Ron's Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week: 11/15/15

My Mother Sang to Me

Take me along and sing me a song,
back to the old used to be.
Sing me a song back where I long,
like my mother sang to me.

Those days by the fire,
of the stove's warm desire,
laid a foundation of love and trust.

She'd sing a sweet song,
while cooking all day long,
joyfully doing what she must.

Take me along and sing me a song,
back to the old used to be.
Sing me a song back where I long,
like my mother sang to me.

We were poor and in need,
but we were rich, indeed,
with mother's songs in the air.

When the cupboard was bare,
she taught us to share,
song filled our stomachs with care.

Take me along and sing me a song,
back to the old used to be.
Sing me a song back where I long,
like my mother sang to me.

Wherever I roam,
thoughts take me home,
to that place that's so,
warm in my heart.

Where she sang a song,
and we sang along,
leaving memories that,
never will part.

Take me along and sing me a song,
back to the old used to be.
Sing me a song back where I long,
like my mother sang to me.

She's gone now to home,
but I still roam, remembering,
those good old days of song.

When mother sang to us,
making us trust,
that we were where we belong.

Take me along and sing me a song,
back to the old used to be.
Sing me a song back where I long,
like my mother sang to me.

RWH: 11/12/15

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Poem of the Week: 11/7/15

Amelioration Nation

Went on down to the station,
looking for a brand-new nation.

Looking more, less was found,
chasing tail round and round.

It seems all had melted in the pot,
ameliorated, on the spot.

Was no spice, no life, no grit,
tasteless bread pudding,
was all you get.

Where was the verve, the drive, the gall,
to figure it out; to conquer it all?

Survival had settled into a rut,
pruned the tree of every last nut.

All were living the proper prepper life,
boiled down to just, avoiding strife.

Sucking along on the corporate tit.
one-size-fits-all is what to get.

Couch potatoing a fantasy world,
where virtual stimulation is unfurled.

Just cruising along into stagnation,
riding the rail to amelioration nation.

RWH: 11/5/15

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Poem of the Week: 10/31/15

Bump in the Night

Everyone fears things that,
go bump in the night.
It's only natural,
it's only right.

But I am comfortable,
in the place that I'm in.
Wrapped up dark and tight,
and all cool from within.

I've been here,
since who knows when.
It's been that way,
since history first began.

They treated me like royalty,
made a pine box for all to see.
Six feet under and sealed up tight,
way down where the freeze don't bite.

Way down under, away from the din,
of daily life struggling, sinking in sin.
Way down under, safe and sound.
Safe from when the bump comes around.

I've heard the thumping,
prattle of little feet,
heard them cry out,
they sounded so sweet.

I've heard the dirge,
of funeral procession.
Wailing for lost loved ones,
for some, a daily obsession.

I've heard the call,
of the lone wolf.
The owl and the crow,
atop my grassy roof.

But I haven't heard this bumping,
this clanking and thumping,
closer and closer it comes,
that's now going on.

This never-ending night,
this horror I am hearing,
disturbing my dark dawn.

And it keeps going on and on and on...

What's this? What's this that I hear?
It's getting so loud, so close, so near...

Oh my God, crunching and tearing apart!
What will I do? Where do I start?

What's that I see? A blinding light?

I guess I'm free to flee this place,
fly off to join the never-ending race.
but I'll return here, to my death right,
once again, each and every night.

On to eternity, such is my plight.

RWH: 10/28/15

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Poem of the Week: 10/24/15


Our world is now in high definition,
instant information and communication.

There is no place that can hide,
delay high scrutiny cannot abide.

Is it good or bad? It's hard to tell.
Some find it threatening, some find it, hell.

I find it interesting, how people react.
Some believe that we are under attack.

Wonders of nature are being revealed,
in startling clarity previously concealed.

Peering into small, infinitesimally so.
Worlds onto worlds, the further we go.

Outward into space billions of years,
discovering origins, and possibly, our peers.

Creating options, too many choices for some.
Some are embracing, and some are on the run.

How we choose will change the future,
like well performed surgery, sutured by suture.

We can't sew over history's past mistakes,
we can reverse trends with whatever it takes.

Some try to dim the images with myopic thoughts,
but clarity is clarity, regardless of, "What oughts."

Some deny understanding from their true belief.
But revealing clear images give them no relief.

Change is unending and will always reveal,
once what thought to be heresy turned out to be real.

The higher the definition, the faster the pace,
the better for all, the whole human race.

The world and its minions of animals and plants,
its stewards and servants and psychophants [sic].

Held here by gravity on a rapidly spinning world,
high definition is spinning the truth unfurled.

Who knows where this clarity will eventually end,
I welcome it with open arms. Do you, my friend?

RWH: 10/22/15

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Poem of the Week: 10/17/15

Swampy Horror

Was cruising down the highway,
listening to a ghoulish song,
when a large rock flew up, hit,
everything went terribly wrong.

Startled by cracked glass,
took a sharp right turn,
hurtled towards the brush,
into a leafy butter churn.

Punched a hole in the greenery,
with a thumpity, thump, bump,
with a loud crack at the end,
van in a downward slump.

Surprised to be alive and unhurt,
foot jammed on the brake,
turned off that awful song,
mind did a double take.

The day was getting old,
and there was no way out.
Damned EZ- Lock jammed,
with a creeping fear of doubt.

No way to know how far wooded in,
turned off the engine to silence again.
Cracked the windows to get some air,
listened for sounds of rescue anywhere.

Twilight settled in and shadows crept deep,
sounds of bird twitters died with their sleep.
Knew that night would have a long run.
Water seeping in only added to the fun.

Dusk turned to darkness profound,
air grew chillier and fog rolled round.
Booming of alligators rose up in the mist,
one was so close,
heard when it hissed.

Spiders crawled silently around in the dark,
could feel them crawling with many eyes to see.
While mosquitoes rose up on a lark,
and supped from blood mercilessly.

Snakes slithered by with a slight ripple,
it was no time to be locked in as a cripple.
An owl kept hooting in the distance,
mind took a path of silent resistance.

Hunger and thirst took its toll,
sleep came uninvited, dreams did roll.
Woke up from one in a terrible fright,
only thing there was the deep dark night.

Cold crept in, a silent killer,
shivered and shook,
but couldn't shake the quiver,
the helpless feeling of awful dread,
the feeling of being,
well over one's head.

Night wore on like horrors unfold,
nightmares and pain came and went,
dawn broke just when thoughts told,
that life and limb were just about spent.

Another long day of lonely thought,
of hunger and thirst of what and what ought.
Of what could have been and what it was,
no escape, no relief from this torturous clause.

The sun went down into another long night,
a night filled with nightmares and constant fright,
living through was not a question anymore,
the Grim Reaper was coming to settle the score.

Into delirium and unconsciousness fear,
the night sounds grew deafening to the ear.
Throat swollen shut and eyes would not tear,
knew that the end was nearer than near.

With the dawn's light bright dew drops appeared,
the Grim Reaper came with a sound so feared.
Chainsaws ripping like in the Texas movie,
blurry thoughts turned to horror of hell's fury.

A quiet voice said, "We're here to get you out."
One must admit, through all that,
still, there was doubt.

RWH: 10/15/15

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Poem of the Week: 10/10/15


We all are subject to the luck of the draw,
if it weren't for bad luck, some wouldn't have luck at all.

I have been favored by both in my days.
Luck has played a tremendous role in my ways.

But who can tell what the twist of fate,
will bring to a life, before it's too late?

Some rely on fortunetellers and seers.
Some use God, and some on their peers.

But it makes no difference on what you rely,
the twist of fate just acts; it does not reply.

There but for good fortune, go you or I.
Our best laid plans often go awry.

So if you think you can beat it in the draw,
you'll be on the wrong side of Parkinson's law.

So I'm writing this poem to declare my goodluck,
I'm here only by good fortune; won't pass the buck.

RWH: 10/8/15

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Poem of the Week: 10/4/15

Upon a Whim

Once upon a whim,
I looked outside my skin,
to see the state that I was in.

Not the state of confusion,
or a state of illusion,
there was no contusion,
or emotional atomic fusion.

It was just a state of mind,
in a country that I find,
is great for all its ills,
where opportunity fulfills.

We all have bucket lists,
doing things that suddenly exist.
Lots of time to fool around,
lots of time to just propound.

We can take off on a whim,
regardless of the state we're in.
First to our heart's desire,
become a frequent flyer.

We can selfie with the stars,
we can see ourselves on Mars.
We can dream of new dimensions,
find a mate with similar intentions.

A good life we are in,
better than, it's ever been,
where else can we begin,
to follow our latest whim.

I think I'll write a book,
it will have a different look,
the ideas have begun to cook,
Oh, the chances that I took.

A butterfly flies with flim,
an otter loves to swim.
A dolphin waves its fin,
all of it on a whim.

So crawl with me out on the limb,
and join me in the whim we're in.

RWH: 10/2/15

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Poem of the Week: 9/28/15

Walking Soldier

Walking soldier off to war,
in the footsteps of many, gone before.
Will he win like those of yore?
Will he even, the awful score?

Walking soldier all down the line.
Walking soldier doing doubletime.
Walking soldier what will you find?
Walking soldier, is this your time?

Walking tall and strong,
with resolve and spirit.
The wrath of God on his side,
and the enemy to fear it.

A long line of youth,
entering the grinder,
of blood letting gore,
that makes one no kinder.

Walking soldier all down the line.
Walking soldier doing doubletime.
Walking soldier what will you find?
Walking soldier, is this your time?

False bravado and immature brash,
demonizing an enemy like a bad rash,
anger and fear mix for the mash,
a roll of dice determines the clash.

The sound and the fury becomes so intense,
when the fog of war begins to commence.
Earsplitting concussion consumes the sense,
innocence of childhood becomes past tense.

Walking soldier all down the line.
Walking soldier doing doubletime.
Walking soldier what will you find?
Walking soldier, is this your time?

Wounded soldier walks home to jeers or glory,
whether he wins or loses, it's the same old story.
Decorated for valor or spurned for desertion,
the soldier's been hurt and walks with the gory.

Walking through life on the path of honor,
the soldier walks with long thoughts of dread.
Nightmares and fears dance through his head,
for though he tries to live, he's the walking dead.

Walking soldier all down the line.
Walking soldier doing doubletime.
Walking soldier what will you find?
Walking soldier, is this your time?

RWH: 9/24/15

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Poem of the Week: 8/19/15


The artistry of imagery is difficult to define,
it stems from the heart of the matter,
and percolates in the mind.

A thin line drawn, the simplest of forms,
outlines an image the brain beholds.
communicates meaning to others afar,
across time and space its meaning unfolds.

A handprint in ocher, blood or mud,
hardens with time and hails the aware.
That, "I was here... My mark is clear."

Herds of extinct animals charge across a wall,
come charging down from the ancients,
marking this hunter's hallowed hall.

Jewelry, carvings, amulets and idols,
scattered across the burial site.
Once found digging, a diggers' delight.

Statuary carved from strong sinewy stone,
stands through the ages, some origin unknown.
A sorrow arises when hatred has them blown.

Mosaics created colored stone by stone,
Grace floors and walls of wealth now known.

Buried beneath ash, flood, mud or rubble,
discovered at last when one takes the trouble.

Colored threads woven with great skill,
with intricately designed weave and warp,
clothe the body to cover the thrill,
signify tribe and deck the hall's harp.

Charcoal on parchment bringing realism to light,
from design, faces, landscapes in black and white.
Ancient hieroglyphics and languages yet unknown,
Grace papyrus, animal skin, bark, and stone.

A mixture of oils and colors of old,
applied with a brush to make statements bold.
On walls or canvases stretched very tight.
Down through the ages the colors still bright.

Engineering and architecture drawn with great skill,
create edifices and monuments with artistry that still,
encourages others to build larger and higher,
the Earth is our canvas and outer space is our lyre.

Abstract encourages a range of interpretation.
To try to describe one comes with trepidation.
But who can deny that abstract has a place,
both in satire and encouraging the human race.

We've all seen their handwriting on the walls,
the tomfoolery, the protest, the clarion calls.
Kids play with crayons and color with abandon.
Adults fill spaces carefully avoiding being random.

Cgi, fractal, 3-D printing, and other digital art,
the Photoshopped PowerPoints of prurient point.

The cartoon caricature of a roving real life,
through images YouTubed of real-time strife.

Who is to say where artistry will end?
As technology moves art to what's around the bend.

RWH: 8/17/15

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Poem of the Week: 9/12/15


What goes out comes back again,
like a boomerang and Rin Tin Tin.

Boomerang, a rangy tang tang,
down by the bone dry billabong,
the old drunk sadly sang.

The Old Man of the Forest,
sings a song of true blue.
Orangutan, oh, orangutan,
is there still a place for you?

Words that have left,
mouths in a rage,
tend to come back to haunt,
when we turn a new page.

But the world is our oyster,
and we reap what we sow.

When we plunder for profit,
the true cost begins to show.

Pendulums swing to and fro,
but boomerangs come back,
and bring us down truly low.

In a world of hurt a song was sung,
from those at their limit on the last rung.

What goes around, comes around,
so be careful what you want.
There are needs for survival,
the rest is only for naught.

Boomerang, oh boomerang,
don't come back on me.

For the universe is the limit,
as broad as an endless sea.

RWH: 9/10/15

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Poem of the Week: 9/5/15

Seeds of Thought

Spawned in the meadows of the mind,
the seeds of thought are entwined.

With memories clearly defined,
and some now only dimly outlined.

The seeds of a great idea or two,
a song, a poem, an essay, will do.

Or maybe an invention, a discovery so great,
that only the best seeds of thought can relate.

The seeds of jealousy, anger and hate,
should be banished forever at the mind's gate.

For what good are thoughts if they only despise?
What good are thoughts leading to our demise?

We must not plant those seeds in anyone's eyes,
if we want to grow into something called, wise.

And we must banish all thoughts of misery and pain,
for these seeds do us no good and are a disdain.

So be a Johnny Appleseed of good thought,
spread your ideas widely where they will be caught.

And don't stop spreading because you are old,
it's then when you are at your wisest, I am told.

I hope that I've spread a seed of thought or two,
with this little poem I've written for you.

RWH: 9/3/15

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Poem of the Week: 8/29/15

My Gun

My gun is my freedom,
my God given right.
I aim to kill, and to win,
whatever, the fight.

My heroes are shooters,
who kill with great skill,
so I practice and I practice,
to make a clean kill.

Happiness is a warm gun,
close by my side.
It helps hide my fear,
and bolster my pride.

For the world is very dangerous,
from the news that I read.
Full of terrorists and bad guys,
and I don't want to bleed.

My dominion over animals,
is clear with my gun.
I shoot what I want,
for sport and for fun.

No bear, snake, wolf or lion,
will harm me or my kin.
I shoot them for trophies,
and treasure their skin.

My gun is locked away,
where it will do no harm.
Just where I can't use it,
when faced with alarm.

So I keep it close and handy,
near my bed or in my car.
Where the kids always find it,
and things go bizarre.

My gun will protect me,
from all kinds of harm.
I will use it in anger,
my foes to disarm.

I will use it in anger,
with a magazine to spare,
for the more shots that I have,
the more that I will scare.

And when I am through,
I will do myself in.
Justified in all the killing,
because revenge is no sin.

I will use it in sorrow,
in depression and guilt.
For my human frailty,
is just the way that I'm built.

My final freedom,
is to do myself in,
with a shot to my temple,
and a shock to my kin.

RWH: 8/25/15

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Poem of the Week: 8/22/15


Oh, the relief, when it finally comes.
May it be great or may it be small,
whichever way the water runs,
we've experienced it all.

When even wishes and prayers are unmet,
relief can still come; from the unexpected yet.

We all seek relief of one sort or another,
when all of our plans seem to run asunder.

When all hope is lost and we're being pulled under,
the last straw is grasped and keeps us afloat.
And when that happens it's humble, not gloat.

For who is not in need of occasional relief?
The rich man, the poor man, the occasional thief.

So judge not your fellow man for the state he is in,
who are you to define what is good and what is sin.

Just walk for a while in his or her shoes.
And judge not too quickly who will win or lose.

For you can provide relief with a simple gesture,
why let a problem lie there and fester.

The rush of relief is glorious to behold,
as the burden is released it's worth more than gold.

The ultimate relief is very simply, our death.
When we suffer no more and breathe our last breath.

RWH: 8/20/15

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Poem of the Week: 8/10/15


Who would deny the heat of passion?
The kind of temperature that never,
ever, goes out of fashion.

Who would deny the heat of a fire?
Warming the soul and flaming desire.

Keeping us alive from the bitter cold,
saving lives through eons untold.

But we seek refuge from the heat of the day,
the shade of a tree, or where cool waters be,
for some, there is no other way.

How many have lain, in a hot bed at night,
sweating profusely, their dreams filled with fright.

For weather is not kind, nor is it evil,
it cares not for comfort, nor for its people.

We have evolved to weather, weather's whims,
we can stand the heat, and survival wins.

For the old and the weak, heat can be a curse,
a period of great suffering, followed by a hearse.

In air-conditioned cubicles, we now live our lives,
we avoid the heat, and our productivity thrives.

But when power is turned off, we cook in our hives,
designed for our comfort, but not to save lives.

So we must be careful not to heat up our earth,
we can adapt to changes for what it's worth.

But all of the earth creatures do not have our ability,
they adapt by survival and genetic agility.

So let's all act in a responsible way,
and keep the deadly heat at bay.

RWH: 8/13/15

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Poem of the Week: 8/10/15


If I had a dollar in my wallet,
for every time I said whatchamacallit,
I'd be a very rich man today.

The older I get, the behinder I get,
it grows like my teenage years.

But I don't regret, get your backup just yet,
all that work avoids adolescent tears.

I just plug away, forget more each day,
and refile my memories galore.

At least I'm not at that point yet,
where I forget what I was getting,
to get at the store... or more.

But when it comes to a name,
a place or a date... I'm lame.

And often have to say whatchamacallit,
to just relate, and that's not relating great.

So if you're like me and forget what you,
wanted to say. Don't delay...

Just say whatchamacallit this,
whatchamacallit that.

Continue on with your story,
like the Cat in the Hat.

The one that got your tongue.

RWH: 8/8/15

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Poem of the Week: 8/3/15

Cut the Cheese

All you Cheeseheads so fat that you wheeze,
a bit of advice... Cut the cheese.

Cheddar, Colby, Swiss, Roquefort, or Jack,
beer, pizza and tacos, curls and bits,
cheesy snacks are the rage and big hits.

Melted or sliced, granulated or bulk,
all add to your physique,
like the incredible hulk.

And if you want to get stopped up,
a cheese plug awaits.
A lasagna binge, will close those gates.

So, gobble the curds that float on the whey,
consume all that salt and butter fat, store it away.

It's going to be a long winter,
and you'll need all that fat.

Hibernate like a bear,
and snore like a purring cat.

But please, be very careful how you cut the cheese,
because a fart contains more than its breeze!

RWH: 7/30/15

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Poem of the Week: 7/25/15


Ability to breathe,
ability to drink,
ability to eat,
and to think.

Ability to see,
ability to hear,
ability to talk,
and to face fear.

Ability to walk,
ability to run,
ability to go out,
into the sun.

Ability to read,
ability to write,
ability to be heard,
and fight the good fight.

Ability to earn,
ability to own,
ability to lead,
and to roam.

Ability to love,
ability to care,
ability to know,
that someone is there.

Ability to reason,
ability to survive,
ability to believe,
and just be alive.

RWH: 7/23/15

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Poem of the Week: 7/18/15

Clean Page

White on white is all the rage,
nothing prettier than a clean page.
Where one can start over,
with the wisdom of a sage,
where one can start over,
start a new age.

Leave the clutter of verbiage behind,
the twitter and texture of whimper and whine.
The incessant roar of nonsense chat,
the picture me this and picture me that.

What's love got to do with it anyway,
the lady sings to show us the way.
Silly mood swings and saccharine lies,
wasting time while precious time flies.

Time to start over with a clean slate,
it's easy to do and never too late.
Check your ideological point of view,
is it someone else's or is it you?

If it's someone else's, time to reflect,
write on that clean page a reality check.
Is "follow our cause" what you want to do?
Or is it that you really want a new you?

So get busy today, on busy in your life.
Who needs aggravation? All that strife?
Start over clean, and start over right,
start over clear, start day or start night.

But do start over, on that clean page.
You'll feel a great burden lifted,
and younger than your age.

You'll feel free for thinking and creating,
your new life. Cut that umbilical cord,
with your thoughts and words like a knife.

Write your own story as you go along,
Sing as you write. your own tune, your own song.
Nothing can stop you after you're free.
You will fear nothing and love all you see.

So what's the holdup? Don't hesitate.
Erase that hard drive, before it's too late.
You've only got this precious life to live,
time's flowing through it like a sieve.

Start over today and make a breakthrough,
tomorrow, refreshed, you'll wake up a new you.

RWH: 7/16/15

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Poem of the Week: 7/11/15

My Synth

My Synth and I are perfectly matched.
With my DNAed rib, she was hatched.

We are so compatible, like two peas in a pod,
no matter what we do, she doesn't think it odd.

Don't have to worry about procreation,
she's always available and ready to please.
Or worry about affection, she always puts me at ease.

We look so alike, people think we are twins,
life with her has no downside, it is all win wins.

We never argue or bicker over anything at all,
our minds are in sync, she's at my beck and call.

She waits on me constantly without complaint,
makes my life so easy, treats me like a saint.

I know that I'm not perfect and a bit lazy as well,
but she is my heaven on earth and there is no hell.

Self charging and maintaining without any care,
I'm never bored with her around and always there.

To think how my life was before she came,
I was lost and confused with everyone to blame.

And now I am fulfilled and pampered to the core,
it's hard to remember those troubles from before.

But I've got a sneaking suspicion she's not what she seems,
lately you know, I've been having bad dreams.

RWH: 7/9/15

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Poem of the Week: 7/2/15

Peekaboo and Doggie Do

Upsie, downsie, whoopsie, doo,
bowsie, wowsie, kiddally, coo.

Whoopsie, duptsie, diddley squat,
some like it cold, some like it hot.

Catsie, antsie, pantsie, puddley,one.
Don'tcha wanta play in the sun?

Com'n let's play and have some fun,
inside, outside, upside down, run.

Cowsie, lousy, poopsie, too,
don'tcha know that I love you!

I hate baby talk, don'tcha know?
Got my little duckies all in a row.

But when I'm around sweet little you,
can't help but peekaboo and cuddly coo.

Whoopsie doo, I love you.

RWH: 7/2/15

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Poem of the Week: 6/27/15

Poet Up a Tree

Saw a poet up a tree.
it was me. It was me.

Doggerel chased me up that tree.
It was doggerel, it was he.

Now, when I fell from that tree,
I fell on a mighty smart head.

He looked up. He looked down.
"Must have been gravity!" He said.

"I will need a calculus to figure it out.
But that was gravity, I have no doubt."

A squirming squirrel's squirrelly mind,
with holes to dig and nuts to find.

With the gravity of your poetry in mind,
nuggets of nutty wisdom you will find.

For as sure as the nut falls from the tree,
not far does the poet and his poetry.

So, if you're a nut and you know it,
you might be crazy or you might be a poet.

A poet and his words will soon be parted,
gone like the wind or someone who farted.

So if you have a theory to grind, get up,
get busy and climb, climb your behind.

The higher your treetop, the faller your fall,
below might be a genius to catch it all.

But if you can't be a poet up a tree,
just be the best poet you can be.

After all, it's just... poetry.

RWH: 6/25/15

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Poem of the Week: 6/20/15

Goodbye Bill

Can attempt to sing it
using the melody from
Wedding Bell Blues by
the 5th Dimension.

Goodbye Bill, we loved you so,
blew the gentle rain in slow,
but it's time for you to go.

Overstayed your visit,
like a bad house guest,
created weatherman panic,
and all the soaking rest.

Your training bands were healthy,
and filled the bucket and the bill.
But it's time you got on out of here,
our rivers have had their fill.

Haven't seen the sun,
for many days in a row.
Bill, why are you so lazy?
Why are you so slow?

They said you were a menace,
would create a biblical flood.
You stayed around forever,
but your flood became a dud.

You know, we'll always love you,
A soggy blessing in disguise.
But Bill, you really were a drag,
a lot of blow, but no surprise.

We like our storms to be nasty,
we like to ignore, then panic and run.
The only thing that you did, Bill,
was consistently block the sun.

So goodbye Bill, and good riddance,
Move on and spinoff to other climes.
Go hit the Midwest to Northeast hard,
while here, the sun still shines.

RWH: 6/18/15

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Poem of the Week: 6/13/15

Stress 2.0

Life is a paradox of wax and wane,
stress comes to everyone,
like fires on the plain.

From the moment we burst,
from the womb to gulp air,
our thirst never ceases,
its stress always there.

Mothered and nurtured,
we don't seem to have a care.
We forget we cried out loud,
stressed those who were there.

The perils of childhood,
challenge us all.
Some take it better,
some take a fall.

The stress of the test,
many hurdles to cross.
Can leave us in shambles,
because of the loss.

We all can't be winners,
and winning has its cost.
Responsibility grows,
and it never ends,
for the winner or the lost.

The pressure of becoming,
adult and on our own.
Some take it in stride,
and some stay at home.

So many stress relievers,
we've tried them large and small.
Most of them create more stress,
or do nothing at all.
"Go ask Alice,
when she's 10 feet tall."

The pressure to succeed,
make something of our lives.
Can push us over the edge,
like a bad case of hives.

We've denied stress so long,
when it finally comes to roost.
We have no more adrenaline,
our systems have lost their boost.

And just when we've conquered,
all of our life's ills,
along comes stress sickness,
and all of its bills and pills.

And the stress continues onward,
with pain after pain.
A never-ending battle,
with more loss than gain.

Until the ultimate stress reliever,
dementia of the deceiver,
or in Alzheimer's grip's pleasure.

For those not so fortunate,
to have lost the feel of pain,
the ultimate stress reliever,
is welcome death we disdain.

"Fires on the Plain" is a Japanese
classic film about a Japanese soldier
left on a island in Philippines
who resorts to eating "monkey meat"
(human flesh) rather than surrender.
It could also refer to the perennial
fires set by lightning on all the
grassy prairies like the Great Plains
of North America. Lyrics from White
Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane.

RWH: 6/11/15

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Poem of the Week: 6/6/15


From the golden glittering edge of breaking dawn,
to the golden glow left when the sun has gone,
I sometimes pause and linger in the realm of yawn,
where golden memories seem to go on and on.

The gilded ambition of youthful passion,
reaching upward towards castle's fashion.
With greed beckoning's and lurking's nigh,
cunningly directing path's bloody why?

Where the gilded lily seems more than the rose,
yet smells not as sweet, or so it goes.
Clawing and scratching with stilted prose,
success and fulfillment right in front of the nose.

Wildly digging for that golden nugget,
reaching for the low hanging fruit and pluck it.
The easiest way to reach the high pulpit,
shortcutting hard work in the rush to suck it.

What comes easily goes so as well,
we make our own heaven and our own hell.
Down to the pawnshop our gold to sell,
ashamed of our failure, no one we'll tell.

There is a silver lining to this golden tale,
a purpose why a porpoise is better than a whale.
Smaller is better when it comes to scale.
No one wins in a total wash sale.

So if you want to leave a legacy golden,
think small, not big with careful steps embolden,
write your legacy large and not beholden,
your riches in deeds and not in your foldin'.

RWH: 6/4/15

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Poem of the Week: 5/30/15


There's nothing unusual,
about the sweet rain.
It comes to the mountain,
it comes to the plain.

It all comes together,
from tributaries small.
Into mighty rivers,
that perpetually fall.

Replenishing life,
and quenching its thirst.
A cycle of living,
that always comes first.

The rivers rise,
and the rivers fall.
With periods of drought,
and then, flood for all.

The water is so inviting,
All want to be near.
But living close to water,
can also bring fear.

For the rain comes quickly,
in a mighty storm.
If it rains too long,
more than the norm.

The dry creek may fill,
in a frantic flash flood.
Sweeping away everything,
and leaving only filthy mud.

Or the river may rise,
overflowing its bank,
taking everything before it,
regardless of rank.

For nature is mindless,
of good or of evil.
It continues its course,
its playing field level.

For those who learn,
from high water's wrath,
by building high above,
from its destructive path.

For those who did not heed,
mother nature's nuances,
destruction and death their reward,
for taking those chances.

RWH: 5/28/15

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Poem of the Week: 5/23/15


I saw a butterfly flutter by,
I watched its wings beat and wondered why?
How such a delicate creature could fly?

That things so fragile and so full of beauty,
can casually drift about and do their duty

Fueling on nectar so carefree,
Magic in the sunshine for all to see.

They seem to defy the rules of flight,
Use the wind acrobatically to our delight.

Weather storms and mighty hail,
how can something so strong, look so frail?

And the magical color of their wings,
Mosaic design with iridescent things.

Eyes appear where they deceive,
on wings of finest warp and weave.

Like birds, they tend to flock together,
creating whirlwinds of colorful feather.

One of nature's finest design,
from worm to wonder, down the line.

Who are we to destroy this beautiful creature?
Learning a new way of flight,
the butterfly, our teacher.

RWH: 5/21/15

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Poem of the Week: 5/16/15


I'm wading through mediocre,
looking for a tome.
Of words and wishes many,
that I can take to home.

I'm choking on the arrogant,
with answers that are strong.
But filled with fine hypocrisy,
still many go along.

I'm struck by those of faith,
who throw their fears aside,
by believing in indoctrination,
something I cannot abide.

I'm overwhelmed with intellect,
of those on higher plane,
can't get down to earth at all,
from their refined terrain.

I'm shunned by the exclusive,
under their special rules.
Upon a close examination,
just a bunch of silly fools.

There is so much promotion,
of cures for nearly everything.
Just sign up and pay your money,
get certified and swing.

Write for mass consumption,
quality is not required.
Just lots of shock and action,
your audience is already wired.

Just pick your bloated fantasy,
and let the sequels unwind,
get them hooked on escapism,
and groupies you will find.

Across this landscape barren,
I work my way with care,
someday on the horizon,
to find some classics rare.

Floating on a riffraff raft,
of data mining deep,
the future may find,
a classic I can keep.

RWH: 5/14/15

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Poem of the Week: 5/9/15

Under Water

It's been a long time now,
more like a slug, than an otter,
that I've been swimming,
deep under water.

Grew up poor, but didn't know it,
parents worked hard just to show it.

Allowance bought what I wanted,
all the latest stuff, just for me, me.
Never knew that spending planted,
a pattern of living that wasn't free.

In my teens I flipped for money,
spend it all for quick pleasure,
my milk and honey.

Learned how to dispose of stuff,
so I could easily buy more and more.
Still, never seemed to have enough.

Tired of walking, I needed wheels.
Quickly found all kinds of deals.
Bought a car I couldn't afford,
but when I drove, felt like a ganglord.

Got repossessed for lack of payment,
but the street drugs I bought,
eased my ailment.

College was required for guys like me.
With grants and loans, I got in easily.
Had to have the latest computers you see,
college was about status and not study.

She came along and saved my ass,
met her in my creative dance class.

Our big wedding cost a lot of dough,
we did not have. Thank goodness,
her parents paid for it, though.

Had to have the American dream,
two and one half bathrooms and an,
ultra modern floor plan scheme.

The children came way too early,
what they cost was next to surly.

After many battles over money,
parted company with my perfect honey.

The children were hurt the most,
the lawyers were the Holy Ghost.
A bachelor again, I raised a toast,
and headed for life on the coast.

Mortgage payment went unpaid,
owed more than it was worth.
How things got this way,
I've no idea on earth.

So here I am without a job,
prospects dim like some slob.
Unemployment's run out,
and I'm on a limb, sawing it off,
like some kind of whim.

I'm telling you that I'm under water,
but what am I going to tell my daughter?

RWH: 5/7/15

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Poem of the Week: 5/2/15

Sweet Bye and Bye

Come with me and we will fly,
see forever from the sky.

From forever, there is no lie,
from forever, there is no goodbye.

So all you have to do is try,
and join me in the sweet bye and bye.

Join me in this sweet bye and bye,
where days, and years go quickly by.

Where dreams come true if you try,
clouds never obscure the clear of eye,
happiness outshines sorrow's ire,
and you can have your heart's desire.

There is a place where you can shine,
a place for us in our design.

All you have to do is open your heart,
and you will have a brand-new start.

In the sweet, sweet, bye and bye.

Bye, bye.

RWH: 4/30/15

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Poem of the Week: 4/25/15


Let me make it plain,
to be like Quatermain,
and break the chain,
of deep down dreary.

Today it would be insane,
to act like Quatermain,
but admire just the same,
the constant quest for query.

To slaughter for the glory,
Quatermain's old story,
to plunder for the quarry,
and then stuff to display.

For it's the same old story,
the quest for fame and glory,
that drives us to the gory,
it's always been that way.

So if you seek the gold,
from ancient stories told,
remember Quatermain of old,
that there is a price to pay.

RWH: 4/23/15

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Poem of the Week: 4/18/15

Never Knew Your Name

I saw you in the park,
saw you at the game,
but you were in the dark, for,
I never knew your name.

I loved you, it seemed, forever,
hoped you loved me the same,
but forever became never,
for I never knew your name.

I dreamed of you every night,
but were my dreams to blame?
Was I wrong or was I right,
for never knowing your name?

So when the years rolled on,
and your love, I could never claim,
your love became like a song,
that didn't have a name.

Soon my days will be over,
though I may have gained fame,
and I found a four leaf clover,
still, I never knew your name.

RWH: 4/13/15

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Poem of the Week: 4/11/15

Spring in the Country

It was a beautiful spring day in the country,
like so many others we've seen before.
But it's not often we leave the city,
so it's special and has its own secret lore.

We rose late and left even later,
the fog and clouds held the sun at bay.
But the wind blew onshore briskly,
making for a windy but warm sunny day.

The rush hour traffic was gone,
but the traffic never really ever lets up,
it took an hour to leave the city,
until road side slopes turned buttercup.

We turned north at old Chapel Hill,
with its quaintness and rustic charm,
the yellow field of the year before was gone,
but buzzards still lingered on road's arm.

The bluebonnets kept eluding us,
lost in verdant growing green.
With occasional Indian paintbrush,
and ubiquitous primrose often seen.

We turned the corner on 105,
and beheld a beautiful blue serene,
a lovely landscape of bluebonnets,
magical moments, childhood dreams,
are made from such a scene.

The cows were so contented,
the horses frisky and free.
The pony's winter coat was shedding,
and love filled every bird and bee.

Washington on the Brazos,
a bit of early Texas history,
was waiting nearly 200 years,
for us to come and see.

Over the hill and around the bend,
the blue appeared again magically.
Mixed with Indian paintbrush and primrose,
the high point of the day was free.

Tempted to stop for Blue Bell ice cream,
but listeria was not on our diet.
We stopped at Nathan's for sausage,
so good, you'll have to try it.

Returned home feeling contented,
seeing blue but not feeling that way,
I wrote this little poem about,
describing a country spring day.

RWH: 4/9/15

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Poem of the Week: 4/4/15

Sadie Graylow

Version 1

There once was a crazy landlady named Sadie.
She would greet you with, "How's your liver, laddie?"
But her rooms were cheap rent, cockroaches free,
and Mr. Graylow, "Ran off with an Eskimo," she said.
left poor Sadie and her pom pups in bed with no daddy.

Version 2

There once was a landlady named Sadie from Menomonie,
she rented rooms cheap and hid in her room, dark, watching TV.
The cockroaches were free, and the Pomeranians would pee,
a used carpet she'd put down on the soiled, our walls she Lysol oiled,
why her husband "Ran off with the Eskimos," we could easily see.

RWH: 3/27/15

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Poem of the Week: 3/28/15


Spring forward into the blue,
spring forward in everything you do.
Spring forward for me and you.
With spring in your step,
you'll never be blue.

Summer storms in with sizzling sun,
summer storms electrify just for fun,
summer storms come in and run,
with all that summer sun,
much growing to be done.

Fall back on the summer's glory,
fall back into falling leaves story,
fall back to mornings frosty hoary,
with the harvest neatly put away,
enjoy a ride in a literary lorry.

Winter winds blow from the fore,
winter winds chill to the core,
winter winds with snow galore,
sit by the fire and tell stories,
of spring and of long ago lore.

RWH: 3/26/15

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Poem of the Week: 3/21/15

A Place

When I look for a place of peace,
I look to nature for release.

For man can make towers high,
that scrape the clouds and catch the eye.

But all these wonders we make or buy,
do not compare with simple sea and sky.

Why do we flock to the beach?
Why do we climb mountains out of reach?

To find the peace that nature provides,
to escape the stress and emotion that resides.

In all the obstructions we put in our way.
Corralling conveniences that hold us in sway.

The very things that make our life easy,
also give stress and make us feel queasy.

For all of the dangers that nature provides,
vanish in an instant with peace on all sides.

When we escape to that place we all know so well,
that garden of Eden that birthed us, heavenly hell.

Where death could come easily from basic needs,
and the struggle was harsh, everything bleeds.

But oh, the peace, the stress release to be found,
back in the arms of the seasons come round.

To know our beginnings and all that we are,
to gaze at the sunset and then spy a star.

To feel nature's wrath as well as its cure,
to drink from its waters and know they are pure.

All we ask is a place left under the sun,
where we can play free and can still run.

For without mother nature and without our birth,
there will no longer be a place for us on this earth.

RWH: 3/19/15

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Poem of the Week: 3/7/15

Dew Drop Clause

It gives me great pause,
thinking of a cause,
like getting my paws,
on a dew drop clause.

Now you can dew drop in,
or you can dew drop out,
for if I don't get you,
don't scream and shout.

For me to fathom,
what's in your head,
when you scribble in symbols,
neither living nor dead.

I'm damned if I did it,
and damned if I don't.
I won't take it personal,
no I won't, I just won't.

So before you sign in,
and start bearing your claws,
pay careful attention,
to the dew drop clause.

For life is worth living,
and having a little fun.
A poke in the ribs,
a play on a pun.

Never killed anyone,
like the bullet from a gun,
so put a smile on your face,
and that gloom on the run.

The dew drop clause,
is sealed... and done.

RWH: 3/12/15

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Poem of the Week: 3/7/15

Sum of All Seasons

The sum of all seasons is high,
the day of reckoning is nigh,
there are those that would deny,
know not the when, nor the why.

The run of all reasons is wry,
piled as high as the perennial sky,
but reasons alone won't comply,
when serendipity seasons fly by.

We've come to the summit of sum,
and have got all hurt on the run,
but we don't know how to have fun,
and keep feeding the fat of the gun.

For each and every one in the sun,
has a season to bask in the won,
a time for all acrimony to be done,
and for all to enjoy the hard-won.

All seasons will come to an end,
all things will be renewed again,
as the egg leaves the nest of the hen,
traveling to who knows when.

RWH: 3/5/15

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Poem of the Week: 2/28/15

Wolf at the Door

It's been a long, long winter,
and the wolf is at the door.

The college loans are due,
those lottery tickets didn't score.

My dream of being a star someday,
grows dimmer, more and more.

Those menial jobs I'm working,
barely pay the rent.

When I leave the grocery store,
my paycheck has been spent.

My old car needs major work,
but I can't afford the repair.

I struggle to pay for gasoline,
my insurance bills cause despair.

The commute is long and hard,
but I endure it every day.

My boss is cruel and heartless,
threatening to cut my pay.

I have no time for sickness,
my deductible is too great.

My home is now long gone,
foreclosed because I was late.

I couldn't help being laid off,
sharks and bank couldn't wait.

Retirement is a far-off dream,
that I have not saved for.

But if I can't even pay the rent,
I'll soon be out this door.

To join the wolf in the wilderness,
that dream of mine... no more.

RWH: 2/26/15

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Poem of the Week: 2/21/15

Wind Free

The wind blows free,
and the you in me,
is revealed.

The clouds roll by,
in an endless sky,
and we know our fate,
is sealed.

So off we go,
to and fro,
to chase the wind,
of our desire.

Nomads of note,
in a land of rote,
we dare not raise,
the hurricane's ire.

The ease of the breeze,
does as it please,
and we are but embers,
to its fire.

We float on the draft,
our own little liferaft,
looking for ways,
to inspire.

But everyone knows,
whichever way the wind blows,
we'll bend to its whimsical lyre.

Free as the wind,
from thoughts that have sinned,
risen from the muck and the mire.

To reach for the stars,
where the wind never mars,
and our grasp soars ever higher.

RWH: 2/19/15

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Poem of the Week: 2/14/15


"The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath...."
- Shakespeare

The quality of your presence,
is like the gentle misting dew.
Awakening each morning,
to sweet kisses from you.

The quality of a relationship,
is not measured from without,
but nurtured in cooperation,
even when in doubt.

The quality of nature is imbued,
in its survival code,
only the strong survive,
to pave the natural road.

The quality of a government,
is in its peoples' hand.
To alter or abolish it,
one must take a stand.

The quality of a work,
is not in what it sells for,
but in the care that was taken,
to make it better than before.

The quality of life,
is not in making money.
But in a feeling of fulfillment,
in this land of milk and honey.

We all should strive for quality,
in what ere we seek to do,
for where we find quality,
we find a better you.

RWH: 2/12/15

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Poem of the Week: 2/7/15


Oh, to wax and wane,
wallow in the dirty rain.

Feel the volcano's fiery bed,
lava's flowing liquid molten red.

Crash upon the rocks of shore,
bask upon those rocks once more.

Face the hurricane's furious force,
rest in the eye of its due course.

Freeze in the Arctic's tundra frost,
barren landscape gaze glazed across.

Stampede in a thunderous roar,
among a herd of 10,000 or more.

Soar among the craggy cliffs,
seeking out the thermal lifts.

Feel the waterfall in your face,
swim in crystal clear at the base.

Taste the hot blood of the latest kill,
food for the living at the top the hill.

Make your way through heat and cold,
while seasons change and all grows old.

Face death a 1000 times before you die,
rather die young than old and ask, why?

RWH: 2/5/15

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Poem of the Week: 1/31/15

Dog's World

In this world its dog eat dog,
I like 'em hot, a foot long log.

I doggedly track down life's highway,
dog tracking cockeyed, but my way.

When I'm dog tired and dragged out,
like to lay on my back, legs up, and pout.

I watch my step in this dog's world,
it's hard to get off once it's soiled.

Took a dog leg on the golf course,
and lifted it on a tree.
The other members weren't amused,
They arrested me.

I mark my territory with great care,
if you cross that line better beware.

To get ahead requires a pac[k],
a lone wolf loses in an attack.

Doggy style is fine and it's okay,
but once in a while I change my play.

Watch my teeth when I am mad,
my bark is greater than my bite,
I'm glad.

I'm a dog and have to admit,
so ladies, when I pant,
just tell me to, "Sit."

RWH: 1/29/15

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Poem of the Week: 1/24/15

Heart Hunting

I went hunting for a heart,
but didn't know where to start.
Everywhere I turned,
I was spurned.

It seemed the world was heartless,
cold and full of lies,
filled with cunning cutthroats,
and those that I despised.

I set my standards high,
so sure to attain my goal,
I passed by many an opportunity,
while I didn't live up to my role.

The years went by and hearts came by,
but they never lingered, flew.
Like birds startled from a branch,
they left... Why, I never knew.

And then my search came to an end,
futility had turned sour every try.
I gave up searching for a heart,
and gave up wondering, why?

When years then passed,
free from heart hunting at last,
I took care of me and my.

Gently they came out of the blue,
hearts so kind, and oh, so true.
They cared for me with unyielding love,
they cared for me, hovering above.

They were not angels, but true hearts,
they learned how to help me,
with fits and starts.

We didn't always see eye to eye,
but grew in affection, as time went by.
You'll never know,
when a good heart you'll find,
with ties of strength, with ties that bind.

RWH: 1/22/15

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Poem of the Week: 1/17/15


Just got off the phone again,
been on that phone since,
don't know when.

Got on the website right away,
early bird gets the worm,
or so they say.

And then the damn website hung up,
had to re-log into that stupid pup,
a dog's a dog and that's no lie.

Maybe another company,
another website, would do...
So I tried them all...
I emailed them, texted them,
even chatted with a few.

I watched their YouTube pitches,
saw their pop-up window bitches,
and their frequent server glitches.

Their downtime, off-line, excuses.
Their profuse apologies for abuses.
Their use of me for useless uses.

I finally got through paying for a view,
and to my surprise,
it was a pack of lies.
I didn't quite know what to do.

So I picked up the phone to make that call,
after four bad numbers with waits for all,
finally got through to ubiquitous Paul.

Apologizing profusely, Paul corrected the matter,
pathetically pattering platitude chatter.

So I am on to challenge the next glitch,
a dollar for each one, and I'd be rich.

RWH: 1/15/15

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Poem of the Week: 1/10/15

Into the Cold

The world is getting warmer,
but we are growing old,
from our fiery beginning,
execrably into the cold.

From the core of starry explosions,
our atomic essence ventured whole,
through eons of cold, cold space,
this essence drifted without a goal.

Only to enter the glow once more,
from gravity's mighty pull,
coalescing into the stuff of life,
the fiery birth of a planet's soul.

Into temperate zone of existence,
from which life can evolve,
each creature with its tolerance,
extremes it must resolve.

We are the survivors,
of those who faced the cold,
with warm blooded internal organs,
that made us, oh so, bold.

The only creatures wearing clothing,
we ventured far and wide.
Some living in the tropics, naked,
some living in the arctics, with hide.

But as the days grow shorter,
and time seems to speed up,
the years go by much faster,
and the cold creeps into our cup.

Warm memories of our past,
fill our daily thoughts,
we can't remember yesterday,
was it cold, or was it hot?

Our eyes grow dim of vision,
and our ears no longer hear,
the heat of passion dwindles,
and the chill begins to appear.

The rosy cheeks of childhood,
have become pallid, red and raw.
The winter's chill surrounds us,
as we wait for the spring thaw.

With each year it becomes harder,
to stay warm through the night.
We bundle up by the fire,
and talk about our plight.

But when all is said and done,
and our internal fire goes out,
we once more go into the cold,
for that, there is no doubt.

RWH: 1/8/15

Print this poem here.

Poem of the Week: 1/3/15

Branching Out

Growth is essential for all of life.
To grow is good. To die is strife.

We all must grow if we are to live,
for some to grow means to take,
for others, it is to give.

Life is a sorter,
life is a sieve.

We must be properly pruned to grow,
if not, the abnormal may go with the flow,
and we must deal with it, if we know.

It can be a cancer that spreads through the land,
creating destruction to nature's perfect plan.

All good things must come to an end.
What branches we take will determine the bend.

Our branches must not be too heavy,
must sacrifice the few for the sake of the many.
For the playing field is finite and fragile to bear,
the weight of the many dwelling now there.

If we don't learn to curtail our growing hearts,
there may be no more fits, and no more restarts.

For the world is our oyster floating in space,
the home for all of the human race,
with too many branches all vying for room,
soon to become root bound to seal our doom.

The pruning will be hard, the pruning will be tough,
but we must prune to live, we must prune to love.

Our tree is getting old and needs new growth,
time to cut back and choose which branches to troth.

RWH: 1/1/15

Print this poem here.



       The Kaleidoscope Effect    A Love Story

       Alone?    A Life Story

       Hanging by a Thread    A Love of Life Story

       War's End    A Love of Humanity Story

       American Mole:  The Vespers    A Love of Country Story

       American Mole:  The Cartel    A Lost Love Story

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

       Verge of Apocalypse Tales    End of Earth Stories?

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


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