raining,
wind howling to scare.

And horror of horrors,
when the water comes in,
and rises and rises,
until it's sink or swim.

The only thing to save you,
is being tied to a tree.
Imagine the horror,
that must be.

When the tree is,
torn from its roots,
by the force of the surge,
and you lose your boots.

Snakes in the water,
and no water to drink.
Only mud and slime,
and the smell of death's stink.

The sun comes out,
thank God you're alive.
With so many gone,
why did you survive?

RWH: 8/26/11

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Poem of the Week: 8/21/11

Last Free Exit

The last free exit,
is coming up fast.
On this highway to nowhere,
just how long will I last?

This highway to nowhere,
is the road I'm on.
Just how I got here,
is a country song.

I'm strapped in the saddle,
of this mighty machine.
On this highway to nowhere,
so straight and so clean.

The straps are so tight,
I can hardly breathe.
The last free exit,
is my only reprieve.

If I continue,
on the straight and narrow,
the toll will tell,
if my cache is too shallow.

But this last free exit,
may also ring hollow.
And that is a pill,
I'm unprepared to swallow.

So if you are on this highway,
to nowhere like me.
Wave when you pass,
and we will soon see,

If this last exit,
is, truly... free.

RWH: 8/19/11

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Poem of the Week: 8/14/11

The Worm Turns

As the worm turns so does the world.
Fearless freedom fight with flag unfurled.
While tyrants go down to dust,
with clinched fist foisted and still curled.

The throbbing throng floods the streets,
demanding rights that wrongs defeat.
Demanding rights that should be given,
while from the streets by tanks they're driven.

Will injustice always prevail?
Will the weak cry to no avail?
Will the unjust rant and rail?
Will there be no end to this tale?

But the sky is opening across the land,
Tweaking and Twittering is in every hand.
As YouTube reveals feet in the sand,
people are gathering in a unified band.

Freedom is coming and can't be stopped.
By little devices that no one ever thought,
would free the meek with justice for all,
and give them a voice no longer so small.

As the world embraces this changing game,
we instantly know, who is to blame.
The worm is turning too fast to behold,
in with the new and out with the old.

RWH: 8/14/11

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Poem of the Week: 8/7/11

Busy Bee

I'm as busy as a bee,
woe is me, woe is me.

Been on the phone,
all morning long.
No issues resolved, only a frown.

Thought I'd relax for the week,
but that was not to be.
Trouble creeping up my doorstep,
that I don't have time to see.

The bee has it easy,
programmed in its flight.
While I scramble here and there,
just to make it right.

This busyness will cease, I guess,
on that fateful day.
When I keel over on the job,
and finally go... my way.

RWH: 8/6/11

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Poem of the Week: 7/31/11

Left Field

It came from the left-hand of time,
just out of sight, to the right.

It came without rhyme or reason,
or sound, or season, but...
the time just wasn't right.

It just came, like the night.

It upset the nature of things,
throwing plans out the window,
putting them on new wings.

So is the order of things.

You sensed it was coming,
but don't.
You denied it was so wrong,
but won't.

Reality is now upside down,
you smile, but inside... you frown.

Your up has become down,
all because it came,
out of left field.

RWH: 7/29/11

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Poem of the Week: 7/24/11

Hot

The steam rises,
from the new fallen rain.
But not enough to quench,
the fires on the plain

Not enough to quench,
my dry thirst again,
so parched by you

I dream of the days,
when the cool winds blew.
Those days are gone,
and so should my hots for you

Evaporated in the heat of the mist,
gone like a dinosaur's hiss,
gone like your burning kiss... Gone

In the dawn of your midst,
you rise languid and list,
Twix the triangle of thighs,
and thoughts of our bliss.

Your torturous path,
to zenith on high.
No shade can be found,
as hours tick, dragging by

Our sweat beads as one,
and reaches new highs,
on the salty forehead of fun,
as the last of the day dies

In the crimson sun,
that is you on the run

RWH: 7/22/11

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Poem of the Week: 7/17/11

The Skeptic

There is a poet here,
who doesn't follow rules.
Who doesn't suffer fools lightly,
just doesn't suffer fools.

He can be quite cynical,
about the status quo,
when the king wears no clothes,
and doesn't even know.

Finds that mother nature's rules,
are the very best.
Survival of the fittest,
puts splendor to the test.

Survival of the greedy,
will get his poison pen.
Since when did myths rule,
the who, what, where, or when?

Many schemes are trash,
conjured up by cruels.
deceiving the deceitful,
with ever-changing rules.

Skeptical that's what he is,
and that's a simple fact.
He has no ax to grind,
and no special way to act.

What you see is what you get,
there is no need for a ruse.
Just from the horse's mouth,
and all you have to do,

is choose.

RWH: 7/15/11

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Poem of the Week: 7/10/11

Perennial Primrose

Perennial Primrose, you're in the pink,
even though you've not a drop to drink.
Why now, of you should I think?
Why should I waste my poet's ink?

Because you're beautiful in the spring.
And appear to be such a fragile thing.

But I know better, I know the truth.
To you I am nothing, but a youth.
A Johnny-come-lately on this soil.
Long before big Texas oil.

But you are here for all time,
perennial and in your prime.

Long after the last oil is gone.
Long after this city has decayed to ruin.
Long after this earth is rust.
Long after you've lost our trust.

You will persevere and I will hold dear,
the pink promising memory of you here.

Of you popping up in a Bluebonnet patch.
Or seeing your face appear in the thatch.
Or in a nest of eggs about the hatch.
Or in the garden behind the gate latch.

Before anything is planted there.
I even see you in a maiden's hair.

Forever etched in my mind,
of that wonderful time,
when I was young and you were mine,
with Primrose hair and in your prime.

RWH: 7/9/11

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Poem of the Week: 7/3/11

Firecracker Night

It's a hot night in July,
you and I both know it,
No place to go but out,
into the night of the poet.

The breeze in the trees,
is stilled to a stifle,
as we breathe the thick air,
and not tarry or trifle.

It wasn't planned,
but fireworks were banned,
it was much too hot,
and way too dry.

So we float on the stillness,
of a heat wave of desire,
just alone in the dark,
with the light of our own kind of fire.

On the grassy sleeve,
of a Midsummer's eve,
we roll in the dew,
of true believe.

Where the stars implode,
and we lighten our load,
to the tune of the,
Star-Spangled Banner.

In the fireflies' light,
our love shines bright,
near the end of a,
firecracker night.

RWH: 7/1/11

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Poem of the Week: 6/26/11

Fiery Desire

The sun is high,
in the immortal sky,
and I am as fiery hot,
as the heat of midday.

The days gone by,
have been, oh, so dry,
making your defense,
so parchment thin.

Oh, what a state I'm in!

Miles to go before I die,
underneath the heated sky.
Miles 'neath the heated sky,
wind, let me wander... fly.

I lust for your tender tinder,
your brushy underneath.

I lust for a dry grassy bed,
to fuel my firm belief.

I lust for your curly crown,
to jump from tete to tete.

Within my burning embers,
your soul is released.
A moan of gassy outflow,
in your orgasmic dying relief.

For in all my destruction,
and scolding fiery sheath.
New from the ashes will grow,
the seeds of grow beneath.

RWH: 6/24/11

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Poem of the Week: 6/19/11

George Washington Slept Here

Let it be told,
both far and near,
that George Washington,
the president, slept here.

With my wife,
and my sister,
with my daughter,
quite a mister.

Beds were scarce,
beds were few,
and so we slept,
two by two.

Nothing so cold,
as the bare floor.
So we slept,
by three or four.

So eager to please,
the president's ease,
they volunteered,
by the score.

Father of his country,
that's for sure.
So many Washingtons,
shore to shore.

Not even Kennedy,
matched his score.
As they demurely volunteered,
and came to fore.

So if by some chance,
you see that sign,
remember it's missing,
a personal byline.

One if by land,
two if by sea,
he slept with my sister,
sure as can be.

RWH: 6/17/11

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Poem of the Week: 6/12/11

In the Wind

Everything I hoped for,
is blowing in the wind.
What have I done to deserve this,
have I sinned?

A hot wind blows,
day and night.
No one knows,
just what our plight.

The grass grows brown,
and the trees grow weak,
do you not know,
of what I speak?

Mariah, Mariah,
why have you come?
You were so cold,
when I was young.

When we raced,
before the fall.
When we chased,
the mighty all.

Now your companionship,
it's too hot to touch.
I long for those days,
I long so much.

But everything is shriveling,
before my eyes.
We all have our springtime,
and everything dies.

So wind blow me up,
over the trees.
This frail skeleton,
flapping in the breeze.

For ashes to ashes,
and dust to dust.
My ashes in the wind,
I trust, I trust.

RWH: 6/11/11

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Poem of the Week: 6/5/11

Losing You

I'm losing you,
you know it's true,
a little at a time.

There was a time,
when both our minds,
harmonized in rhyme.

We thought as one,
and we had fun,
in rain and bright sunshine.

And then we slipped,
you, in your way,
and me, in mine.

A little at a time.
You, in your way,
and me, in mine.

You didn't call,
to tell me all,
like you always did.

You didn't kiss me,
that sweet goodnight,
was it something hid?

The smile has slipped,
from your face,
I'm losing you,
and can't replace.

What we had.
I'm losing you,
and it won't be long.
'til you're gone.

RWH: 6/3/11

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Poem of the Week: 5/29/11

Mourn No More

Mourn no more my people,
mourn no more today.
Your sons and daughters,
lost in war, forever there to stay.

War no more has meaning,
war no more makes sense.
Going to war is only leaning,
on the lives of our innocents.

War is just a ruse,
foisted as our defense.
Makes old men more wealthy,
while killing young makes sense?

War is now technically surgical,
but the knife cuts wide and deep.
With so many civilians killed,
so many promises to keep.

It's okay to honor our soldiers,
who saved us in the past.
But we shouldn't honor victory,
with all the evil it's cast.

For if history taught us anything,
it's taught us that war is hell.
To honor all the killing,
only time will tell.

To honor all the killing,
has reached its death knell.
A time for more compassion,
when mourning can go to hell.

RWH: 5/27/11

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Poem of the Week: 5/22/11

Month of May

I took my shirt off,
we both lost our shoes.
Down in the valley,
to please our muse.

Down in the valley,
under a tree canopy,
dangling our feet in water.
So happy and carefree.

The minnows were happy,
to nibble our toes.
As we studied clouds,
across the tip our nose.

The leaves were soft,
on that old creek bank,
we felt the comfort,
while in them we sank.

Softer were her kisses,
as the breeze on her face.
The world was our oyster,
and this was our place.

We planned our future,
on that very spot.
In the warmth of the sun,
it still wasn't too hot.

With birds for our music,
and bees for our show,
our troubles behind us,
we relaxed in the know.

Before long would come,
that sweet shining day.
When we would wed,
in the month of May.

RWH: 5/20/11

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Poem of the Week: 5/15/11

11/11/11

1/1/01

First, Ace won,
and then he won again.
Changed his name from Jude Ace,
to just plain Jude, became,
an Ace without a trace.

2/2/02

To deuce, too.
Had a 35 coupe, who
wished it were a 32.
Put a deuce grille shell on,
looked the look, but,
didn't do the doo.

3/3/03

Third Trey III,
thought a motorcyclist he'd be.
After hitting his third tree,
traded it in on a Z3.

4/4/04

Fore for four,
on the fourth green in four,
he was shown the door.
Didn't yell "fore,
" a guy's head was his score,
he played golf no more.

5/5/05

Fifth, fin, five,
give me that hand jive.
With a hand slight like that,
we be getting fat,
ready to take a dive.

6/6/06

Sax, sex, six,
in the sack, he had his picks.
Hef was the one,
when he wanted to have fun,
jazz was in, and,
one always turn into six.

7/7/07

Seben, seven, 007.
Bond was his name,
intrigue was his game,
wouldn't catch him,
at a 7-11.

8/8/08

Ate ought eight,
who do I appreciate?
Only the great,
deserve an "eight",
out of 10.

9/9/09

No ninth, nine,
No, not my Clementine.
Oh my darling, Oh my darling,
it's for you I pine,
Not old Engine No. 9.

10/10/10

Tenth ten, X.
10 to midnight never came,
kept pushing that clock back again,
until it returned to you know when,
and we'll all be blown away then.

11/11/11

Lebendy, Lebendy, Leben,
died and went to heaven.
Afore I got there, I stopped,
I swear, at a local 7-11.

12/12/12

Twelfth twelve, dozen.
If a hen lays a baker's dozen,
does it come from China,
and I marry my cousin?

RWH: 5/14/11

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Poem of the Week: 5/8/11

She's a Dream

Sweet dream, sweet dream.
Prettiest thing I've ever seen.

Where have you been,
my sweet dream?
Where have you been?

Why weren't you there,
when I was fair,
and the world was my oyster?

Why weren't you there,
when I was bare and
exposed in my cloister.

What you were then,
and what you are now,
amounts to much more,
than your regal posture.

Your beauty alone,
you don't have to hone,
don't have to foster.

Peaches and cream,
the best I've ever seen,
in all my weary days.

Through all I've seen,
years of wandering lean,
you never ceased to amaze.

I always thought,
what you were not,
that you were just a phase.

But now I see,
that you were real,
and something I should praise.

The mother of my children.

RWH: 5/8/11

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Poem of the Week: 5/1/11

Tornado Alley

Got me thinking of the song, Tobacco Road

Tornado Alley took my home,
took my wife, took my own.
My children, before full-grown.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

Now I wander the destruction,
of what once was all my own.
A South of beauty, heart and home.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

Born in the Valley, down by the Creek,
didn't have much, but didn't seek.
Built my home with my own two hands,
filled with love and childhood friends.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

Life was hard, but it was good.
Knew everyone in the neighborhood.
Like a pillar, long time stood.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

She was my life, she was my home.
My travel stopped here like a poem.
My love of was full, so full-grown.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

The sky turned gray, and then turned black.
Turned upside down to what I lack.
Tornado Alley take me back.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

Tornado Alley, where I roam.
Used to call this place my home.
Now it's bare and I'm alone.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

My home was old under the southern sky,
so warm and rich as years rolled by.
Gone in an instant, wondering, why?

Tornado Alley, take me home.

Tornado Alley, I will no longer roam,
under the southern skies of my Southern home.
My life is lost; my life's alone.

Tornado Alley, take me home.

RWH: 4/30/11

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Poem of the Week: 4/24/11

Writing Outside the Lines

Inspired by Greyson Chance's New Hit

Don't you get down now,
don't you quit.
The whole world's ahead of you,
and you're a part of it.

The world seems a mess,
at every turn.
But it's easy to find the peace,
for which you yearn.

There are critics and bullies,
of low self-esteem.
Why lower yourself to them,
just to stay clean.

It's a dirty world we live in,
not the way we expected.
The danger is not as real,
nor are you protected.

But that's no good reason,
to bury your head in sand.
Get out your pen,
and write to understand.

Write from your heart,
and not from your head.
Don't box yourself in,
by a nose ring led.

Get out there and find,
what you're looking for.
Stop staring at the screen,
and open the door.

For outside is wonder,
and outside is a dream.
Always a new adventure,
and not what it would seem.

From inside the lines.

RWH: 4/23/11

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Poem of the Week: 4/17/11

It's Crazy

It's crazy living in the world today,
don't know whether to cry,
or go out and play.

Seems there is danger,
at every turn.
Makes the old folks,
reminisce and yearn.

Makes the young folks,
psychologically weak.
All the talk of danger,
makes them too meek.

Yet there is adventure,
in movies and video games.
Obese couch potatoes,
heroes with no names.

More anonymity on the web,
hide your identity,
so your desires,
can be fed.

Where are the heroes,
that we all long for?
They've sold out for endorsements,
at the vanity store.

And where is reality,
in reality TV?
When real folks are big stars,
sucking the money tree.

There is something to living,
the simple life.
Walking and reading,
enjoying nature, reducing strife.

So remember the wise saying,
from Mad Magazine.
"What, me worry?"
And live the dream.

RWH: 4/16/11

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Poem of the Week: 4/10/11

Picture This-2

Dragged out my old pictures,
fortunately-not too many.
Brought back many memories,
without even one thin penny.

Scanning took its time,
reformatting did too.
Sweating hours at the computer,
stuck in the desert of Timbuktu.

I was a medium drink of water,
way back then, iron man.
Drank no water for years,
no sweat, no where, no when.

Traveled many a path alone,
no way to picture this.
Miles in the hot sun,
surviving on the bliss.

And wonders I did see,
much of the Land of the Free,
and wonders of the World,
that before me unfurled.

Scant pictures that remain,
bear testimony to my quest,
to seek out the world,
leaving behind the rest.

I mourn not the loss,
for my memory is still clear,
of all the sights and wonders,
that I still hold so dear.

And so I sweat and wonder,
drinking gallons at her order.
What pictures I would share,
if still that drink of water.

Picture the Egyptian pyramids,
in the dusty setting sun.
Picture a Lake Tahoe ski slope,
Sonny's very own death run.

Picture the Hindenburg's last flight.
Herb Morrison gave me one,
he took at a Newark airport,
before he recorded her done.

Picture the streets of Dhaka,
a thousand lanterns swinging free.
The romantic peace of night,
in a heart breaking place to be.

Picture an erupting volcano,
and shaky ground beneath.
A jungle full of cacophony sounds,
in green Guatemalan relief.

Just a taste of the pictures,
taken only in my mind so free,
So why do I have to reformat these,
for just the family tree?
To sweat or not to sweat,
that's just the way,
the picture be.

RWH: 4/9/11

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Poem of the Week: 4/3/11

Silence of the Lambs

"Blessed are the meek."
The attitude to be.
Has held us in its grip,
throughout history.

It is a primal feeling,
firmly based in fear.
For who would step up,
to be slashed from ear-to-ear?

The tool of tyrants many,
held firmly in their grip.
Of bullshit lies and larceny,
enforced by the whip.

The sheeple are many,
and flock to the few.
Locked in the matrix,
without a clue.

It only takes some thinking,
to see through the lies.
But most go on shirking,
bound by family ties.

Fodder for the matrix.
Bodies in, bodies out.
Greed fulfilling destiny,
faith, before any doubt.

And so the planet suffers,
from its sheeple's success.
Overpowering everything,
and leaving just a mess.

So rise up like lions,
take bullshit no more.
Create a better world,
before it's gone,

like yore...

RWH: 4/2/11

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Poem of the Week: 3/27/11

Rich Thoughts

My mind is a Wonderland,
of ever richer thoughts.
Filled with memories,
and unfulfilled plots.

I never run out of crazy ideas,
to fill my heart's fiery desire.
And hope to inspire others,
to prod, without evoking ire.

I love to live in golden silence,
when no one else's around.
It's my only form of meditation,
where my thoughts richly abound.

To paint vivid word pictures,
or mess with a word's sound.
It's like making a discovery,
of a jewel I have just found.

Last week I smelled new asphalt,
in our huge back parking lot.
It reminded me of the movie line,
from Apocalypse Now's plot.

"I love the smell of napalm in the morning."
The ruthless Lt. Col. Kilgore shot. So do I,
"Love the smell of new ass felt in the morning.
Especially when it's hot."

"That sounds like every man."
Sydney wryly pointed out.
If every woman had her insight,
she would no longer doubt.

Relationships would blend like honey,
and novel ideas wouldn't run out.
Like bees protecting all our money,
we wouldn't scream and shout.

And the fuel that fires our love,
never wood run out.

RWH: 3/26/11

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Poem of the Week: 3/20/11

Miss Understood

Please, Miss Information give me a hand,
I am being misunderstood,
throughout the land.

When I have a question I search the web,
I am directed to FAQs,
until I go to bed.

FAQs never have the answer,
to the question I pose.
So just try to find that number,
to call, I suppose.

Short of 911 and south of 1411,
you've found the number,
and think that you are done.

If they are open,
often not the case.
You are greeted with a menu,
you would like to erase.

Except for your language,
your selections are none,
pressing "0" for operator,
may think you've won.

So you write a letter,
on their e-mail form.
Only to get a response,
from a robot gnome.

When you finally get a real live,
person on the phone.
She's a minimum wage temporary,
with a mind like a clone.

"Hold please," she says in a flash,
the Muzak comes on,
while your thoughts clash.

A supervisor is nowhere to be found,
"Please leave a message.
" [Will give you a call,
when we get around]

A tech with all the answers,
arrives on the phone.
Two hours later,
you're no closer to home.

Miss Information is wild and free,
everything else costs money,
with minimum wagers,
at the base of the tree.

RWH: 3/19/11

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Poem of the Week: 3/13/11

Tsunami

It came silently,
like a premonition,
without warning.

It came without direction,
no north, south, east, or west,
in its forming.

You never saw it coming,
for all was calm.
The slight recession,
was like a balm.

If the tides are high,
or the tides are low,
it makes no difference.

For the future is a mystery,
and cannot be predicted,
by simple inference.

All you know,
is that you are underwater,
and all your hard work,
didn't matter.

All your dreams and schemes,
all your wishes and hopes,
are about to shatter.

The only thing you have left,
is mere survival.
Are you ready,
for its arrival?

I think not.
And harsh reality,
is about to give you a shock.

Knock, knock.

It's at your door.
Don't you remember?
It's been there before.

It's always there,
waiting in the wings.
Life's ups and downs,
from nature's and man's flings.

So better prepare,
for your own little tsunami.
Life's too short,
and isn't Miami.

RWH: 3/12/11

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Poem of the Week: 3/10/11

Stroke

At the stroke of midnight,
the lies came out to roost.
The flies, they were loosed,
and there was no time for truce.

With his mighty sword of silver,
he stroke one mighty blow,
and severed the head of justice,
and brought it down to low.

The stroke, it wasn't serious,
affecting just the right hand.
The second was more furious,
burying his eye in the sand.

She stroked his head with laughter,
and filled her eyes with cheer.
Her gentleness precedes her,
throughout the waning year.

Like a flash of lightning,
the stroke brought him down.
At once a man of stature,
and an imbecilic drooling clown.

A single stroke of pen,
has cleaved these words to page.
It might as well be stone,
electronically to last an age.

RWH: 3/9/11

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Poem of the Week: 2/20/11

Headache

Let's face it.
Life's a headache.
I'm not talking about,
a sinus condition,
a blow to the head,
the bends,
a migraine,
aneurysm,
blood or fluid,
on the brain.

I'm talking about,
what other people do,
to make life miserable,
and cause sleepless nights,
simply because they,
are unable to communicate,
except by inflicting pain.

Let's face it.
90% of these headaches,
are the result of,
pride,
greed, and,
downright stupidity.

The 10% of real headaches,
are the result of disease,
calamities and natural disasters,
that we have no control over,
and no amount of praying or,
asking government authorities,
to help us, will help.

We just have to,
ignore the pain and work hard,
and eventually we'll get over,
whatever the real headache is.

Unfortunately, that other 90%,
will hang around to bother us,
until we finally get smart,

Or die.

RWH: 2/19/11

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Poem of the Week: 2/13/11

We're Free!

It's been 130 years,
since we left our tomb,
locked up in glass cages,
in the mummy room.

They finally broke the glass,
and we are free.
Or at least when those guards leave,
we are going to be.

We'll sneak out at night,
when the party is over.
The sun will be too much,
for our brittle cover.

We long for the touch,
of warm young flesh fair.
And thirst for wine,
to run blood red rare.

Mubarak's palaces,
belong to us.
We think he'll give them up,
without any fuss.

When we arrive in his bedroom,
late one night.
No court in Egypt,
will give him such fright.

With young maidens dear,
at our command,
we'll birth new mummies,
throughout the land.

Muslims, Christians and Jews,
should not fear.
We'll conquer the world,
in about a year.

Won't it be funny,
near the end of 2012,
as Nostradamus predicted,
we mummies have evolved.

RWH: 2/12/11

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Poem of the Week: 2/6/11

Weathering Emotion

Lightning struck and I was born,
mid the thundering growing corn.

Like the blood flood in my brew,
washed me clean and brand-new.

The tides of my time came into view,
as a fire in me flickered, and then grew.

The sun rose in my misty eyes,
and revealed your cumulus skies.

The same sun beat on skin so sweet,
and wiped the doubt clouds fleet.

You, I'd won fore the setting sun,
turned the amber dusk to gray.

A moon beamed into my night,
as I earthquaked at your sight.

Volcanoes erupted in my plight,
and I landslided to the last light.

The wolf wind howled lean and bright,
into a tornado's passionate fright.

A hurricane blended and never offended,
as I tsunamied with all my might.

Soon winter came without any blame,
and I avalanched into spring.

Only to begin to trade winds again.

RWH: 2/5/11

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Poem of the Week: 1/30/11

Va-Room!

I got a hemi, with ma pants hung low,
Va-room, Va-room... Here we go...

She likes that sound.
That so round sound.
She can be found,
hip-hoppin' to its pound.

I got woofers and they go wow!
She likes those woofers,
when they go pow!
I think I'll woofer now.

(Refrain)

Listen to her scream and howl!
I drift to her as the tires growl.
I drift to her on the prowl.
And the law, I run afoul.

She got bling,
shake that thing,
flash that fling!
and away we go...

I got style and I got bling,
Va-room, Va-room, shake that thing.

The Charger is my name,
if I go fast, who was to blame?
If I go slow, don't you know,
I'm cruisin' with my flame.

So when you see me in the hood,
let it be understood.
That she is mine and she is fine,
take the bad with the good.

(Refrain)

Satin silver with blacked out lights,
she moves silkily through the nights.
In the hood I got rights.
Can't be seen hind those blacked out lights.

Don't you know what's going on?
Rock'n roll'n till the dawn.
I got style and I got grace,
Cap's bill turned just right place.

(Refrain)

RWH: 1/29/11

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Poem of the Week: 1/23/11

Birds of a Feather

Birds of a feather,
flock together,
and ravishingly attack,
their meager food.

Each one in turn,
with individual yearn,
and intent that greatly,
reflects their mood.

Quick to fight or flight,
when threat of might,
signals danger is,
on its way.

As one for all,
a frenzied call,
beware anyone,
that chooses to stay.

For danger strikes,
in the blink of an eye.
It may be unwise to sit,
and better to fly.

Safety in numbers,
is a good rule.
Unless you're the one,
chosen to be the fool.

A bird's life is precarious,
but aren't they all?
All for one,
and one for all.

RWH: 1/23/11

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Poem of the Week: 1/16/11

White Space

White space is nice,
when used on the page.
Gives the eye a breather,
especially one that's aged.

White space backlights most TVs,
heightens colors with great ease.
Don't look for it if you please,
causes cross eye disease.

White space is authors' greatest fear,
staring at pages year-to-year.
Without a word to put down,
afraid to be revealed the clown.

White space can fog the view,
flying or driving becomes brand-new.
And if you dare to speed into,
a big crash up will come to you.

White space is the blizzard's fare,
blocking the view from here to there.
Erasing evidence of where you've been,
you may never come back again.

White space between the blue sky,
Antarctica is peaceful to fly by.
But white can be deadly on the ground,
when the wind howls and the sun goes down.

White space is created by whiteout,
after a few sniffs, scream and shout.
Used to think it helped writing,
addicts will tell you it is quite frightening.

There is no white space in outer space,
and it's not that night just knows its place.
Without atmosphere, white doesn't exist,
while white stars shine on with bliss.

Why are blanks shown as white?
Aren't they neutral in any light?
So if you shoot blanks from your writers' gun,
what color your victim in the setting sun?

RWH: 1/15/11

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She was a pricey piece,
this jewel of denial.
Gave me no release,
still cost me a pretty pile.

Shown brighter than the rest,
so no one could defile.
Her glitter gone so crazy quilt,
to my last country mile.

Sailed the soft satin sheets,
of the classic placid River Nile,
tossed me to raging waters,
into the jaws of the crocodile.

How I got the upper hand,
took me quite a while.
Nestled in her to the end,
so I could finally smile.

And so I sit on pyramid peak,
all dressed up in style.
Going nowhere with my long-lost love,
my jewel of denial.

RWH: 1/8/11

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