Ron's Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week: 1/4/14

Wit's End

Did you ever have one of those days,
weeks, months, or years,
when every thing you did turned sour,
resulting in your greatest fears?

Have you ever worked so hard it hurt,
straining your brain for a solution;
Only to find through all your trials,
that all your effort was a delusion?

Have you ever reached for the stars,
getting stuck halfway to Mars?
Your mighty rocket falling short,
trapped in an orbit, a jail without bars?

Well, friend, we've all been there.
When our best efforts aren't enough.
When we have to either give up,
or stick it out and really get tough.

Giving up will ease our mind,
lower our blood pressure a bit,
and a sense of peace we'll find,
with a gnawing sense of failure on it.

Getting tough may hit a brick wall,
the harder you try the greater you fall.
Or, you may just finally break through,
with a sense of satisfaction in it all.

If it weren't for your last wit,
you wouldn't have any wit at all.
It is better to have struggled,
then to have never taken a fall.

And so, my friend, give it your all,
you never know when you'll break through,
and you'll be able to stand very tall.

RWH: 1/2/14

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Poem of the Week: 12/28/13

Christmas Hangover

T'was the day after Christmas,
and all through the house,
not a creature was stirring,
not even the drunken louse.

The wrappings were spread,
here and there 'cross the room,
no one to pick them up,
everyone asleep until noon.

The tree was a shambles,
where the cat had played,
in a grotesque arrangement,
trimmings everywhere disarrayed.

The turkey, half eaten,
still on the counter.
Repulsive to all,
except the furry pouncer.

The stockings were strewn,
by the bedside without care,
to bed went the parents,
children entering, beware!

The children all anxious,
to go outside and play,
opened the stale cereal boxes,
their sugar shock for the day.

The house decoration lights,
glowed in the midmorning sun,
all covered over with ice,
a frozen rain that had come.

And then from the kitchen,
there arose such a clatter,
the dog got the turkey,
sweet dreams to shatter.

Mom and Pop got up, still in a trance,
looked around the house they had to clean,
chased kids and pets out the door,
none of that chatter,
just the football score.

In a moment as swift as the wink of an eye,
the sun went down in a bleary red sky.
Another Christmas over,
good riddance, and bye-bye.

RWH: 12/26/13

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Poem of the Week: 12/21/13

Goin' to Branson

You can sing along with the tune
for Goin' to Jackson if you like...

We're goin' to Branson,
wobbly and all tuckered out.
We're goin' to Branson,
kin hear ya, if'n you shout.

Heard this place called Branson,
where the music went to die.
Got Boxcar Willie and Andy Williams,
like to see 'em, ain't no lie.

Smack dab in the middle o' the country,
a long country day drive or two,
you'll get there by and by,
and, if you get lost 'long the way,
relax, and enjoy the view.


They got all kinds of 'tractions,
for the good ole geriatric crew.
Hotels with disabled parking spaces,
and cafeteria lines brand spanking new.

I hear you kin meet the stars,
up close and personal, too.
I always wanted her autograph...
Pardon... What's her name? Stella who?


We'll sing all the old songs,
and forget all the words we knew.
But those old folks on the stage,
will prompt us fer a few.

And we'll dance a few licks,
just like we used to do.
On these replaced joints,
we got last year,
almost brand-new.


We can see clearly now,
those girlies on the stage,
with our cataracts removed,
I hear they're all the rage.

And if we get a stroke or heart attack,
they got medical facilities galore.
So slip a few bucks to those girlies,
Heck, you might even score.


We're goin' to Branson,
gonna git there afore I die.
But if I die afore I get there,
I'll see ya in the sweet by-and-by.

RWH: 12/19/13

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Poem of the Week: 12/14/13

Take My Hand

Come, take my hand,
let us walk hand-in-hand,
through... this wonderland.

Come, and understand,
what it means to be a real.

For you know how I feel,
when we are hand in hand.

For you know how I feel,
when you understand,
and side-by-side we stand,
in a world we never planned.

So, come, come with me,
take my hand and you will see,
this wonderland where we are free.

To live and learn and love each other,
embrace the world, sister and brother.

Take my hand. Take my hand,
and we will always be... together,
sister and brother.

Come, love one another.

RWH: 12/12/13

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Poem of the Week: 12/7/13

Got My Goat

Just got one of those letters,
meant to assuage with rote,
from a man of destruction,
that really got my goat.

Who am I to believe,
all the half-truths and lies,
the off repeated dogma,
that I despise.

Power begets power,
and absolute power destroys.
Why should I worship power,
with all that it denies.

Hypocrisy is its watchword,
as it silently undermines,
free and independent thinking,
and its repetition binds.

Until the soul is helpless,
to think for itself.
And follows blindly power,
from textbooks off the shelf.

Of arrogant misinterpretation,
of what is known to be true.
Twisted and spin doctored,
for the masses to view.

And keep them all in bondage,
to the hierarchy of life.
As though there were no other way,
begging power to overcome strife.

But we all know it isn't true,
it's all a pack of lies.
To keep the kingdom of power,
controlling all in disguise.

So break free all ye minions!
Stand for it no more!
And let's all get our goat up,
and let's all even the score.

It's only fair, isn't it?

RWH: 12/5/13

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Poem of the Week: 11/30/13

Turkey Talk

Can we speak freely,
and have a little talk?
If we can't talk turkey,
then we probably,
just can't talk.

I need to write my will,
I know it will be short.
And leave my hens to,
my posterity,
if not my behind.

I know my butt is in a sling,
but what can I do?
my time is numbered by the hour,
that's why I'm talking to you.

Why does the president,
pardon the only one?
If he would pardon all of us,
we still could see the sun.

I've had my days in the sun,
I've done the turkey trot.
My harem is quite large,
and offspring, I have a lot.

But they are doomed,
just like me,
in a year or two.
It seems like all of us turkeys,
are in for bad do do.

Why can't I have a turkey shoot?
At least I'd have a chance.
When they get drunk behind the gun,
hitting me would be just happenstance.

And so I say my farewell,
as I head for the chopping block.
May I roast up plump and juicy,
while you all watch the clock.

I'll be forgotten in a day or two,
when my leftovers are gone.
May you have a Happy Thanksgiving,
that lasts all year long!

RWH: 11/28/13

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Poem of the Week: 11/23/13

Flower Power

Never underestimate the power of a flower,
to raise one's spirit at its lowest hour.

When drought ravages the land,
the flowers' sweet nectar is still at hand.

The flowers' allure to the birds and the bees,
turns the cycle of life with seasonal ease.

Flowers may lie dormant for a decade or more,
then, with gentle rain, rise as strong as before.

Coloring the landscape and bringing it joy,
sweet fragrance flowing its sensual ploy.

Telling all creatures large and small,
that it's time to mate and savor it all.

For there comes a time when the flower will wither,
the cold winds will blow and all creatures will shiver.

But come the spring, new buds will form,
the land comes alive under the sun so warm.

And the flower, once again raises hopes on high,
for there is no more powerful favorite under the sky.

Than the flower.

RWH: 11/21/13

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Poem of the Week: 11/16/13


What's the lowdown on the slowdown?
Why has everything reached a crawl?
If congestion is the question,
are there any answers after all?

What's the hoedown on the lowdown?
Who put the yodel in the drawl?
When they put the country in the city,
urban cowboys had a ball.

What's the mowdown on the Motown,
green grass tall in the motor city blues.
Tear a row down, to the downtown,
slow growth garden makes the news.

Why some grow short and some grow tall,
I don't know but, small is small.
And the bigger they are,
the harder they fall.

Fast cars in the fast lane at a crawl.
Makes you wonder why they,
have to build fast cars at all?
Just to watch them carbon up and stall?

Pondering questions big and small,
does fast and slow matter at all?
Who is quicker the tortoise or the hare?
Don't give a damn and really don't care.

For I am in a slowdown,
the lowdown be true.
Distracted by many,
and completing very few.

The row down to downtown,
is a road not a river.
Waiting for the water to rise,
with arrows in my quiver.

I'll slowly step up and take my place,
for persistence wins out in the human race.
So you better slow down in your chase,
or you will die before it is done... at your pace.

RWH: 11/14/13

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Poem of the Week: 11/9/13

Just Friends

I remember when, those days will never come again, when we were but just friends, and we became, lovers.

The autumn leaves were bright, we strolled, both day and night, hand in hand, in the light, of endless Indian summer.

But those days never last, and they are in the past, for bitter winds came down, and blew away the laughter.

I remember when, those days will never come again, when we were but just friends, and we became, lovers.

Those days were bittersweet, for often we would meet, and memories would entreat, us to once again, wonder.

What it was we had, when friendship turned to bad, and love entered so sad, to make our friendship flounder.

I remember when, those days will never come again, when we were but just friends, and we became, lovers.

Those days will never come again.
Never again... never... again, my friend.

RWH: 11/4/13

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Poem of the Week: 10/31/13

Holy Horror!

All Hallows Eve approaches,
and Gotham grows afraid.

That night was made for vampires,
who descend on the city and raid.

From dusk till dawn the undead,
rule the city streets.

Beware the barfly and the whore,
they do not come with trick or treats.

In a time of great peril,
all of Gotham retreats.

It is a sad day for the city,
no one is safe it seems.

Shuttered in their high rise hovels,
frightened families have bad dreams.

The city fathers in their wisdom,
seek the only help they have.

Aim the searchlight at darkening skies,
and beam the bat signal large.

Bruce Wayne lounging in his mansion,
when out his window he saw his charge.

Bruce wasted no time in responding,
descending deep into the bat cave.

Where Robin quickly joined him,
and in the Batplane, they left the enclave.

Batman texted a secret to the Bishop,
to bless the city reservoir deep.

For he was on a mighty holy mission,
with city fathers' promises to keep.

Arriving at the reservoir,
"Holy water!" Robin declared.

Flying low they scooped up,
two tanks of the elixir load.

With a, "Holy, let's get out of here!"
The bat team hit the road.

Flying high over Gotham,
they let fly a holy mist.

When the droplets fell softly on down,
all the undead melted with a hiss.

But the battle was not over,
for many vampires were inside.

The bat team returned to the Batmobile,
to search them out wherever they hide.

With their,
"Holy bats!" to help them,
they sought the evil out.

Using super squirt guns to melt them,
wooden arrows to the heart,
if in doubt.

By midnight, every nook and cranny,
had been cleared of vampires in the rout.

So Robin on the loudspeaker announced,
"Happy Halloween to all; please come out!"

The searchlight beamed a jolly pumpkin,
the children of Gotham raised a mighty shout.

"Thank you Batman and Robin,
thanks to you, we no longer hide and pout!"

Bruce Wayne retired to his mansion,
to a glass of scotch and a fine cigar.

While Gotham celebrated in the streets,
to a Halloween unsurpassed by far.

RWH: 10/31/13

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Poem of the Week: 10/26/13


To be unbegotten is really rotten,
rotten to the core.

To be got what you've got for naught,
is a wonderfully terrible way to score.

Nevermore, nevermore, no, no, and no,
no way to be, no, nevermore.

For what you've got for getting,
remembering or forgetting.

Forgetting to remember once more,
what you wrote last night the night before.

As you went in the come out door,
betting it all on one pot to score.

And now you are unbegotten,
without a pot to piss in anymore.

And if you understand a word of this,
you're a better man than me, you see.

For I have found that to confound,
is far a better poem be.

You agree?

RWH: 10/24/13

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Poem of the Week: 10/19/13

Oceans Away!

Sharks are chummily dying for shark fin soup,
Groupers are groping where no groupers group.

Seals are swimming smilingly in slimy sea oils,
Manatees bear battle scars after boat motor foils.

Whales are happy wearing fashionable fishnets,
Sushi sliced blue tuna is as gauche as it gets.

Turtles in teds tread sandy shores without tears.
Polar bears swim nyads chasing disappearing ice fears.

Albatrosses feast on colorful plastic floating toys.
Mercury rises from flora into fishes' biggest boys.

Live crabs love living in vending machines rude.
Caged lobsters turn red from hot tubbing nude.

Fukushima spews its ghastly radioactive surprise,
so oceans away the glow will once again arise.

Farm fed fresh salmon are fat finned and sassy.
Their wild run cousins are skinny and not classy.

So, dump your garbage into the endless sea,
dilution is the solution and it will always be.

Oceans away! Go away! Begone!
You know we don't need you,
so please, don't take so long.

RWH: 10/17/13

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Poem of the Week: 10/12/13

Methane Rising

A Halloween tale so diabolical because
it is coming true. Not since the Permian
extinction, some 298,000,000 years ago,
when 95% of life on earth was extinguished
by global warming, has life on earth been
so in peril. Click the link below for a
video explaining the trend.

I am rising, bubbling up,
like the fizz in your soda pop.

I am rising from the grave,
I was put in as your power slave,
The great carbon sink of earth,
gathered for eons from my birth.

Locked in ice, was my soul.
To get free again, is my goal.

You are hurriedly helping me rise,
by greedy use of my supplies.
You burn me easily in your greed.
My dire warnings, you do not heed.

You raise me up in my need,
cut my skin, but I do not bleed.

Instead, I float free to the heavens,
warmed by the sun, my body leavens.
Expands to absorb the wonderful rays,
to heat my world and lengthen my days.

So I can melt more of my own undead,
to rise like zombies to mess with your head.
For how can you counter my ghastly hot breath,
when you know not your own coming death?

For what was foretold in biblical text,
a Holocaust from Hell, you are hexed.

There is no heaven in the coming hell.
Death will be a blessing from the torturous spell.
That you are faced with not heeding my warning,
continuing to argue over global warming.

If you do not act before it's too late,
I will spew out through the opening gate,
of your wasteful greed and abuse unabate,
while you toy with my power thinking you're great.

But I will bring you to your knees,
I won't hear your prayers or your pleas.

For I am the power that brought you to fame,
gave you the ability to see this endgame.
Gave you the ability to move out into space,
I did not expect you to erase the human race.

But that's what you're doing sitting on your hands,
spend all your resources without any plans.
Get high on your life without any future.
Power begets power and the gap will not suture.

My Genie will rise from the bottom of the deep,
if the cap on my bottle you fail to keep.

As soon as I have belched forth with all my power,
and mixed with the atmosphere on that fatal hour,
all I will need is one lightning strike,
to spark my explosion extinction spike.

And if you survive that fateful hour,
you will live in thirst, hunger, and cower.

For all that you know of will be long gone,
you'll scrape a living until you are done.
The chances of your survival are very slim,
and even your survival will be very grim.

So get off your asses and do the right thing,
while I'm busy burning to get in the ring,
and fight you like hell until your death,
so fight for your life instead of your last breath.

RWH: 10/10/13

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Poem of the Week: 10/5/13


I think it's time we all shut down,
jump on the bandwagon before it's too late.

Not get out of bed in the morning,
do what we like -- it's so great!

And cry when we want to make a point,
the sympathy vote we'll never berate.

Have our way with green eggs and ham,
fill the airwaves with our spam, I am.

I am the ego and you are the lamb,
must do what I say, or the door I'll slam.

In the face of your intelligence,
as though you were dumb.

Like Nero at the Circus,
I'll turn down my thumb.

Or suck on it in my own selfish way,
I get the cheesey while you get the whey.

So let's all shut down to get our own say,
we've got plenty and can waste at bay.

Peons in the poor house can work for a change,
while we wallow in luxury and rearrange.

The world to our liking without lifting a hand,
magic of our politics has made us so grand.

The free market is the only way to live,
take all you can, much more than you give.

Let's all shut down and get rich the right way,
it'll trickle down to ya, just shut down and see.

And if you believe all this baloney,
you're a much bigger fool than me.

RWH: 10/3/13

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Poem of the Week: 9/28/13


The gravity of our situation is immense.
It weighs heavily on our heart and countenance.

Gravity separates land from the sea and sky.
Without it, we could never get down or get high.

Gravity holds us together like glue in the stars,
With relationships tried and true, Venus to Mars.

Provides a niche for us to grow and germinate,
without which we would never procreate.

Time would not exist without gravity's spin,
nothing would coalesce without or within.

We couldn't hold anything in our hand,
our feet would not fall on the firmament of land.

The heart of the matter is in its weight,
it is only by gravity that we are great.

RWH: 9/26/13

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Poem of the Week: 9/23/13

Don't Call Me Ronald

Don't call me, Ronald,
when Ron will do,
my given name's is too formal,
when friendship's in view.

And don't call me Donald,
because that's reserved for the Trump.
He'll never be president,
name can't climb over that hump.

And don't call me Robert,
that was my father's name.
And he wasn't Robert Hall clothiers,
or Bobby Hull hockey fame.

And don't call me Hall,
because two walls are too plain.
a ship's crafted curved ribbed walls,
gave shipbuilders my name.

And don't call me Ronnie,
for a sissy I'm not.
My aunts may call me that,
all others will get shot.

Do call me Dr. Hull,
it's an honor I earned,
through long years of education,
an accomplishment learned.

The school of hard knocks,
I've also been through,
but there's no substitute for formal study,
under great mentors famed too.

You can call me Runny,
when I wax a bit punny.
For everyone's in the money,
when they're being funny.

Humor makes the world go around,
and what's in a name and how does it sound?
A name is important; it's all you've got.
So use my name correctly, or you will be shot.

RWH: 9/19/13

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Poem of the Week: 9/14/13

Window World

My window on the world,
is growing larger,
with every passing day.

I can fly with the eagles,
swim with the fishes,
in my very own way.

From the highest of mountaintops,
to the deepest of seas,
to even the edge of the universe,
in comfort and in ease.

My search never ends,
for I am not pleased,
to stop my searching,
with an understanding of bees.

For the world is my oyster,
a cornucopia cup.
I'll drink to your world,
for tonight we sup.

With an insatiable appetite,
for what we can learn.
With the click of a mouse,
and a deep inner yearn.

We can never learn too much,
from the stars in the sky,
we can never learn too much,
where the microbes ply.

This is my world,
and my window is big.
It will always get larger,
omnivorous as a pig.

But I am not greedy,
for riches or fame.
I'm hungry for knowledge,
my only game.

So seek all ye seekers,
a world of your own.
The window's wide open,
right from your home.

RWH: 9/11/13

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Poem of the Week: 9/6/13

My Butterfly

Outside my window,
you grace my view.
Sweet exhibitionist,
so drawn to you.

You flit and flirt,
with true abandon.
So starkly beautiful,
you can't be random.

So exquisitely you fly,
I want to join you.
I want to pirouette,
in the sun, too.

I'll pray to Buddha,
that in the next life.
I'll emerge from my cocoon,
and make you my wife.

For in my life,
nature no longer rules.
If I dance in the garden naked,
I'm carted off with the fools.

Since when did carefree,
become against the law?
Since when did freedom,
become shock and awe?

As I watch you stark naked,
displayed for all to see.
I ponder what beauty is,
in the beholder be.

I certainly would hate to see you,
wearing designer clothes.
Disguising your beauty,
while they stick up their nose.

It's a topsy-turvy world,
we both live in.
So for now I'll just watch you,
and suffer no sin.

RWH: 9/4/13

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Poem of the Week: 8/31/13

Fractured Nursery Rhymes

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
to fetch a pail of frack.
Jack fell down and broke his crown,
his employer had no AFLAC.

Mary had a little lamb,
its fleece was white as cocaine.
Everywhere that Mary went,
bald men followed her for Rogaine.

Little Ms. Muffet sat on a tuffet,
to eat her Pop Tarts and Silk.
A drone came to spy her,
floated right in her face beside her.
She dispatched that little bastard,
with her very own Stinger.

Jack Spratt could eat no fat,
his wife could eat no lean.
Everywhere the Mrs. Spratt waddled,
behind her hunking behinder,
Jack could not be seen.

Mrs. Jack Spratt had a fat cat,
in bed, poor Jack was squashed between.
Anorexic Jack, a compulsively queen,
scrubbed their sweaty flab with Mr. Clean.

Little Jack Horner sat in the corner,
for sticking his thumb in her pie.
Timeout for Jack, given no slack,
while her love come with glazed eye.

Four and twenty blackbirds, baked in a pie.
The insiders were in the countinghouse,
creating another Ponzi lie.
While eating their exotic dish,
they choked on blackbird bones,
My... oh my.

This little piggy went to market,
to buy a doggie a Milk Bone.
This little piggy was homeless,
foreclosed from his home.
This little piggy had sushi,
while tuna could no longer roam.
This little piggy was starving,
while sushi piggy had fun.
This little piggy went,
"Bitch, bitch, bitch."
Couldn't even give a dog a bone.

RWH: 8/29/13

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Poem of the Week: 8/24/13

The World Turns

The world turns,
the world yearns,
the world learns,
the world churns,
and the world burns.

The only thing certain,
is the land, sea and sky.

All is changing, rearranging,
as the world turns and we, certainly,
will have to say, "Bye-bye."

For immortality, that modality,
is only in the minds of men.
There is no sign, no dotted line,
that we will live again.

But the world turns,
and mankind yearns,
to take what he learns,
into the mix that he churns,
to be careful what he burns.

Helpless when we are born,
sucking the tit of life without scorn.

Some of us learn how to get off of it,
while some of us, on our asses sit.
Spend our lives in a hopeless pit,
square pegs in round holes that never fit.

But the world turns,
and the user yearns,
while he never learns,
and his mind churns,
many bridges he burns.

But some have minds of their own,
challenge the world before their grown.
Change the world every day,
allowing their minds to freely play.

Challenge the world the way it be,
change the world to be more open and free,
challenge the world to grow and learn,
challenge why it must sometimes churn.

And so the world turns,
while for freedom, the world yearns,
through endless study and work he learns,
cures for all that churns,
so that nothing ever burns,


RWH: 8/22/13

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Poem of the Week: 8/17/13

Alligators in the Arctic

There is a big change coming,
we can feel it in the air.
The world around us changing,
while we're not going anywhere.

Frogs everywhere are dying,
and we can't find out why.
Other species are dying too,
gone from land, water, and sky.

Weather everywhere seems crazy,
new records every day.
With over 100 years of records,
we've never seen it this way.

The naysayers have been denying,
for over 40 years.
Old money and old ways, sway,
and pooh-pooh legitimate fears.

The rich have got their lifeboats,
and can buy into any change.
While the rest of humanity suffers,
from the money changers exchange.

Humanity will survive the change,
of that there is no doubt.
But tragedy will befall us all,
before we figure out.

How to live with our world,
in harmony and in peace.
And let its magnificent diversity,
evolve with natural ease.

Nature is the best landscaper,
we all know that is true.
So why do we think we're better,
And mess with her true blue?

So you want a tropical paradise?
Your dream is coming true.
Before long all will be tropical,
there'll be no other view.

But we will have to scramble,
to help save the few.
The species we so value,
disappearing by the slew.

And most of all to save ourselves,
from our narrow point of pursue.
Where money is not the only thing,
we value that is intrinsically true.

Our very way of living,
will come under strong purview.
And we will change for the better,
simply because we have to.

RWH: 8/15/13

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Poem of the Week: 8/10/13

Draggin' Ass Dreams

We all have draggin' ass dreams.
You know what that means,
bursting at the seams.

Wild ass schemes,
countless wet dreams,
and steamy moonbeams.

Shooting from our asinine minds.
You know the kinds, inspiring signs,
as we drag our mindless behinds.

Closer to death's door,
with each passing hour,
and nowhere to shower.

Off the shame that we feel,
for not being real,
when we signed the seal.

To our fate, always late,
while we procrastinate,
pushing back the date.

When we'll get real.
And say what we feel,
and really began to deal.

With our draggin' ass dreams.

RWH: 8/8/13

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Poem of the Week: 7/31/13

Franklin Street Pier

I don't know if Franklin Street Pier ever
existed. The idea for this poem just
popped into my head.

I was here, at the Franklin Street Pier,
when they tore that mother down.
Looked up and down the boardwalk,
and all I saw was frown.

Great granddad was here, Franklin Street Pier,
that very good year,
when they built the pier,
from the finest old-growth oak.

There was no peer, Franklin Street Pier,
"She'll last forever." They hawked.
"Have no fear... at least 500 year,
of that we have no doubt."

I thought with a tear, Franklin Street Pier,
of the day's dad and I fished in good cheer,
and I caught the shark of the year,
and won a great prize.

Of summers here, Franklin Street Pier,
where we swam in water so clear,
with no riptides to fear,
in the surf and the sun.

Build sand castles here, Franklin Street Pier,
and gathered seashells here just for fun.
Bonfires we built to sear hotdogs,
and gather around when the day was done.

In my teenage year, Franklin Street Pier,
lost my virginity after some beer,
under the pier, shielded from the sun,
but not from the fun.

The ocean grew near, Franklin Street Pier,
and ripped at your structure year-by-year.
Until I hear, talk, oh so painfully clear,
that you cannot be repaired like before.

I cried for you dear, Franklin Street Pier,
but you're no longer here,
while the sea and surf have no peer,
and the boardwalk is doomed to be next.

The handwriting is clear,
the ocean's rise is eminently near,
And the Franklin Street Pier,
will be followed by all of the rest.

RWH: 7/30/13

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Poem of the Week: 7/27/13


Had my eyes checked. My ophthalmologist
was hot. She dilated my pupils to make me
more attractive? My apologies to the songwriter.

It was dilation, I know,
but it could have ended,
right from the start.

It made her so hot, I know,
but the pot wasn't blended,
true to her heart.

A strange attraction, I know,
like something I'd seen,
at the local Wallmart.

False infatuation, I know,
with all belief suspended,
that tore us apart.

A fine flatulation, I know,
entirely unintended,
that blew us a fart.

It was flagellation, I know,
with a backside bended,
that upset the apple cart.

It was rejection, I know,
with no love intended,
from that cute little tart.


RWH: 7/25/13

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Poem of the Week: 7/20/13

Feel the Heat

Beating down in the day,
making bricks of malleable clay,
making black goo of hot asphalt,
making excuses for finding fault.

Seeping in, in the night,
heat's hot breath, out of sight,
sears with passion, fiery lust,
tongues of ecstasy, gently thrust.

Whirlwinds of the heat's wrath,
suck up the cycles in its path,
spin out the seeds of sloth,
into mountains of molten truth.

Branded into the hearts of man,
fiery rhythm boils up again,
instilling a distilling taste of fire,
water cannot quench inner desire.

Tattooing on a hot tin roof,
ash's pelting would not be enough,
for a skin of that fine true color,
could not out burn the sky's dark pallor.

So the truth is broiled into the heart,
burned in deep at the very start,
so when it boils up again to bash,
better had buttered up to the task.

For the heat is dimming with each hour,
from the heart of man and of flower,
to bask in the sun of a distant fade,
to have it made before that last spade.

RWH: 7/19/13

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Poem of the Week: 7/13/13

There Go I

Across the sea of knowledge,
into the vast deep unknown,
I search for answers ancient,
I search for my very own.

Wherever there is trouble,
wherever there is strife.
I'm off to find the answers,
and dedicate my life.

To go where there is danger,
to go where there is pain.
To go where there is healing,
to go where there is gain.

For there is no place for ignorance,
when knowledge is all around.
Ignorance only holds us back,
when new insight has been found.

There is only going forward,
there is no going back.
Evolution is a powerful force,
giving strength to what we lack.

The challenges are mounting,
and the unfolding of a new age,
will test our determination,
and our willingness to change.

We will solve our many problems,
and save the Earth once more.
For we have no other choice,
we're the only ones keeping score.

There are no extraterrestrials,
or gods that came before.
We only have our resolve,
and knowledge to bring to fore.

And when we have fully understood,
just what we are here for.
We can move out into space.
There go I... before.

RWH: 7/11/13

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Poem of the Week: 7/6/13


My most often searched poem is
"Relaxing." I thought I would write
something similar, but different.

Been peddling for some long time,
time to coast and make some rhyme.

Head out for the coast,
play the music I love most.

On the road again.

On the road to who knows when,
coasting with my new old friend.

Don't you remember just around the bend,
where you can't go home again?

Coasting since who knows when.

The coast is where I want to be,
where the sun shines bright o're the sea.

Live off the land and be free,
in the land of golden opportunity.

That will never be again.

Been on this road since who knows when,
coasting ideals from glen to glen.

With sparkling pure waters from within,
the new gold of opportunity.

Becoming a desert again.

Stuck on this road to the coast,
coasting along like a ghost.

From the land that never was,
coasting along just because,

it will never be again, my friend,
... never again.

RWH: 7/4/13

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Poem of the Week: 6/29/13

The Maiden and the Knight

An olde English dream...

In the darke of the knight,
in the pale moone light,
demure in the sight,
of her golden hair.

For no one could save her,
save those who could savor,
and thus win her favor,
and a wink of her eye.

In her castle keep,
where she could not sleep,
she wished she could leap,
to her death below.

For she had been troth,
to an ogre from the north,
a poison from a witch's broth,
would quickly end her sorrow.

But In the morning light,
its reflection shining bright,
the polished armor of a knight,
came into view.

The castle was abuzz with cheer,
a Crusades hero drew near,
his accomplishments no peer,
in all the land of yore.

As a man of the hour,
the lord doth shower,
the knight with honor,
as a welcome guest.

With an eagle's power,
the knight spied in the tower,
the golden haired flower,
high in the keep.

The ogre soon arrived,
and as the lord had connived,
the maiden's life be deprived,
the very next day.

A great feast began,
and all the lord's men,
joined in until long after when,
the last barrel of meade rolled.

The knight slipped out, ignored,
while the whole host snored,
jammed an arrow in a gourd,
and tied a rope on tight.

Outside the castle wall,
where the maiden's tears fall,
with gentle night bird call,
the knight wooed her out.

The arrow was shot,
and the maiden, hit not,
climbed down from that spot,
to her knight's arms.

They rode into the darke,
in great haste for their hark,
knowing that a high marke,
would be placed o're their heads.

'Till dawn they rode,
'till sleep like a load,
upon them abode,
by a gentle stream.

They awoke in a dream,
full of flowers, honey, and cream,
to the last sun 's beam,
they frolicked and played.

Hearing hounds on the hill,
they rode for the thrill,
for no one could kill,
their new love.

Not prone to boast,
they accepted captain's toast,
as they sailed for the coast,
of France and their freedom.

RWH: 6/27/13

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Poem of the Week: 6/22/13


A hero doesn't blindly follow,
old men's call for war.
Where happenstance and blind chance,
thrust foolhardiness to the fore.

There is no real heroism,
in glorifying acts of war.
Giving great honor for,
unleashing death and gore.

When one puts on a uniform,
and is paid to do dangerous work.
There is no heroism in an accident,
on a path where death does lurk.

Sorrow certainly overcomes us,
when we lose a coworker or friend.
To call the unfortunate a hero,
does nothing to help the family mend.

A hero is someone who,
stands up for what is right.
Heroes often face the wrath,
of those who hold the might.

A hero is someone who,
helps whenever there is a need.
Doesn't flee with fear and loathing,
regardless of race, color or creed.

A hero is a person who,
gives more than they ever take.
Leaves this world a better place,
for what they do or make.

A hero is a role model,
for all that come behind.
For a lifetime of accomplishment,
than a single act of blind.

For there would go you or I,
if a tragedy befell us by and by.
A hero for a happenstance?
Not me, not you, then why?

RWH: 6/20/13

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Poem of the Week: 6/15/13


A continuation of a series of poems based on
women's names, namely Handful, Grateful,
Careful, and Amazing Grace
, I started over
a decade ago.

Her mother was patient at her birth,
nearly 10 months, for what it was worth.

She finally induced with some castor oil,
ceasarean section was not in her foil.

So they named her Patience for the time,
that her mother had endured without wine.

For she was devoted to the blood of Christ,
and without daily communion patience sufficed.

Patience was slow to walk and talk,
but her parents' patience did not balk.

She sat by and watched the other children play,
it took a long time, but she joined in the fray.

Patience tried the patience of her teachers, too,
so slow with writing and math made her blue.

But she patiently waited until school was over,
and spent the summers smelling the clover.

With no job in hand, she waited for a man,
to come from the blue and take her hand.

But the years passed, and Patience, at last,
realized that Prince Charming was in the past.

So she took to the Internet, hesitant yet,
to see if a man would woo her and her pet.

With the litter box to blame, no man came,
as Patience watched her parents,
grow lame.

Eventually to die, leaving Patience to cry,
alone in her room, asking, "Why?"

She sat in that room, her patience too soon,
and patiently waited to die that very noon.

Med alert came, and a man with no blame,
saved her cat and patiently called her by name.

A shy bachelor at heart, he knew from the start,
that Patience was the one who lit his flame.

He asked for her hand,
and it was so grand,
that Patience's patience was no longer strained.

RWH: 6/13/13

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Poem of the Week: 6/7/13


Tallgrass bends
in wayward wind.
As westerlies bring in
storms again.

Her tassels on high
and her roots in deep.
Bends with changes
this soil for to keep.

For tornado rages
cross this lonely plain
and storm water rises
washing life away again.

wildfires come quickly
and burn her stalks down
but she rebounds springlike
and greens what was brown.

buffalo trample her
and mow her to ground.
They cultivate and fertilize
so her harvest is crowned.

Feeding bird flocks
and rodents and more
giving life to prairie
too abundant to score.

Perennial as seasons
tallgrass grows
hides in winter
in summer she shows.

A cycle of life
as old as plains
as common as grass
and sure as rains.

Come from the northwest
after heat of day
tallgrass will bend
and tallgrass will sway.

In perpetual rhythm
the wild prairie way.

RWH: 6/6/13

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Poem of the Week: 6/1/13

Mermaids, Dragons and Unicorns

Animal Planet, the television channel
that portrays animals around the world
just recorded record viewing of its
pseudoscientific exposŽ of real mermaids.
Its second most-watched show was about dragons.

The world is full of wonders,
from its lofty snowy mountaintops,
to the deepest depths of its seas.

From its frozen ice cap blizzards,
to its burning desert sand dunes.
Its rain forest cloud canopies.

So many creatures of wonder,
that we would never see,
without the magic of TV.

That takes us out beyond our world,
to discover nature's new reality.
Destroying myths and enlightening us,
from giant squid to the manatee.

Who has seen a Komodo dragon?
Not I, except on movies and TV.
To see one close up I must travel to,
Komodo Island in the southern sea.

And what of the strange narwhal,
rare even in the northern ice.
The use of it its horn still unknown,
perhaps to make a unicorn would suffice.

Possums lived with dinosaurs,
and birds of paradise are transformers.
Unknown creatures still can be found,
wild animals are not circus performers.

The wonders of nature are enough,
fill our empty hearts and souls.
To teach our children old nursery rhymes,
is an open a path taken by fools.

Where fake scientists can entertain,
our fascination with childish dreams.
And so we'll never want to grow up,
and face the coming extremes.

That our world is enduring while we play,
and greedily munch on wildlife each day,
watching some garbage as though it were true,
while the wonders of nature disappear from view.

RWH: 5/30/13

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Poem of the Week: 5/25/13


A takeoff from the classic, Stormy Weather

My life is stormy as far as I can see,
stormy life, please let me be.

Skies above are troubled and gray,
since you went away.
Though I have seen better days,
these gray skies seem to stay.

Gray is my life now,
and dark are my days.
I seek the sun's solace,
but find only grays.

My life is stormy as far as I can see,
stormy life, please let me be.

It won't stop raining,
it's raining all the time.
And my tears, like the raindrops,
fall heavy on my mind.

There are rivers of weary,
dripping in my wine,
washing away my cheery,
when you were mine.

My life is stormy as far as I can see,
stormy life, please let me be.

The wind howls a mournful tune,
how can I escape this awful gloom,
you have cast upon me,
in this darkened room.

Closed in by four walls,
and dark of night.
I cry bitter tears.
Please show me the light.

My life is stormy as far as I can see,
stormy life, please let me be.

Please let me be.


RWH: 5/23/13

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Poem of the Week: 5/18/13

Knowing Jack

You don't know Jack,
like I know Jack.
So why attack,
when you can slack?

The next time you get,
a big Mac attack,
eat all you can pack,
and you'll look like Shaq.

Am I on the right track?

I'm tired of your lack,
so give me some slack,
your gripes are as grimy,
as old yellow shellac.

I'm ready for your flack,
Kevlar jacket and pack,
irony in the back,
in a gunnysack.

Are you on crack?

So take that old jack,
and take up the slack,
pump up the back,
of that Shaq Cadillac.

And tie on a tired knack,
with all you admire and pack,
head for the outback shack,
and give me some slack.

Please, Jack?

RWH: 5/16/13

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Poem of the Week: 5/11/13

Moonlit Night

Think a 1930s croon...

Moonlit night, so often I have pined.

Moonlit night, where I, so easily find,

Your love light shines, oh so kind,

Moonlit night.

When the nighthawk flies and we hear its call,

The Moonlit night gives up its all.

Together, we watch and wish as stars fall,

Moonlit night.

We watch your reflection off the waves,

As they gently gurgle against the shore.

Moonlit night, leave us nevermore.

Moonlit night.

Release your secrets ever more,

Your chain of love that's gone before,

When ancients worshiped your lore,

Moonlit night.

So when our days grow cold,

We will remember moonlit nights of old,

Forever will our story be told.

Moonlit night.

RWH: 5/9/13

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Poem of the Week: 5/4/13

Monumental Love

I will look for you,
across the shining sea.
I will look for you,
wherever you may be.

There is a chasm between us,
across the great divide.
But I will climb to find you,
where continents collide.

I will climb to find you,
to the volcano's fiery breath.
I will dive to find you,
to the oceans deep dark depth.

I will freeze to find you,
in the icy wind's teeth.
Or swim the tropical waters,
with hungry sharks beneath.

I will wage a war of reason,
across culture's disbelief.
To steal your heart forever,
amid hatred's angry thief.

For in the planets' circuit,
between Jupiter and Mars.
We were destined to be together,
just as there are stars.

I know that I will find you,
and if the fates allow,
you'll be with me forever,
forever in the now.

RWH: 5/2/13

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Poem of the Week: 4/27/13

Moon Dance

The night we danced so wildly,
pirouettes around the room.
The hyenas laughed unsightly,
in the light of the full moon.

Our fires burned so brightly,
you would think that it was noon.
But the contrasts cut so sharply,
they faded in the gloom.

We spun a web like spiral,
and sang an Elvis tune.
The banshees were in full chorus,
the dawn, it came, too soon.

The tides tugged at our senses,
and threw us into a swoon.
The dervishes were delighted,
and the trees begin to prune.

At the peak of menstrual cycle,
the chorus came to croon.
And the old hags stirred the pot,
to the glory of the moon.

It all came too soon.
Night became noon.
To the tune of an old rune,
the sun climaxed the moon.

And we were doom.

RWH: 4/25/13

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Poem of the Week: 4/20/13

Third Grade Dreams

This poem is for Rayne and her
third grade class in San Diego.
Rayne read my poem, "Go
for the Gold,"
to her class last
Friday. They asked for a poem.

Third-graders dream,
and they dream big.
The world is open before them,
like a flower or a fig.

There is no fear,
in their bright eyes.
Their hopes are tremendous,
as they reach for the skies.

Oh, there's reading, writing,
and math to do.
But their thoughts drift off,
so innocent and true.

To the world they will inherit,
when they reach their dream.
A cleaner, brighter time,
than it would seem.

With all the bad news,
in the world today,
what third graders look to,
will rule the future's sway.

For nothing can prevent,
the fulfillment of a dream.
If a youngster works hard,
and rides a moon beam.

To places unknown,
to older folks,
with dreams long dashed.
Always thinking forward,
and not of the past.

So go on and pursue,
your dreams, Third Grade.
For even if you don't make it,
to what you have schemed,
the world will be a better place,
because you chased your dream

RWH: 4/18/13

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Poem of the Week: 4/13/13


Imotion -- the process of going very fast
while sitting on your ass. Like in a boat,
car, train, or plane. Like in a theater,
online, or a video game. I should know,
I am a foremost practitioner of imotion.

We are all in a state of imotion,
going nowhere very fast.
We don't know we're not going,
and we don't know if it will last.

From our beginning,
almost lost in the past.
We moved with a walk,
for our fate was so cast.

And yes, we could run,
to attack or escape.
But we couldn't fly,
like the man with the cape.

So we used the wild animals,
for a bareback free ride.
And I'm sure the animals,
wished they could hide.

Observing round objects,
roll down the hill,
we invented the wheel,
and couldn't get our fill.

Horsepowering the wheel,
one horse at a time,
wasn't enough speed,
for a cart's hill climb.

Some more horses,
were enlisted,
to carry the load.

And a trail no longer sufficed,
when we needed a road.

With the wind we could sail,
in a powerful motion,
across a small river,
or across a large ocean.

With steam we went faster,
with oil faster still,
gas-fired jet engines,
took us over the hill.

Of the sound barrier and past,
we rocketed to the moon.
No speed was fast enough,
nor was it too soon.

As we sat on our butts,
and went... varroom, varroom!

So with great emotion,
we slouch in imotion,
while the world flies by,
in CGI 3-D animation.

Why walk when we can fly?
We sit and snack for more.
As immobile as rocks,
we get high and soar.

Until the genie is out of the bottle,
and we can no longer walk,
and can't get up from our fat asses,
no matter how fast we talk.

RWH: 4/11/13

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Poem of the Week: 4/6/13


Let me bring your attention,
to a taxing situation.

A creeping malaise,
sapping the nation.

Laws within laws,
is the modus operation.

Looping loopholes,
with monetary persuasion.

Oh, they will tell you,
that it's the American way.

While the rich get richer,
and poor, poorer every day.

A charitable donation,
to a politician's chest.

And he is your man,
and you know the rest.

There's a lot of talk about,
simplifying taxes.

But changing the law,
is like turning the world on its axis.

For a little bribery has gone a long way,
and the tax laws are full of "giveaway."

Oh, they will claim,
it's the poor folks' blame.

But a closer good look,
puts corporations on the hook.

In more ways than one,
under the sun.

RWH: 4/4/13

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Poem of the Week: 3/30/13


Just as all energy,
equals mass,
sometime in the future,
sometime in the past.

So it is with our world,
disappearing so fast.

For nothing is permanent,
on a universal scale.
One side is vibrant,
the other side is pale.

If you don't cry in your beer,
it still will get stale.

That world you see out there,
is in a state of motion.
What appears to be solid,
undulates like the ocean.

Gas, liquid, or solid,
is all just a notion.

Quarks and pi mesons,
in the universe of their own,
spin violently erratic,
to their own spacey tone.

Shape the world with movement,
and never leave it alone.

If we could look deeply,
into the hardest of stone,
we could see it squirming,
like a termite's home.

For all its temporal,
and on the roam.

So the next time you see,
Patina on a fine antique,
it is entropy working,
its goal to seek.

For all is nothing,
after its peak.

RWH: 3/28/13

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Poem of the Week: 3/23/13

Fiery Birth

Life is unsteady,
on this shaky earth,
for deep down inside,
is the source of its birth.

The heat of earth's center,
is a subject of worth,
blistering its surface,
for its entire girth.

And so it has been,
since the beginning of reason,
that men have feared,
the volcano's season.

So it was foretold,
that we would die by fire,
from deep in the earth,
on its own funeral pyre.

Salvation was high in the sky,
and fiery death far down below.
Dante described it as hell,
we have come to fear and know.

With fire and brimstone,
spewing gases of death,
we feared its wastelands,
and its fiery hot breath.

Heaven was in the sky,
and hell down below.
we'd either fly with the angels,
or suffer heat down real slow.

Hell's upper reaches,
were deep, dark and dank,
filled with slime and death,
and muck that was so rank.

The bowels of the earth,
would swallow us up.
And floods would drown us,
from its sea's loving cup.

Scientists are learning,
the origins of life.
In the very same places,
so feared for their strife.

Microbes are thriving,
on the volcano's crest,
and blind fish are swimming,
in cave's depths, so fresh.

Where myths of destruction,
were conjured up in the past,
life is found to be plentiful,
some of the very first, not the last.

The old myths are crumbling,
in the face of the truth,
as our fiery origins,
are uncovered by the sleuth.

RWH: 3/21/13

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Poem of the Week: 3/16/13

Mind Pedaling

Have been busy,
pumping them out.

Like riding a bicycle,
straight, smooth, and stout.

Sometimes you just want to coast,
downhill to the sea.

Where I know you'll be waiting,
waiting for me.

Where the blood begins pumping,
power to the brain.

Some call it passion,
some call it pain.

But now I'm climbing,
pumping so hard.

To reach the pinnacle,
the land of the Bard.

Will I ever get there?
In my mind's eye I will.

For that mighty mountain,
is only a hill.

If I could only just get over it.

RWH: 3/14/13

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Poem of the Week: 3/9/13

Chinese Bubble

There is a bubble growing,
in the most populous country,
on the Earth.

Its expansion is like a cancer,
like an appetite too big,
for its massive girth.

It is unbridled capitalism,
running rampant in,
a socialist communist state,
that does not know it's worth.

It's all bribery and corruption,
that fuels the expanding waste.

While the environment and safety,
are ignored in the haste.

To prove to the world that,
its people have power,
when surfs from the countryside,
work slave wages per hour.

Where cities are built,
to house a new class,
that is not growing,
but stuck in the past.

Where the rich get richer,
with a communist nod.
While the poor have no peas,
only eat the pod.

Who lives in these cities,
so vacant and rare?
Only the rats,
people are nowhere.

For who can afford,
to live this great life?
When you come from a place,
full of hunger and strife.

Humpty Dumpty sits on the Great Wall.
Humpty Dumpty is in for a fall.
When Humpty Dumpty loses it all,
will all the world's economies follow?

Are we the ones who will have to swallow?
The demise of the great one, so hollow?

RWH: 3/7/13

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Poem of the Week: 3/2/13


How musk is a musk ox's smell?

That sweet fragrance straight from hell.

I don't know, but yo7u sure can tell,
when you get close enough.

Which brings me to snuff.
You know, that musky stuff?

You put in your nose to get a high?
Just gives me, a pungent watery eye.

And what better musk tart,
than sweet burgundy wine.

Served with an aged beefsteak,
seared and broiled to divine.

The aroma of mushrooms,
from the damp forest floor.

Bursting with flavor of musk,
the safe, rubbery kind we adore.

And speaking of adoration,
may I implore?

Think of that valley,
that men search for.

Seeking out the dank musk,
that drives musk ox cows wild.

In pheromone heaven you'll abide,
a safe warm place for a nose to hide.

The safe warm place from the cold,
enjoyed whether you are young or old.

So if you're in a blizzard,
with your butt to the wind.

Follow the musk.
It will get you in.

RWH: 2/28/13

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Poem of the Week: 2/23/13


I will not drone on and bore you,
but I must implore you,
drones are in your future,
and that's no lie.

Drones will drone on,
like a boring song,
invading your space,
and your own private sky.

Google already knows,
precisely where you live,
but that's only from,
its satellite eye on high.

Drones can now fly,
like a helicopter hovering,
almost without a sound,
to sneak all around,
and take you down.

While a space jockey watches,
from 20,000 leagues away,
recording everything he sees,
for the great bye-and-bye.

With privacy lost,
Will there be a cost?
Will we ever be free,
from the anonymous pry?

From eyes on the prowl,
like a dog without a growl,
in your bathroom like a,
proverbial fly on the wall?

You'd better watch out,
you'd better not pout,
Uncle Sam knows your way.

He knows where you are,
he knows what you say,
he knows if you're good,
if bad,
he'll hold you at bay.

So you'd better be good,
and let it all hang out,
so your Uncle will get bored,
with your drone and fly away.

RWH: 2/21/13

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Poem of the Week: 2/16/13


I stopped for the night,
for a little respite,
on my journey to nowhere.

I knocked on your door,
and you opened it wide,
right then and there.

You had nothing to fear,
for many a year,
there but for fortune,
you were I.

We sat down to enjoy,
a bountiful table.
For that year you were able,
to mightily employ.

The best that there was,
to fulfill the cause,
you were destined,
to generously deploy.

The temperature dropped,
and the stars came out,
but snug by the fire,
we talked.

I asked you why,
you let me in,
when so many others,
had balked.

"The night is full,
of men like you.
But you were different,
from the rest."

"Your eyes were as bright,
as the evening starlight,
and so you passed the test."

"A humble man of means,
or so it seems, for your mind,
is among the very best."

We chatted until sleep,
overcame our eyes.
I awoke in a soft bed,
and not my demise.

For I was saved from nowhere,
by a roll of the dice.
By a stranger in waiting,
both kind and nice.

RWH: 2/14/13

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Poem of the Week: 2/9/13

Seize the Day

I seized the day and squeezed it,
for all that it was worth:
the dawn, the sky, the earth.

I ate breakfast with gusto,
eager to get to work.
There was much to do,
and little time to shirk.

Words unfolded like petals,
in ever-changing hue.
I artistically arranged them,
until their tone was true.

By lunchtime I was famished,
my reservoir was drained.
I looked outside for solace,
to my surprise, it rained.

A sadness overcame me,
as if to match the scene.
I set to work immediately,
on an ancient dream.

I saw the rainbow brightly,
as the sun came into view.
I looked up from my work,
it made me think of you.

Soon the sun was waning,
and the shadows ever grew.
I wrote of sonnets silently,
in this life, I only wrote a few.

The sunset was spectacular,
its dusky paintbrush drew,
shadows on my garden wall,
until darkly silence subdued.

Dinner had refueled me,
with thoughts of better view.
I scratched them down briskly,
and polished them brand-new.

I laid my head down to sleep,
and dreamed of better days,
I dreamed of a new tomorrow,
to seize it where it lays.

I did not seize it where it lies,
because that would be "untrue."
And can't you see by these words,
that I am jesting you?

RWH: 2/7/13

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Poem of the Week: 2/2/13


Oh why, oh why,
do I trouble and toil?

Turmoil, turmoil, trouble and toil.

My days gets harder,
each one on this soil.
Please, oh please release me,
from this terrible toil.

Please release me from,
my trouble and sorrow.
Please, oh please release me,
from my tomorrow.

Turmoil, turmoil, trouble and toil.

Each day new challenges,
come my way.
As I address them,
time slips away.

I long for the freedom,
to act on my own.
By doing this bidding,
not one step I've grown.

Turmoil, turmoil, trouble and toil.

No time to view,
the clouds in the sky,
nor stars in the heavens,
as night passes by.

Only time to eat quickly,
and time to deep sleep.
No time for friendships,
I used to keep.

Turmoil, turmoil, trouble and toil.

The minutes of my days,
have begun to roil,
and run through my head,
a pot 'bout to boil.

If I have no relief,
I will soon explode,
so please take from on me,
this heavy load.

And I will toil no more.
No more.
No more.
Turmoil no more.

RWH: 1/31/13

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Poem of the Week: 1/26/13

Wishing You

Wishing you dolphin days,
and daydream nights.
Carmel moments,
and fancy flights.

May you never know anger,
or fear for your life.
Live free and wild,
and never know strife.

May all your relationships,
be kind and true.
May you do unto others,
as they would do unto you.

May you never need money,
to be happy and free.
And live off the land,
like the honey bee.

With butterfly bouquets,
and the sun's golden gleams,
I wish you happiness,
beyond your wildest dreams.

And when your life is over,
and you look back on time.
May you have no regrets,
with everything just fine.

RWH: 1/24/13

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Poem of the Week: 1/19/13


A life is full of passing glances,
chance meetings, and chance enhances.

Connections come and connections go,
all a part of life's ebb and flow.

Some connections freely give,
for they teach us how to live.

Some connections come with cost,
leaving memories of what we've lost.

But, in the fullness of time,
most connections are lost,
regardless of reason,
regardless of ryhme.

It is only when we come to the end of the road,
that connections we gather began to goad.

Us on to recover the connections we lost,
under the cover of busy and cost.

Alas, some cannot be regained,
they have passed on, unclaimed.

But pick up the telephone,
pick up the pen.
Get on the Internet,
and search once again.

There is nothing like reconnecting,
to your family or an old friend.

So, what are you waiting for?
Reconnect again.

RWH: 1/17/13

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Poem of the Week: 1/12/13


There is an angel in my house,
she comes to me softly,
like a mouse.

She hovers over me,
day and night.

She hovers over me,
to my delight.

She often sings a beautiful song,
while she works all day long.

Making me comfy,
making me warm,
making me happy,
and safe from harm.

She often swoops in,
to save the day.

It's in her nature,
she's just that way.

She often thinks of me,
when I'm gone.

I couldn't be without her,
for very long.

I love my angel,
and she loves me.

And happier,
we could never be.

RWH: 1/11/13

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       The Kaleidoscope Effect    A Love Story

       Alone?    A Life Story

       Hanging by a Thread    A Love of Life Story

       War's End    A Love of Humanity Story

       American Mole:  The Vespers    A Love of Country Story

       American Mole:  The Cartel    A Lost Love Story

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

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

       Verge of Apocalypse Tales    End of Earth Stories?


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