Ron's Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week: 3/18/17

Hurry

Ever been late, for a very important date?
March Hare, be aware, it's not too late.

There's nothing wrong with speed,
it's such an exhilarating need.
It's somewhat akin to greed.
So fast makes your nose bleed.

But what's all this unnecessary hurry?
Getting your fuss all in a flurry?

Do you race to the next stoplight?
Only to sit there fiddling and wait?
Instead, get on your cell phone and talk?
Oblivious to others racing out while you balk?

Do you honk your horn at the slow?
Are you always in a big hurry to go?

Rushing around in a furious pace,
as though you are in some human race,
trying to get to some distant place,
instead of enjoying what's right in your face.

Our hectic lifestyles require a composure,
but we plow through our life like a bulldozer.

Missing opportunity that calmness poses.
Not stopping to pick or to smell the roses.

So don't let the finer things pass you by,
because you are in a hurry and on-the-fly.
Slow down and relax, you won't be late.
Enjoy the world around you; you'll feel great.

RWH: 3/16/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/11/17

Spring Forward

I sprung forward the other day.
Lost track of time along the way.

I was either an hour early or an hour late.
As I left the daily starting gate.

The paradox that is our track of time,
makes no sense in universal rhyme.

Cows don't know when to come home,
their milk comes too early in the loam.

Cows don't know when to leave their home,
their milk comes too late and turns to foam.

The sun comes up, and the sun goes down.
But it's just the earth revolving like a clown.

An evil clown with its head spinning around,
the deception of time moves without a sound.

So if you spring forward, but find yourself behind,
consider yourself lucky, for the time that you find.

Hidden in the clock, synchronized in orbit,
to engineer your lives, until your final obit.

Springing forward and back in semiannual swings.
Time masters us, among other things.

RWH: 3/9/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/4/17

Comes the Rain

Here comes the rain again,
it's come before and will come again,
don't know when it'll stop,
just don't know when.

Water's creeping up to my door,
coming up fast, like before.
Don't know when it'll stop,
seems like every time, there's more.

Keeps rainin' all the time,
since she done left me,
there is no rhyme.
Don't know when it'll stop,
this rainin' on my mind.

Dark and dreary, soggy and wet,
don't know when that I will get,
a day of sunshine in my life,
a day of happiness without strife.

Been so long since I've seen the sun,
been so long since you held me, Hon.
I still don't know what I could've done.
To keep you from raining on me.

So, I'm down soggy in mud and muck,
life for me is a constant suck.
Don't know when I'll get dry again,
sucking on this bottle of dry gin.

Rain, oh rain, stop falling on me,
let me live happy; set me free.
Stop all this dismal, down on me.
Sunshine break through this cloudy mind,
let me bask in your warm glory one more time.

Banish the rain and make me shine.

RWH: 3/2/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/25/17

Kumquat

What? Kumquat?
Why me, you ask?
I ain't no tangelo,
got no class.

My line goes way back,
I'm one of a kind-original,
of the genus--citrus fruit.
Time to give my horn a toot.

Not a fart. Not a goose.
A real live citrus boost.
Wake up in the morning,
craving sour kumquat juice.

Made some of the oldest wine,
why should I beg, whine?
Cuz I get no respect,
At the checkout line.

Ain't got no GMOs,
in my blood. Come to think of it,
no blood, since the great flood.

So you are looking,
for a sour tasty exotic treat,
come, come a kumquating,
down my street.

Hey, think I just invented,
a new dance craze.
Just taste my meat,
and give me praise.

Please?

RWH: 2/23/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/18/17

Hollyweird Hills

I want to climb up those Hollywood Hills.
Up where the stars pay with celluloid bills.
Up where the stars party all night long.
Up where the stars are celebrated in song.

To snake up the serpentine roads to the top.
Pumped full of speed and revving nonstop.
Taking those downers to get to sleep.
Sometimes downers lead to sleep too deep.

But I am a hillbilly with lots of cash.
Just want to rub elbows with those of dash.
Not that I'm any of that po' white trash.
OJ's in my blood. Got some of his stash.

You might say I've been there--done that.
But I need a star at Grauman's, bless my hat.
I need a star at Grauman's to save my soul.
I'll take an Oscar if I can't make my star goal.

The kingdom of stardom is waiting for me.
I want to be a part of that Hollywood family tree.
I want to be part of the celluloid dream.
If I don't get there I think I will scream.

I am a gender bender of some renown.
I flaunted it all over Hollywood town.
If you say I'm a liar I might get bent,
I might just run for President.

So the hills are calling; hitchhiking there.
Going to make my name or go nowhere.
Those Hollywood Hills are in my genes,
I'll see you there in my Hollyweird dreams.

RWH: 2/17/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/11/17

Smoke

Like a far-off distant mist,
smoke rises, signaling grist,
a fire somewhere deep within,
a fire smoldering like a sin.

Masking something hidden behind,
through the haze of the mind,
shaping, shifting in the wind,
were they seen to have sinned?

Speaking messages as if true,
blowing smoke to me and you.
Alternate facts are spread around,
floating like smoke and just as sound.

Inhaling smoke is such a curse,
coffin nails leading to a hearse,
nicotine high and breathing low,
hooked on a habit dying slow.

All that burns is not fire,
sometimes it's just rising ire.
Sometimes when you go for broke,
all your plans go up in smoke.

So if you're planning to take a toke,
just remember, you're sucking smoke.
Life isn't always wise... it cries,
when smoke gets in the eyes.

RWH: 2/9/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/3/17

Poltergeist

Can you get a whiff of that?
Smells like death's left over scat.

Things going thump in the night?
Replace that old steam system.
It's a corroded fright.

Can you hear that eerie howl?
It's just the wind and not an owl.
Nor a wolf pack prowl to disembowel.

So you think you saw a ghost?
In fog so thick your mind's turned toast.

And then there are chains,
rattling in the dark, like the overhead light,
when trains pass by so close at night.

Is there something under your bed?
Or just a nightmare so well fed?

Is it in the closet just across the room?
Well sweep it out, here's a broom.

Can you suppress a mortal scream?
Heard you chortle last night amid a dream.

How I love that poultice... Christ,
suck that devil out... so nice.

There are bats in your belfry,
and scabs on your ass.
This poem, definitely,
has no class.

RWH: 2/2/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/28/17

Eden Walled

I am strong, resilient and have adapted to the land,
the changing climate and the seasons, always at hand.

For each year is different, but I am the same.
Foraging for food with only hunger to blame.

Whether I grub for bugs or tasty roots to live,
must keep moving to new places, take and give.

For my life may be traded for another,
prey or predator, it makes no druther.

We all must eat in order to survive,
drink the same water to stay alive.

The desert is harsh and it is unforgiving,
we must search for water to keep on living.

Thousands of years we've traveled these paths,
occasionally interrupted by thunderstick's blast.

We have grown more wary and avoid his pain.
know how to survive this wind, this drought, this rain.

But we must migrate north because the climate is changing,
only the strong and adaptive of us can take this rearranging.

What is this aberration that stands in our way?
How will we reach water; find a mate someday?
We will dig; we will climb; and we will try to succeed.
Cannot die here, in the desert, with no one to heed.

Who are they to cut us off from what we need?
Our species will suffer and no longer succeed.

What is this cruelty? What is this harm?
Who has the right to fence us in a farm?

We are hunters and gatherers. To roam is our creed.
Cutting off our lifeline will be the end of our breed.

Are you satisfied now?

RWH: 1/25/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/19/17

Edge of a Verge

Are we on the verge of something good?
Or, are we on the verge of something bad?

A question of truth, for we've all been had.
So, what are we on the verge of--good or bad?

Our lives are so short, we are always on the verge of death.
So, shouldn't we burn our lives fast until our last breath?

Or should we relax and huddle by the fire?
Wouldn't want to raise anyone's unnatural ire.

For life is long and life is most generally, good.
Should we go by the motto: "Yes, we should?

" The verge is an urge always there pushing us on.
The coming of an ending both violent and strong.

There is no defense when we cross over the edge,
no more hemming and hawing, no time to hedge.

Reality hits us hard and we act as one,
Will we be too late? Or will we have won?

No one can predict the future, but data doesn't lie.
The unknown is fantasy, but facts reveal like a spy.

Data can foresee a problem before it is real.
Data can foresee the future, unbiased without feel.

So before that next wallop comes around the bend,
get yourself up, out, and active before, "The End."

RWH: 1/19/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/7/17

Cold Warring

The old Cold War is back,
only this time it is hot.
News feeds are burning up,
with stories true or not.

Greed was very good,
for the broke up Soviet Union.
Making billions for the Mafia,
leaving little for the minion.

Business being very very good,
for those who wished to wander.
For those who wished to take a chance,
help rape natural riches and plunder.

Meanwhile, every Russian woman,
wanted to leave the country.
Become a bride and gain some pride,
instead of being tied to bed and pantry.

So now great friends have been cast,
to conquer the world together.
Only to be at each other's throats,
come a new change in the weather.

National security is at stake,
when spies compromise with lies.
Hacking into conspiracies to despise,
manipulative innuendo binds and ties.

Left confused and feeling quite used,
as we listen to the blather.
Our friends are now our enemies,
whatever you like... or rather.

The game goes on and life is long,
the Cold War really doesn't matter.
A single twitch on the nuclear switch,
and the whole thing will go to smatter.

RWH: 1/12/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/7/17

Smooth

The walls were warm,
in the chill night air,
the ambience was cool,
you had to be there.

At the edge of the dance floor,
taking her hand,
slid out on the parquet,
feeling so grand.

The guitar was wailing,
that mournful sound,
it was gently weeping,
as we spun around.

Slow dancing in the dark,
hip grinding on hip,
we melted into one,
magic sailing ship.

Whispering the words,
of the song in our ears,
the magic carpet of dance,
flows down through the years.

When suave was smooth*,
we were in the groove,
the sky was the limit,
and we were on the move.

If only to have,
that last dance,
once again,
before the lights go down.

RWH: 1/5/17

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Poem of the Week: 12/31/16

Urine or Out

Another year's bit the dust,
all things irony have turned to rust.

Beginning to wonder who to trust,
but when they lead; follow we must.

Or not.

When it comes to the issues,
urine or your out.
There's no in between,
not even any doubt.

It's all about belief instead of truth,
doesn't take a detective or a sooth,
to figure out who is long of tooth,
hiding in a anonymous election booth.

The proof is in the pudding,
and it's almost to a boil.

It's going to heat up even more,
keep burning coal, gas and oil.

Might even scorch.

The world is our oyster,
and we're slurping it down raw,
to boost our testosterone,
while it sticks in our craw.

So when it comes to two choices,
and both of them are bad,
I'll just say, "Piss on it.
I'll not be had."

RWH: 12/29/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/24/16

Winter Sun

After the Solstice waning sun comes back again,
but it takes a long time for that day when,
the forest and fields are alive with life,
we face several moons of cold, dark strife.

Sacrifices have been placed on the sun's altar,
to make it turn around and come back, not falter.
we have been forced to hive like the bees.
Will we make it until leaves return to the trees?

Winter is long and winter is bitter and harsh.
The fish and the birds are gone from the marsh.
The deer runs from us in the barren forest.
Every animal hides, making this season poorest.

We have prayed to our sun to please come back,
with our best incantations for we know that we lack,
the preparation and will to make it to spring,
when the sun will again warm us and everything.

So now we must bundle up and watch for a sign,
that the gods of the forest will be generous and kind.
That we will suffer no death and hunger until that day,
when you come again and warm evil and death away.

We have given you the best of our harvest and our young.
Will you give us another season of growing and sun?
Will the moon and the stars align in your sight?
Will you give us the life we need to remain in the light?

RWH: 12/23/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/17/16

Arctic Express (Children)

Just in time for Christmas,
not one hour too late,
the Arctic Express,
arrived at the Lower 48.

From San Diego to Miami,
McAllen and New Orleans,
cold snapped its fingers,
and nipped the ears' lobes.

Snow was falling in Laredo,
and in Mobile, too,
hadn't seen snow like that,
in Galveston, since 1902.

The children were delighted,
bundling up while still inside,
headed for the nearest hillside,
cardboard box for to slide.

All across the US South,
fireplaces were now burning.
Leaving children everywhere,
wondering if Santa needed warning?

There were snowball fights,
and snowmen everywhere you looked.
Skating on the Bayou required only shoes,
slipping and falling just to amuse.

Cold, tired and happy,
rosy cheeked children came on in,
after warm milk and cookies,
to sleep the dreams of when.

Candy castles covered the land,
princes and princesses to delight,
filling the heads of sleepy ones,
all through the long cold night.

Awakening to find Santa,
had arrived on the scene,
bringing little boys and girls,
what they only had dreamed.

A very white Christmas,
across the entire land,
the Arctic Express was more,
much better than anything planned.

RWH: 12/14/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/10/16

The Cloud

Crying out loud, it's in the cloud!
Every little indiscretion ever allowed.
Every little selfie, sext, show off proud.
Every little nuance, negativity cow towed.
Bringing your ego down permanently bowed.

Did you ever notice that heaven is in a cloud.
That magic carpets float like a cloud.
That the gentle rain that falls comes from a cloud.
That if it weren't for ice crystals there'd be no cloud.
Then, why is it so damned important, crying out loud?

Cuz the cloud is omnipresent like God in the sky.
No need to ask where it is; or even to ask why?
The cloud is your big brother, looking after you.
Just trust in the cloud like God, and you won't be blue.
Because you lost all your passwords and your email, too.

That good old cloud will just restore them to you.

But there's no free lunch and you must pay the price.
For all of this good service to be free would be nice.
And who knows what happens to your little life slice.
That's up there in the cloud for analysts to dice.
So they know everything about you... Suffice?

The cloud has us entering a whole new age.
What once we could keep secret is now on the page.
Is this good or bad? The arguments still rage,
but the handwriting on the cloud does not age.
Handwriting on the cloud grows at every stage.

So, the cloud already has us in its wispy grip.
We can't quite grasp it, but the cloud has a whip.
That will keep us in line as we Google and dip,
into places we shouldn't go and wouldn't give lip.
The cloud, all knowing, already has our nasty clip.

So, what are you worried about? Crying out loud!
Relax, enjoy, we are all in the same family proud.
Before the cloud, most of us wouldn't even be allowed.

We are all on the same plane; just relax and refrain.

RWH: 12/7/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/3/16

Doctor Bill

Don't you just love that untimely Doctor Bill?
When he comes unexpectedly over life's up hill.

Doctor Bill comes because he has a Hippocratic oath,
to render you services, needed or not, for what it's worth.

He'll keep you alive beyond all rhyme or reason,
using tubes and probes--whatever is in season.

Doctor Bill has the latest diagnostic expensive equipment.
His clinics are posh, spotlessly awaiting the next shipment.

Of his latest pharmaceuticals with a brand name so sure,
the ones you see on television and you must, "Ask him for."

Doctor Bill is a pill popping mama of the very friendly kind.
He'll dispense you some killer stuff with no guilt on his mind.

He's now got everyone addicted to his greatest, latest cure.
Don't worry, Doctor Bill will have a new one, come next year.

Politicians are sure they can shrink Doctor Bill by insurance,
instead of shrinking big Med, big Pharm and their a/inffluence.

The bribery is good and keeps the blood money pumping,
Doctor Bill is in the loop, so his minions keep humping.

Serving the good doctor in more ways than one,
mix a little medicine with your greedy, good fun.

And when you ask for an accounting of it all, you run up against HIPPA... The most hypocritical of all.

RWH: 11/17/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/26/16

Gobble

Gobble, gobble, gobble... Is what we do.
Our economy is based on it; unfortunately, true.

Thanksgiving turkey to Christmas ham,
a cornucopia of plenty we are, we am.

Our food comes from factories, far, far away,
we think nothing of it, for cheaply we pay.

Powered by dirty oil we greedily gobble,
seeking sweet sources, we easily squabble.

We overextend, to make it all run,
pile up that debt; we must have our fun.

A cycle of gobbling that's out of control,
we can't stop our gobbling to save our soul.

We become obese and lethargic in our ways,
reach old age too quickly and mourn for those days.

When we gobbled away our youth without care,
and now are facing the consequences to bear.

When will we learn not to gobble our future?
When will we learn to cut back without suture?

Tom turkey gobbles while his harem grows,
our dinosaur brain, like his, is all it knows.

How to pack away more, more, more for a time of need,
the handwriting is on the wall; when will we heed?

RWH: 11/24/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/19/16

Then and Now

Back then, robber barons and bankers divided up the spoils,
ran waves of immigrant workers through the wage slave grinder,
getting richer raping forests and extracting dirty coal and oils.

In Europe, the dogs of war were baying loudly,
as the serfs grew tired of groveling to the lords.
They rallied around new ideas, rioting in angry hordes.

Economic booms and busts were common in those days.
Wars were one way to increase production, wealth and loyalty,
and the lords used these ploys to claim converts in many ways.

For it was thought to be glorious to go off to a war.
To come back victorious; a hero rising above the gore.
A way to escape the groveling poor peasant life before.

And so the crash of '29, worldwide, was a harbinger of much more.
A deep depression, deepened and birthed ideologies by the score.

Some sought worker concessions, spreading the wealth around.
Some sought revenge, exacting compensation pound for pound.

With angry voices rising two different paths were wrought.
In the US, concessions were granted to those who sought,
in Germany, old hatreds and fear granted power to a dreadnought.

With an angry claim of superiority of race, loyalty was engendered,
a new order for a new age of the thousand years was rendered.

In the US, government helped the poor gain rights, work and pay.
In Germany, the new regime plundered the old, taking their rights away.

It took a second great war to determine which ideology was just.
Everyone thought that the evil of fascism had been trampled in the dust.

But now, CEOs of corporations, bankers and Wall Street divide the spoils,
and, in spite of great danger to all, increase extraction of coal, gas and oils.

In the Middle East, the dogs of war are baying again loudly,
as religious sects argue over modernization, money and morality.
Old hatreds grow and fester with atrocities unthinkable, expressed boldly.

Fear, once again, grips the West with thoughts of going to war,
with thoughts of hatred growing and of evening the score.

So many working people with concessions now disappearing from the countryside,
with so many looking for scapegoats for why they lost their money and pride.

Two views of the situation have been coming to the fore,
those that want the peoples' concessions returned and more,
and those who want the superior race to rule like before.

There is danger in both of these views, if taken way too far.
Greed creeps in, power begets power, and it all gets blamed on sin.

But we all know what is the right thing to do and won't ever give in,
to that evil anymore; we know the score, we've heard it all before.

Old ideas just won't work anymore... No more... Nevermore.

RWH: 11/17/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/12/16

Calm on the Western Front

There's a real need for calm on the Western front.
The battle is over and the anger is spent.

A time for examining what was right or wrong.
A time for healing and singing a different song.

Big problems are pressing from the land and the sky.
Largely ignored as months, years and decades go by.

While we squabble over personality, scandal, money and fame.
The world keeps turning; these problems keep yearning;
and everybody should already know... who is to blame.

We all want more and take more than we need or give.
Greed has riddled our planet until it's looking like a sieve.

When big problems appear we ignore them or lie,
nobody wants blood on their hands taking their piece of pie.

In the aftermath of the battle we have to decide,
do we feather our nest further or take the good side.

Do we demean who we think are the lesser of us?
Or do we lift them up to our level without any fuss?

The calm will not last if we continue to bicker,
while big problems get bigger, wider and thicker.

When they come down upon us even with much warning,
will we pull out our guns and shoot until we are mourning?

The choice is quite clear and the task is at hand.
It's time to roll up our sleeves and bring true calm,
to everyone, able to excel or not, in this great land.

RWH: 11/10/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/4/16

Fall Front

A fall front fell from continental high
spread cross the land of big sky.

Rattling windows ere she went,
as if some vengeance, she to vent.

They call her Mariah on the Great Plains;
a foreboding of winter; time to pull in the reins.

Time to caulk up the cracks in humble abodes.
Time to stock up on warmth before chill erodes.

For the chill wind announces the coming of death,
with the killing of food sources by its cold breath.

All must scurry and gather food fore the frost.
Bask in the brief blue sky days soon to be lost.

Indian summer with its crisp, clean air,
gurgling clean spring water for all to share.

These days of plenty so soon will be gone,
but life on the prairie still must move on.

Gird its loins for coming winter and hunker down;
still rejoice and sing by firelight with nary a frown.

When all is well and everyone snug in their homes;
more fall fronts can blow where the buffalo roams.

RWH: 11/3/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/29/16

Hallowed Wee

Whatever happened to the hallowed wee?
I used to see them, two or three.

Come by my door, come evening tide,
come by my door, by disguise to hide.

Little ghosts, goblins, princesses and more,
delightful little voices squeaking at my door.

The happiness and joy of the little ones
that were the neighbors' daughters and sons.

The doorbell would ring a joyous sound;
wee gremlins and fairies could be found.

Holding their bags with a big grin,
hoping for more candy to drop in.

I gave them fruit to even the score;
too much candy made their tummies sore.

Alas, the wee ones no longer come;
not even the teenage tricksters in fun.

Those days are gone except in some places
where sensibility still resides on kind faces.

Too much unnatural fear of what just might be,
from movies, news stories and gossip so free.

The wee ones no longer allowed to go out at night,
where they can have fun and not feel any fright.

It's a shame what we have become;
fear monsters inside affecting the little one.

RWH: 10/28/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/22/16

Killer in the Night

Night falls in the forest
and creatures adjust.
Some go to sleep
and some wake up,
go out and forage for food,
because they must.

Silently, predators emerge
in search of their prey.
Possums, raccoons, and
their like, search and smell
their quiet and eager way.

Even house cats, with hunter
instincts stealthily kicked in.
Leave the comfort of the house
to stalk rodents and their kin.

Wolves and coyotes continue
to prowl throughout the night.
Their yips and howls broadcasting
huddled creatures great fright.

Humans have a history
of a great fear of the dark,
when they were the hunted
and hid, shaking in fear.

Night sounds still scare them,
especially the hooting of owls.
There is something eerie and
haunting about those
un-birdlike territorial calls.

But small birds still flock
or bed down in their nests,
they know the night danger,
much more than the rest.

For the owl swoops in
on silent, swift wings
and snatches young birds
from their roosts and,
severing their heads,
silences their sings.

The same goes for mice,
rabbits, bats and other things.
The wise owl is a cold killer
the night always brings.

RWH: 10/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/15/16

Halloween a Changeling

Halloween, two thousand sixteen,
isn't like the good old used to be.
The oldie moldy version,
was something different, entirely.

Kiddies still dress up in their favorite look,
bought at the online costume store.
Mostly superheroes and stars,
not the old, ghostly ghouly lore.

Turbans no longer are in,
they evoke irrational horror,
like little kids with turbans on,
delivering gifts concealing a bomb.

Poor kids still use a sheet,
to go out on the street.
To cover up their gold chains,
and the Air Jordans on their feet.

Some kids don't go out at all,
there is danger in those streets.
Pedophiles and sex offenders,
looking out for tasty treats.

They're safely ensconced in parties,
where there's food and candy galore.
And Halloween is just a commodity,
so stock up at the nearby store.

For those who do venture out,
keep your cell phone close at hand.
Stay on the GPS course your mother set,
do exactly as she planned.

And all you helicopter parents,
make sure you hover near,
second guess your kids' every move,
maybe they'll grow up next year.

And all you homeowners out there,
that hate to have kiddies come.
Just grab that security pistol you have,
and blast them one by one.

For on your security camera,
they clearly were up to no good.
You can't count on the police to come,
must protect your own neighborhood.

Haunted houses are big business,
for teens bloody freaking out.
Shock and gore with slimy sleaze,
is now what it's all about.

And don't forget your Taser,
or bear spray close at play,
if you don't have that, hornet spray,
Will keep the ghosts at bay.

With all these cautions noted,
go on, get out and have some fun.
It's only two thousand sixteen,
the century's just begun.

RWH: 10/13/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/8/16

Who Knows?

Who knows? Instagram knows.
Who knows? Twitter knows.
Who knows? Facebook knows.

That's the way it goes...

Who knows? FBI knows.
Who knows? NSA knows.
Who knows? Interpol knows.

And, so it goes...

And if you don't know? Google knows.
The gaggle of viral gossip goes,
into the cloud of confusion grows,
until everyone, but no one, really knows.

But your selfie clearly shows,
and your YouTube witness glows.

HD detail shows...

Right in front of your nose...

RWH: 8/6/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/1/16

Scout's Honor

Modeled after an Indian scout,
what Boy Scouts was all about.

Doing good deeds and helping others,
having fun with your Scout brothers.

Summer camp in beautiful places,
activities galore with lots of races.

Learning woodsman skills and crafts,
survival and fitness lessons that last.

A sense of community and fellowship for all,
gather around the campfire at night's call.

Singing songs and telling stories in firelight,
sleeping under starlit warm summer night.

Wilderness trips deep into the wild,
experiencing nature like an Indian child.

Traveling waters like the voyagers of old,
learning to adapt to the rain, heat and cold.

Earning the highest honor coming-of-age,
the Order of the Arrow that turns a new page.

Life lessons learned as a Boy Scout,
continue through life both within and without.

RWH: 9/29/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/24/16

Traipsing Trapezoid

Into the void,
the inevitably buoyed,
traipse irritably annoyed,
trapped in a tyrannical trapezoid.

Going about their victuals,
as usual, with habits and rituals,
seeking the greater of pleasure.
Not the weight of the measure.

Ills come along,
strike down the strong.
They knew all along,
tight rope they were on.

Guarding their treasures,
with their insidious pleasures,
leaving the fullness of time,
to clean up worthless mime.

But the trapezoid traps,
like everything craps,
eventually, the shit,
hits the fan.

And the traipsing is over,
time to smell the sweet clover,
get down to the business at hand.

For the world turns slowly,
cares not for the lowly,
trapped in trapezoid time.

It's time to stop traipsing,
pillaging and raping,
it's time to spend that last dime.

For the inevitable comes,
and the tune that it hums,
it is not the one you hear,
in traipsing to this rhyme.

RWH: 9/22/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/17/16

Imagining

Imagining what it will be like,
in fifty years or more.

Will it be like all the dire predictions?
Or will it be mostly like today, or before.

We cannot imagine the future,
for some things remain unseen.

But we can shape the way the future is,
if we only imagine and work the dream.

The future can be bright and open to all,
or it can be a dark and dreary place.

It is in our power to make it so,
as we view it through misty glass.

But the future is never as bad or bright,
as those two imagined extremes.

The future will contain magical discoveries,
far beyond our wildest dreams.

The future comes too fast for some,
they wax nostalgic about what they've lost.

Today we all have bucket lists to explore,
in good old days, few could afford the cost.

We have the conveniences of kings,
and choices that only they could bare.

The future remains wide open,
as avenues open to those who dare.

So relax and work on being happy,
don't fret about what you think is gone.

Just think about the wonders to come,
join in and discover, that life is, and can be, fun.

RWH: 9/15/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/10/16

Cigarette Blues

Cigarette. Oh, cigarette. Why do you treat me so?
My love for you is so entwined; can't ever let you go.

As the smoke curls 'round my locks and circles 'round my ear,
you catch my unconcern across the bar; drawing you magically near.

The power of the smoke and its magic when inhaled,
an aura of nonchalance so beautifully exhaled.

Seductive is the smoker's realm; a power that draws one near,
from time to time and on and on from year to year to year.

And then, the fingers, nicotine stained and yellow teeth appear,
what once was new, a witches brew, now coughs for all to hear.

Cigarette burns form patina earns on every place laid down,
red lips on cigarette tips and glasses smeared mascara frown.

Nicotine. Oh, nicotine. Why do you do me this way?
I kicked you once, twice and thrice. But still, you stay.

Your taste is gone. Bitter tobacco caught in teeth to spat on.
Dry fiery throat. Wrinkled haggard old goat. Youth spent, gone.

The whiskey bottle, cigarette and unsteady wobble,
peering through the glass of time searching for a bauble.

Cigarette. Oh, cigarette you will be the death of me.
Cancer, just around the corner, wanting just to be.

Cough, cough and cough some more. Another cancer stick.
Cannot breathe anymore, raw and heavy, oh so sick.

RWH: 9/8/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/3/16

Illegal Immigrant?

Looked out my window,
and what did I see?
Strangest looking bird,
in my apricot tree.

I looked for the bird,
on that online guide.
Couldn't find it there,
it certainly didn't hide.

So I googled it,
and what did I see?
Was an African bird,
in my backyard tree.

Whether shaft-tailed,
or pin-tailed,
was no difference,
the What duh?
was a Whydah,
without any inference.

It seems that the male,
sports that long tail,
only for the ladies,
to flirt and prevail.

Gathering a harem,
he guards with great passion.
This little guy is feisty,
ready for action.

His queens lay their eggs,
in other birds' nests.
Letting those birds raise them,
while queens take a rest.

So, if you see a What duh?
on your back fence,
you'll know what it is,
and illegal or not,
you'll take no offense.

RWH: 9/1/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/27/16

For the Love of It

For the love of it, I greet the dawn;
For the love of it, I carry on;
For the love of it, I sing a song;
For the love of it, my day is long.

For the love of it, I write these poems;
For the love of it, I wandered far;
For the love of it, I dismiss bad omens;
For the love of it, catch a star in a jar.

For the love of it, I cherish life;
for the love of it, I heal others' strife;
for the love of it, there are no bounds;
for the love of it, strange as that sounds.

For the love of it, I will live life long;
For the love of it, my novels grow strong;
for the love of it, I'm where you belong;
for the hell of it, I'll take you along.

Hitchhike with me and you can't go wrong.

RWH: 8/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/20/16

Utopia Bound

Time to talk about what people fear,
it's coming very soon, but not next year.

Still, it is coming, and we must prepare,
for the world is changing and we are there.

The cyber revolution has just begun,
computers and software have already won.

Printers and robots are making our things,
growing our crops, creating life's blings.

Cancer and diseases will soon be gone,
genetic therapies will make life healthy and long.

Seven billion souls inhabit the planet,
exponentially out of control, time to plan it.

Survival of the fittest has made us great,
sorting the unfit has been bloody with hate.

Time to realize that we are all in the same boat,
it is sink or swim, before it's too late.

It is totally unnecessary for the few to have all,
requiring the rest to have little, suffer and fall.

We all know what is good; we know what is right,
we solve very few problems when we fuss and fight.

What we need is understanding that everyone needs a chance,
and if they don't succeed, they still need to prance.

Why should we tolerate making people suffer in pain,
when we have the power to make them whole again.

Science cannot solve all of our problems just yet,
but old hatreds need to die, if we are to get where we'll get.

We are more alike than we are different; it's not too late.
honoring those differences will make us great.

To leave this planet in its pristine glory.
Seek out the stars, writing a whole new story.

RWH: 8/18/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/13/16

Down from Olympus

They came down from Olympus,
great warrior gods of old,
they came down from Olympus,
nakedly beautiful and bold.

They cared not for riches,
they came for the game.
Representing their city states,
bringing good fortune and fame.

They played on the field,
of steadfast courage and zeal.
They played with determination,
with nerves that were steel.

The games were quite simple,
of speed, balance and strength.
Skills that required much practice,
played out on the entire field's length.

There were races of great challenge,
discus, javelin, jumping and throwing.
Fairness and honor among competitors,
left the victorious among them glowing.

But there was no shame,
for those who lost.
They gave their all,
and that's what it cost.

For winning they were awarded,
an olive laurel to grace their head.
They feasted and drank wine,
and returned home without dread.

For though they had gone to fight,
and pride may have been injured,
bloody contest was just, not right.

RWH: 8/11/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/6/16

Dogs of War

The dogs of war keep nipping at our heels,
but most have no idea how it feels.
For those that have not felt that fear,
they simply fantasize and cheer.
Their heroes always win.

Knowing that they are coming close,
and the fear creeps up your spine,
your life hangs in the balance,
and there is no magic lifeline.

To be torn from your country,
a refugee with no home.
To stay would be suicide,
when the dogs of war roam.

For there is no redeeming mercy,
when a bomb goes off in your face.
Or you are savagely beaten,
while a rifle butt takes your place.

There is nothing patriotic,
about going off to war.
We paint wonderful pictures of it,
conveniently omitting the horror.

We think of country and honor,
when we should think of lost lives.
People caught in fatal circumstance,
where the dog of war thrives.

For wars are fought for power,
wars are fought for pride.
Wars do much more harm than good,
a fact we cannot hide.

So the next time the dogs of war,
come howling at your door.
Think twice about what you wished for,
like so many gone before.

There is no glory in victory,
with so many innocent dead.
There is no leaving it behind,
for soldiers with the dogs of war,
still running wild in their head.

RWH: 8/4/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/30/16

Circus of Souls

A circus of souls rode out one day,
rode out not to work, not to play.

They rode towards the sun in their eyes,
blinding them to the truth and the lies.

Eventually, they came to the land of despair,
thought they would take refuge and linger there.

But there was no food nor water to drink,
this place called despair into to sink.

So they left despair on walking feet,
seeking out justice and not defeat.

They came to the land of milk and honey,
squandered it all for the love of money.

They eventually settled in a state of innui,
where all was bland and full of hooey.

In spite of all this, the circus carried on,
as the souls caroused from dusk to dawn.

RWH: 7/28/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/23/16

Trumpty Dumpty

Trumpty, Trumpty, Trumpty, Trump,
Trumpty, Trumpty, Trumpty, dump.

all the King's horses now over the hump.

All the people wave, and all the people cheer,
music to everyone's, insecure, insensitive ear.

Says what they want to, but cannot say,
says things they only secretly pray.

They all want a strong man to lead them on,
sheeple with agendas and opinions strong.

They know what they hate, but feel powerless to do,
they look to the Trump god to carry them through.

With simple phrases solving complex tasks,
the Trumpster dispatches worries everyone asks.

He's the Rush Limbaugh bimbo they all love,
fix this country right from a penthouse above.

Going to make other countries pay for this one's mistakes,
he's always right because he makes more than he takes.

Brash, pompous, sexist and racially ridiculously bold,
he's the living reincarnation of PT Barnum of old.

And we all know what PT Barnum said,
it's all about profit and feathering your own bed.

Trumpty, Trumpty, built a great wall,
just like Humpty Dumpty, he's in for a fall.

So if you want to make this country great again,
Trumpty, Trumpty, dump Trump because you can.

RWH: 7/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/16/16

Ride the Road

We all travel down that lonely path,
towards the future and from the past.

Taken that road to Rome,
and that long journey home.

Traveled across the scarred land,
been to places never planned.

Arrived in neighborhoods that we feared,
saw the faces of people that leered.

Yet, we venture near and far,
eventually to some, distant star.

We cannot resist riding the road,
even when it exacts a heavy load.

So, if I meet you on the trail,
be sure to smile and we'll prevail.

The road's adventure and it's fame,
not taking it, is what's to blame.

RWH: 7/14/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/8/16

Pop-ups

The other day while I was working,
my phone rang and I, knee jerking,

Answered and it was Hillary speaking.
Listening to her lurking squeaking.

She kept on glibly yapping away,
wouldn't let me get a word in edge way.

My answer to that one way pace,
was to hang up in her server's face.

And then on my computer screen,
a page pops up to ruin my dream.

Like an annoying salesman at the door,
my life is filled with pop-ups, galore.

An Emperor's widow has money to launder,
as if I had big bank accounts to squander.

I'm required to install this third-party app,
needed for this, for that, yap, yap, yap.

I turn the page to the index's direction,
an ad pops up like an invading erection.

My doorbell rings and a guy's at my door,
they are in the neighborhood--bargains galore.

A pimple pops up in the mirror to my rage,
why do I get "love bumps," at my age?

Got a unexpected present from a friend.
In my face! Will these pop-ups ever end?

RWH: 7/7/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/2/16

Mornin' 'Merica

Good morning America, a Why you.
Don'tcha know me? I'm your native Tax on.

Yes, Virginia, I know Why roaming,
from Callie fornicate yeah to Whiskey n sin.

Ida hoed her garden of Arid zone a,
and Penned Sylvania some Ill noise.

Al asked ya if you ever Road Island,
or if you ever Tended to see Mary land?

I owe a lot to Miss a sippy on a straw,
Washing a ton of wash for me Ali ban me ma.

Connect a cut and Color a do,
where in the heck has Ore gone to?

If Neb ask ya where Mich a gone,
Tell him ya think he 'scape to Ver mont.

I Knew Jersey and a Indian a tobacky a while,
but Massa chews it down South Caroline a style.

Go West, Virgin in ya to end your Misery,
I'm sure you'll find Ken's ass in your history.

Spied by South Decoder 'neath Mont Anna sky,
caught by a North Decoder Oh high oh high.

Never ask what Della wear or Knew Maxie go,
but then I Never had a feeling like Georgia, no.

You taught me not to ever pine,
where Ken tucked key of mine.

So if I missed your Okay home a bit,
Lewis, Anna and that New Hemp shire's fit.

I'll end my morning journey in a state of Main,
You taught me a New York state of pain.

Don't go Florida on me if I forgot yours,
writing this poem was the onerest of chores.

RWH: 6/30/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/25/16

Mount Holy Hoax

We all are climbing a mountain,
from our birth until we go.

And we all are climbing others,
gone before us fast or slow.

Which path we take differs,
we all wander in our own way.

But those on easy straight and narrow,
still eventually, have to pay.

For there is no top to that mountain,
just hopes and dreams piled high.

If hopes and dreams would get there,
we'd all be touching the sky.

But the trip by nature is precarious,
on every side, a very steep drop.

So if you fly on angel's wings,
don't fly too close to the top.

That light at the end of the tunnel,
is the same that catches moths at night.

All this holy this or holy that,
is just a hoax of wrong and right.

There is no mountain high enough,
to clear life's final demand.

It makes no difference, top or bottom,
who is dealt the best of life's hand.

RWH: 6/23/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/18/16

Colorblind Artist

The colorblind artist is true to his craft.
Toils in his studio summer heat, cold draft.

His is a poor and lonely occupation,
smell of his oils his only consolation.

He paints in the dull drabs of brown and gray,
his retina lacks cones; born that way.

Poor beyond poor, since his folks passed away,
in his father's old studio where he used to just play.

But now he must work feverishly for his supper,
but everything to sell is a downer, not an upper.

With hope nearly gone, stripped to the must,
he works with the light from dawn to dusk.

In the dark of night he cries in his lust,
what woman would have him, a total bust.

Then one day, a young maiden peeks in the door,
sees his sweaty arm muscles feverishly at war.

She's struck by his pale blue Iris eyes,
smitten in an instant, she helplessly cries,

"Where have you been all of my life?
What must I do to become your wife?"

The artist is shocked at the girl's boldness,
he cannot sadly deny her with any coldness.

She works so hard to make him happy,
praises his work, although a bit sappy.

In due time, a pretty little daughter comes along,
she's bright and precocious, like a song.

She comes in his studio and gets in his paint.
"No, daddy, not that one... This one is great!

Posted on the Internet, sales have been slow,
but the new paintings posted are quick to go.

A fine art critic arrives on the scene,
looks at his paintings, like a surreal dream.

With color so vibrant, striking and bold,
a reminder of Van Gogh, starving artist of old.

A gallery showing in the Big Apple is cast,
colorblind artist has recognition at last.

He sees only green coming through his door,
his wife quits her job; his daughter to adore.

RWH: 6/11/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/11/16

Sheeple Parade

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta walk the line,
see all the sheeple doing double time.

See all the sheeple in a neat row,
1984, here we come ... here we go!

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, here we go,
space cadets in uniform, don't you know.

We all have our axes that we sharply grind,
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, in our due time.

Faces in Facebook, all favorites in tow,
fads are sheeple fancy, at least for now.

Marching down to Walmart discounts,
got a get a little piece of my me, so.

Use phone time to text a line, everybody's fine.
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, it's Amazon time.

Get your special offers, discounts, get in line,
join the parade of sheeple people, double time.

Starbucks, big bucks, big box, Nike whine,
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, spend that last dime.

There's plenty of credit card where that came from,
with fees, hidden charges, to hook you on the line.

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, start buying on time.
See all the sheeple wind twisting on the line.

See all the sheeple building by the sea,
keeping up with the Jones, is where they'll be.

Along came a hurricane swept them away,
along came a tsunami took them into next day.

Calling all sheeple to get in line to trump the cause,
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, online without a pause.

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, follow the voice,
a dictator singsong is the sheeple choice.

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, consumption R us,
we came to consume and will go without fuss.

RWH: 6/9/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/3/16

Dreary

A moodiness appears on days like this,
when darkness hangs upon the sky.

When gloom and doom roil in clouds,
as they scud angrily upon their high.

Where down below a pall hangs over,
darkening, dreary, depressing, scene.

A putrid, pallid, pitied pattern of pain,
slides in over slippery slopes unseen.

Fading landscape's melancholy faŤade,
coloring mind's most murky thought.

Into dark and dreary, tearful and bleary,
states of being so often overwrought.

No comforting thoughts can break the spell,
dreary's got a hold of one's mind in hell.

Alcohol burns and the fire's flame tries to quell,
those deep dark memories only time would tell.

Until the sun, once again, returns to light,
dreary will reign in the half-light of night.

Rays of its splendor will peek from the clouds.
Mind will light up and chase away dread.

Once again, lighting up hope, just ahead.

RWH: 6/2/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/28/16

One Track Mind

What genre do you write in?
What pleasure do you find?
What is your only expertise?
Do you have a one track mind?

If your answers to these questions,
all come out the same.
And you blame everyone else,
who don't want to play your game,

Then something has happened,
that has indoctrinated your mind,
through constant repetition,
thoughts hardening in kind.

Trapped in your narrow viewpoint,
can't see any other side,
gathered together with like minds,
in either fight, flight or hide.

Your brain has been programmed,
to replay the same old game.
No matter what the problem or issue,
your answer is always the same.

You must escape the cult you're in,
to lead a rich full life.
For down the path you travel,
is only stress and strife.

Constant conflict with others,
who do not share your strong belief.
With cultish promises hollow,
that never give you relief.

Only you can reprogram,
your mind to break it out.
From the constant repetition,
all it takes is a little doubt.

From that little opening to reason,
a new perspective can emerge.
Individualistic freedom to choose,
and that addiction you can purge.

RWH: 5/26/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/21/16

Saving Face

Saving face is no disgrace,
just ask a politician.

With a nom de plume,
in an obscure chat room,
put on a face of no recognition.

Save your new face,
by putting it in a safe place,
just below any cognition.

When you don't have an ace,
to put them in their place,
your only saving grace,
is a silly anonymous face?

But then, it could just be a condition.

Some save their face,
by Botox and foundation base,
the lines to erase,
the sun's evil trace.

Showing tracks of a life,
lived with much exposure.

Not to worry, a surgeon will,
give you a monied makeover.

So you can put on a new face,
and not face the disgrace,
that age brings to your persona.

You can turn the other cheek,
get cheeky with a young geek,
and hitchhike off to Arizona.

So, put a smile on that face,
that deep frown, erase,
your character is firmly,
already in the right place.

Unless you're paranoid.

RWH: 5/19/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/14/16

If

If I loved you,
the way you want me to.
It still somehow would not do.
But end up remaining true,
because you'd love me anyway.

If the sky was the color,
that you wanted it to be.
And the clouds matched,
your liquid eyes floating free,
on that deeply shrouded sea.

If moods were like moonbeams,
cast upon the widening gulf.
And the world was populated,
by miniature landscapes and elf.

If butterflies and fireflies,
occupied day and night.
You would still be scared,
of what may be, or just might,
with inner insecurity and fright.

If bears were all like pandas,
and wolves like puppies, too,
you'd still think snakes were serpents,
because, you are, after all, you.

If fears and frights were lollipops,
you'd have a candy store.
You love me for my lack of fear,
but still you want much more.

If I could ever fulfill your dreams,
I would do it in a lighting flash.
But your dreams are like thoughts,
that change with a flicked eyelash.

If all the ups and downs of life,
were put in your command,
I'd still be there to steady you,
and gladly take your hand.

If when this world is over,
I'll be there by your side.
Never was there a better time,
for you to be my bride.

RWH: 5/12/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/7/16

Dark Horse

Looking for a dark horse,
come riding out of the blue,
who wouldn't want a dark horse,
teach us a thing or two?

Locked in perpetual struggle,
two sides of the same coin.
No one worthy in all of politics,
except to profit and purloin.

It's all a game of connection,
that tends to favor party hacks.
Need for intelligence and wisdom,
that every candidate clearly lacks.

Money greases the skids,
of every political move.
It seems the only way to slide,
is within a party groove.

Tired of stately favorite sons,
and those by dynasty ordained.
Tired of those who buy with riches,
as though wealth, power proclaimed.

Looking for a dark horse,
with no prior political acclaim.
From the heartland of honesty,
with no axes ground to flame.

Back to the purpose of the people,
and not the skewed parties' planks.
One who will carry the torch of change,
not a platform of shady pranks.

To face each situation fairly,
not kowtowing to the party line.
Someone who will defy Congress,
when it wastes the peoples' time.

Someone humble, courteous and kind.
Not pumped up, pompous and mean,
powered by money, ego and false fame.
Listening carefully to every legitimate claim.

With built-in leadership abilities,
that can inspire all citizens' hearts,
not someone on an ego power trip,
concerned more with pop poll charts.

Looking for that dark horse,
to come riding into view.
I would vote for a dark horse,
certainly... wouldn't you?

RWH: 4/28/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/30/16

White Coral

Deep under the moonlit night dead dark sea,
a ghastly white coral graveyard came to be.

It wasn't frigid cold waters that did the coral in,
burning ancient graveyards accomplished the sin.

Though there are those who would deny,
a warming ocean bid the colors goodbye.

The bleaching took place nearly overnight,
like Earth's minerals wrenched to the mantle site.

Where their feathered filigree crystalline white,
casts lingering shadows on trophy walls' night.

But where is the care for the oceans' plight?
The kaleidoscope colors washed in sunlight?

The millions of fish that grazed in the fronds,
striking brilliant variety; no stinking fish ponds.

Just a world of wondrous beauty to behold,
gone in a heartbeat of the oceans' tale told.

What will remain when the coral is all gone?
Just ghastly leached skeleton and this song.

Just ghastly leached skeleton and this song.
Closely we'll follow, where bleached bones belong.

RWH: 4/27/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/23/16

500 Year Flood

Texas being Texas,
it's either feast or famine.
Long periods of drought,
followed by mucho mammon.

Nature built the bayou,
to make use of weather's behest.
Hold water for the drought,
absorb most, and release the rest.

Flooding was a natural way,
to replenish worn-out soil.
Stayed that way for millennia,
until Texas discovered oil.

The desire to be near water,
and the money to buy and build.
Swampy land became valuable,
the bayous ditched and filled.

But when it rains it pours,
the natural tropical way.
Streets quickly fill with water,
then, just as quickly, drain away.

Those caught in that temporary situation,
wondering whether to go or stay.
Often make a foolish choice,
flood their cars and pay.

Others, still more unfortunate,
driving into water steep.
Knowing not the waters' depth,
forfeit their lives for time to keep.

And those that build near the waters' flow,
often fear the floods that come and go.
Watching the waters rise with trepidation,
knowing that prayers will not stay the flow.

People often have to be rescued,
when the waters come creeping in.
The flood spares no one, large or small,
not the saintly nor those in sin.

Destroying belongings and life treasures,
a muddy mess by all measures.
Filled with stink and rot and goo,
that no one would wish for... would you?

But still they rebuild with insurance or not,
claim that the place is their birthright.
Flood protection and FEMA they've got.
But with the day, always comes the night.

Memories are short when they rebuild,
thinking that they've got 50 years or more,
before the flood comes again to their door,
only to find who's keeping score.

Little do they know of nature's ways or whim.
The best laid plans can either sink or swim.
It's still unwise to build on a 500 year floodplain.
It will be just your luck to get biblical rain.

RWH: 4/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/16/16

Metaphor

There's nothing more to abhor,
than a really, really bad, metaphor.

Meta-this and meta-that,
does a metaphor, wear a hat?

What's a meta-for anyway?
Does it ever come out to play?

Must keep our metas well contained,
or else they might need to be explained.

Met a man once on a boat,
couldn't keep conversation afloat.

Sunk in depression's sea,
sinking him and sinking me.

A meta-perspective helps a lot,
it all depends on what you've got.

Telling you now and telling you true,
still don't know what metaphor means...

Do you?

RWH: 4/14/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/9/16

Territorial

Survival of the fittest,
is the law of the land.
You'd think that surviving,
would be something grand.

One lower-priced-size-fits-all,
is what some would demand.
But the power is in diversity,
with uniqueness close at hand.

From single celled bacteria,
all life on earth has formed.
With complexity and variety,
each creature makes its stand.

The resulting richness created,
with color, contrast, and norms.
Creating ecosystem tapestries,
from plants to higher life forms.

Each life form has its niche,
where it survives the best.
That niche is very precious,
a place where struggling can rest.

But humans think that we are smarter,
with all our manifest destiny claims.
Our vanity and cunning resourcefulness,
from mountaintop to verdant plains.

To grow our life form profusely,
and spread it across the world.
Claiming others' niche after niche,
with religious eminent domain.

To think that we are superior,
to rule over sea and land,
is the fatal flaw of humankind,
as we fight to take command.

To profit from the richness,
plunder from the least,
man is a greedy user,
Earth's most vicious beast.

Constantly growing his territory,
for selfish monetary gain.
Without regard for diversity,
wanting monoculture plain.

Claiming territory beyond his reach,
with disregard and disdain.
The earth can heal itself,
but humankind may not remain.

When greed and ignorance win the day,
and the only way is, "my way."
The loss of diversity and richness,
will come to roost for its own pay.

Childhood's end is coming,
when greed and growth are banned.
And every creature will have its place,
in a rich and glorious land.

RWH: 4/7/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/2/16

Regrets

Regrets? Oh yes, I've had a few,
into every life regrets come due.

But I don't let regrets drag me down,
face life with a smile, not a frown.

Regrets can put a weight on you,
you try to hide, but they show through.

Don't let regrets hang around.
Don't let them drag you down.

Don't regret that you let them go,
they weren't for you; only for show.

Don't regret that you lied.
Everyone lies that they hide.

Don't regret that you missed the boat,
the gangplank to it disguised a moat.

So if you go through life with regrets,
thinking, What ifs? and, And yets...

Don't blame me for telling you,
that regrets are just a pile of doo.

But then, I'm me, and you are you.

RWH: 3/31/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/26/16

Time Warp

Somewhere between then and now,
the fabric of space weaves and warps.

A vision of the universe unfolds,
with the sound of a thousand harps.

Space bends in the awesome power of gravity,
warping around red giants and black holes.

It has its many hills and valleys,
steep cliffs and even gentle knolls.

But who knows where space goes,
on its winding warping, merry way.

Bending time and warping rhyme,
getting stranger and stranger every day.

Using the warp drive to cut across,
the many folds of distant time.

Looking into the ageless looking glass,
of the center of the universe's original climb.

Out of nothingness into the dark, dark night,
of billions and billions of speeding points of light.

What wonders still lie in time and space,
only time will tell, if given the guiding grace,

To overcome our fears and travel beyond,
our own fear warped minds to seek and find.

The secrets of time and its dimensions told,
new under its suns, but still, so very old.

Only time, hard work and good fortune will tell.
Everything else is just warped speculation, like hell.

RWH: 3/25/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/19/16

Time Gone

So it goes, and nobody really knows,
ticking, trickling, frittering away.
ever wonder where the time's gone?
and why it's not here to stay?

Seemed to have a lot of time,
when I was young, to play,
had lots of time for fun, still,
with so much done every day.

And then, I got to working much more,
eighty hours or more a week... Still, somehow,
with lots of time to travel and explore.

Retiring was expected to give me time,
to relax and write, learn and relate,
with others without an appointment date.

But something insidious is at work,
time wasters are there in the lurk,
I know what they're doing, luring,
but my work ethic just won't shirk.

So I deal with each and every one.
Surveys, inquiries, requests for cash,
the compliance requirements, empty cache,
brought on by safety and security balderdash.

Incessant commercials suck up,
and break up, entertainment time.
As though I would buy from them,
spending my last precious dime.

Health requirements keep growing,
with ever carnivorous advancing age.
Constant reminders of required medications,
appointments becoming the rage.

I still put in a long working day.
And find that I have little output,
to show for my nonexistent pay.

So if you're wondering,
where the time goes?
Down the black hole of Facebook,
that I haven't even joined yet.

And the greatest time waster of all,
the cell phone disaster just waiting for,
you, when you're driving, to call.

I don't own one of those either...
So, where did that time go?

RWH: 3/17/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/12/16

Wren Amid the Sparrows

There is a little sedge wren,
that's the first to come each day.
To partake of our bird feeder,
while birdie search and play.

The hungry horde of sparrows,
is a very skittish lot.
They fly off in a moment,
not wanting to get caught.

The wren is not so skittish,
he eats amid the rest.
But he's not so quick to fly off,
he knows he's our guest.

And it's sad to see the,
white winged dove,
with its broken leg.

It hobbles about and,
ruffles its feathers,
I hope it survives,
this injury it weathers.

In the warm afternoon,
the wren comes around,
working the grass,
for morsels to be found.

First,
I see his little head,
and then he pops up,
from driving down deep,
like an appointment to keep.

It makes me wonder,
if he has a mate.
but it's early spring,
and not too late.

Soon,
he will fly off,
to northern climes.
But I will remember,
his morning dines.

Now the house finch,
as arrived from further south.
Cycling the seasons,
from beak to mouth.

RWH: 3/8/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/12/16

Wren Amid the Sparrows

There is a little sedge wren,
that's the first to come each day.
To partake of our bird feeder,
while birdie search and play.

The hungry horde of sparrows,
is a very skittish lot.
They fly off in a moment,
not wanting to get caught.

The wren is not so skittish,
he eats amid the rest.
But he's not so quick to fly off,
he knows he's our guest.

And it's sad to see the,
white winged dove,
with its broken leg.

It hobbles about and,
ruffles its feathers,
I hope it survives,
this injury it weathers.

In the warm afternoon,
the wren comes around,
working the grass,
for morsels to be found.

First,
I see his little head,
and then he pops up,
from driving down deep,
like an appointment to keep.

It makes me wonder,
if he has a mate.
but it's early spring,
and not too late.

Soon,
he will fly off,
to northern climes.
But I will remember,
his morning dines.

Now the house finch,
as arrived from further south.
Cycling the seasons,
from beak to mouth.

RWH: 3/8/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/5/16

Mocking the Bird

Have you heard the word?
They're mocking the bird,
and hanging him out to dry.

There's a foul in the air,
that's going nowhere,
as far as mocking birds fly.

All the talking and gawking,
and sputtering about.
Makes one wonder,
why they so shout.

We hope and we squander,
and down under wander,
chasing the proverbial, why?

Mocking the nerd,
with a great big word,
letting that bird whistle out.

To make sense of it all,
we are mocking the call,
of the bird with the word,
in the hand and the bush.

To swoop the toupee,
parting the hair where it lay,
to fly in the wind as if thinned,
better than two in the tush.

To end this sad tale,
without a whimper or wail,
just a bird by the tail,
with a pullet rather than push.

Cheep, cheap.

RWH: 3/3/16

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Poem of the Week: 2/27/16

Get Back Gone (Song)

Get back up on that horse that threw ya.
Get back on that road that wrecked ya.
Get back up and get back on,
before your life is get back gone.

I know she left you, done you wrong,
no use in lyin', she's long gone.

Life is a lesson we must learn,
don't always get what we yearn.

If wishes were riches we'd all be rich,
but life's not like that, life can be a bitch.

Get back up on that horse that threw ya.
Get back on that road that wrecked ya.
Get back up and get back on,
before your life is get back gone.

So he dissed ya, what's the problem?
Don't waste your time with all that squabblin'.

You won't find it at the bottom of a bottle,
rushing through life, foot on the throttle.

So, if you're hopin' as life passes you by,
don' t wake up one day, just askin', why?

Get back up on that horse that threw ya.
Get back on that road that wrecked ya.
Get back up and get back on,
before your life is get back gone.
before your life is...
get back gone...
get back... gonnnneee.

RWH: 2/19/16

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Poem of the Week: 2/20/16

Verge of Existence

On the verge of existence,
an idea is spawned.
Across the great chasm,
of fragile, so yawned.

To jot down on faux paper,
of the memory's mind.
Stashed away in thoughts,
with emotions, entwined.

Perhaps in a dream,
burst from the scene,
of head swimming turmoil,
so real it could scream.

Perhaps from a pitfall,
on the path to rendition.
Perhaps from a foible,
in a top-secret mission.

Whatever it is, or was,
when it finally takes shape.
Its emergence is priceless,
that one cannot ape.

The birth of a notion,
like a drop from the ocean,
needs tender devotion,
to realize its fruition.

So do not despair,
little idea up in the air.
If you catch on,
everyone will share.

If not, you'll become...
Oblivion.

RWH: 2/18/16

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Poem of the Week: 2/13/16

Sweet Valentine

Refrain

Through all the years,
of sunshine and tears,
allaying your fears, still,
you are always there,
my sweet Valentine.

For you are mine,
and I am yours.
Our devotion has stood,
the test of time.

You greet the mornings,
with a bright smile,
treat me princely,
all the while.

(Refrain)

We have not always,
agreed on things.
But in the end,
our compassion rings.

We help others,
as we can each day.
You help me more,
than I can ever repay.

(Refrain)

I owe you more,
than I can never pay,
I love you more,
than I can ever say.

So into forever,
I will always know,
that you are my Valentine,
sunshine, rain or snow.

(Refrain)

RWH: 2/11/15

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Poem of the Week: 2/6/16

Space Monkeys

Space monkeys have invaded,
the inner nuclear nanofear,
and while we can't see them,
we know that they're here.

Some people have channeled them,
from their comic cosmic stratosphere.
Others from dimensions so close,
yet so near their front is their rear.

On flat earth principles they declare,
we have so much to unknow and fear.
"They" are out to get us,
can't you feel "them" and hear?

"They" come from the future,
the past or next year.
"They" must be destroyed,
let's have another round of beer.

TV tells us there are 12 of them.
Launching a virus to do us in.
We've got fine candidates to lead,
ours will carpet bomb theirs,
make them so bloody bleed.

Will put up a wall high and strong,
that even time jumpers can't surpass,
cuz they just can't get along.

Got all the solutions,
footballing our brains.
Space monkeys are winning,
by rearranging our genes.

So if you see space monkeys,
and are bursting at the seams,
count me out, home buddy,
not in your wildest dreams.

RWH: 2/4/15

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Poem of the Week: 1/30/16

Face the Music

We've all been down the path,
between hither and yon.
But don't know where we're going,
or what train we're on.

Until we face the music,
on that distant dawn.
So loud and clear it comes,
when Gabriel blows his horn.

The journey's hard and steep,
on the many paths we choose.
It's easier to slide backward,
so easy just to lose.

We can't hold back the waters,
as they grow from our misuse.
And build up over years,
to a flood of our abuse.

It's then we face the music,
on that distant dawn.
So loud and clear it comes,
when Gabriel blows his horn.

When passion turns obsession,
we must realize our fate.
For if we don't realize it,
it may be way too late.

On the other side of nowhere,
is a land of make-believe.
To think that land is somewhere,
is only to deceive.

So we must face the music,
on that distant dawn.
So loud and clear it comes,
when Gabriel blows his horn.

RWH: 1/28/15

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Poem of the Week: 1/23/16

Patriot (Satire)

I'm a true blue 'Merican,
with a warm gun by my side.
I don't fear what I fear,
I'll either fight or run and hide.

The world is going to hell,
if I don't get the way I pray.
It's my way or the highway,
that's what I always say.

We have to keep them out,
they are dirty criminals all.
They don't talk or look like us,
before us they must fall.

So we will carpet bomb them,
because we don't like their kind.
Help exercise our military force.
Collateral damaged blindly blind.

We all must serve our country,
By speaking out real loud.
Arm ourselves to the teeth,
Send off young soldiers proud.

'Mericans must all unite,
and keep this country great.
Buy cheap goods made in China,
free enterprise is our right.

You know we all will get rich,
doing just like the rich folks do.
All we got to do is win the lottery,
maybe a time or two.

We don't want no free handouts,
we want to work for our pay.
Just as long as it's not hard or dirty,
no decent 'Merican works that way.

Government's always in my pocket,
government snoops on everything I do.
Buddy,
give me that government job,
and I'll slip you a donation or two.

I wish it was like the good old days,
when daddy worked so hard.
Mommy stayed home and took care of us,
we played and mowed the yard.

Now them damn furerners do it.

RWH: 1/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 1/16/15

Ace in the Hole

Got an ace in the hole,
goin' to make that goal,
no matter when or how.

Some have good luck,
some can make a buck,
but some need a little, now.

For the world ain't fair,
there's cold fear in the air,
lady luck ain't easy to find.

When the cards come around,
and no aces can be found,
a way that will not be kind.

So lay your cards down,
with a smile or a frown,
but don't give your hand away.

For the luck of the draw,
may stick in your craw,
but that ace will win the day.

RWH: 1/14/16

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Ace in the Hole (song)

Refrain

Got an ace in the hole,
got an ace in the hole,
ain't on no dole,
got an ace in the hole.

Now I've been down,
and I've been out.
Times been real tough,
there ain't no doubt.

But I ain't cryin',
bless my soul.
Cuz I've been blessed,
with an ace in the hole.

(Refrain)

Ain't no card player,
that ain't my style.
But I'm a real slayer,
by a country mile.

Cards don't always fall,
and dem nights kin get col'.
that's when I call,
on my ace in the hole.

(Refrain)

When the grim reaper,
comes knockin' my do',
choose to ignore him,
like many times befo'.

Cuz he ain't got nothin',
I've been tol',
like what I've got,
that ace in the hole.

RWH: 1/14/16

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Poem of the Week: 1/9/16

Together

She could not sleep.
He could not sleep.
They would not let them, but,
they wanted to be... together.

When will they learn?
That we all yearn,
for the same things,
the whole world over.

Black, red, yellow or white,
we are together in the fight.
There is no them or us.
only problems when we fuss.

A dream that all the little children,
ebony and ivory side-by-side,
imagine all the people,
living life in peace and pride.

No countries and no boundaries,
no ideologies to die for.
No religions restricting us.
freedom, but no greed anymore.

She could not sleep.
He could not sleep.
Until they were together.

There is no power,
on this green earth,
that can keep them apart.

Opening up our hearts to them,
is the only way to start.

RWH: 1/7/16

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Poem of the Week: 1/2/16

Out with the Old

In days of old, I've been told,
honored were the good old ways.

Sages would praise the olden days,
as if they were as ageless as gold.

Sing praises of the gods of yore.
As though everything was like before.

But it's not. Things change. What's more.
Time marches on more quickly than ever before.

Change begets change, and change keeps score,
discovers the bad, when we've been had,
to repeat that kind of history, no more.

For the future is strange with its change,
frightening to some as we age.

Remembering the best and forgetting the rest,
when it was our youth that was the rage.

The future is where those problems we stare,
in the face will be solved by our kin.

They will stand tall and conquer all,
even the worst fix that we think we are in.

For change is good and we can hide if we would,
but it's coming whether we like it or not.

So throw off the old and embrace the bold,
face it with newfound zest; let fear have its rest.

The old days are gone and they aren't coming back,
so it's time to look forward and fix what we lack.

I'm looking forward to a great new year,
fixing our problems and living in good cheer.

Are you?

RWH: 12/31/15

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Poem of the Week: 12/26/15

Best Intentions

Christmas is that time of year,
when best intentions magically appear.
Do we have them throughout the year,
or do we have them just from fear?

Fear that we have neglected faith?
Fear that we might lose friends?
Fear that we have not made amends?
Fear that we are somehow failing?

And so we shower loved ones with gifts.
Have family squabbles and other rifts.
We empty our pockets with lively cheer,
not thinking about the coming year.

But what about those that are left out?
Ones that are hungry and live in doubt?
Unseen millions with no Christmas cheer,
and then, those who wasted another year.

Can you leave your friends and buddies to party,
go forth and serve the needy and hungry?
Save the money you spent on expensive things,
pay the bills or spread joy that sings.

Do you have carried out best intentions?
Or do you just have honorable mentions?

RWH: 12/24/15

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Poem of the Week: 12/19/15

No Longer

When I no longer complain of cold,
then you'll know I'm growing old.

When I no longer bead with sweat,
then you'll know I'll no longer fret.

When I no longer thirst for water,
then you'll know I won't get better.

When I no longer hunger for food,
then you'll know I've lost my mood.

When I no longer hear your voice,
then you'll know I have no choice.

When I no longer see stars at night,
then you'll know I no longer fight.

When I no longer can feel your soft skin,
then you'll know the kind of fix I'm in.

When I no longer remember your name,
then you'll know I've lost the game.

When I no longer taste your lips of wine,
then you'll know I'm truly dyin'.

Until then, my love, I'll keep on tryin',
and you'll know for sure I'm not lyin'.

RWH: 12/15/15

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Poem of the Week: 12/12/15

Cardboard Box

It's been a long, long time,
down to my last thin dime.
And, I know that I'm,
not entirely to blame.

I had a low-paying sales job,
to pay Peter, Paul, I'd rob.
Sold grandad's watch and fob,
a dirty rotten shame.

Wife blamed me for it,
said when I drank I hit.
She took the kids and lit,
after that, I lost touch.

My sadness dragged me down,
at work, I'd wear a frown,
to cope, became a clown,
it was really, all too much.

You know that I'm a vet,
a Iraqi desert fox, and yet,
no respect do I ever get.
Killing skills don't pay.

Said their business was too slow,
would have to let me go.
Still hired new meat though,
didn't have to do me that way.

Applied to many places for work,
but my kill skill set was a quirk,
I volunteered like a jerk,
but they said that I wasn't fit.

Couldn't pay for my hotel room,
had to move my car every day by noon.
Had to give up that car way too soon.
The city just wasn't my friend.

So, I walk the streets every day,
asking for handouts for my pay.
Don't know if there's any other way.
And, I don't know when it will end.

I used to be a desert fox,
my home is a cardboard box.
Treated as though I have the pox.
And, I cry every night alone.

Christmas is coming soon I hear,
and with it the worst time of year.
I must insulate my box I fear,
or I will die inside my home.

Forgotten, and all alone.

RWH: 12/10/15

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Poem of the Week: 12/5/15

Death Game

I'm not to blame,
I'm in the game.

I'm good at the game,
I score very high.

Don't you dare diss me,
I will take you out.

I'm at level five,
and have arrived,
to the pinnacle of fame.

I'm not to blame.

I am armed to the teeth,
it's my belief,
and my right,
to defend myself.

The world going to hell,
can't you tell?

Just look at the news.
It's time to choose.

Take sides, it's them or us.

Get in the fight.
See the light.
My right is right.

I hate them!
They are wrong.
They get what they deserve.
The nerve!

I'm not to blame.
I'm in the game.

RWH: 12/3/15

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Poem of the Week: 11/28/15

Drowsing

Reading carefully to understand,
finding I'm drifting just offhand.

Off to a place I cannot see,
framed by the fog of where I be.

Eyes grow weary, drowsy,
eyelids drooping in frown.

Head bobs gently,
up, then down.

As I realize I'm falling,
catch myself, calling.

Drifting in the zone,
is anyone home?

Once more upright to return,
seeking one more page to turn.

When will I ever learn,
still burning with yearn.

But the stamina is gone,
though I try, on and on.

To do more every day,
than ever before, to stay.

Before bowing out,
in the game of life.

RWH: 11/27/15

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Poem of the Week: 11/21/15

Suicide

It's quite a ride, this suicide.
One that most, can't abide.

To take one's life, is not a crime.
It doesn't reason, it doesn't rhyme.

To some it makes, a great deal of sense.
To others, it feels like, it's heaven sent.

For those in pain with no way out,
why not? Why have any doubt?

For those that believe in another life,
take the quick road out of strife.

Relieve the world of your painful plight,
save your agony, let your soul take flight.

You are afraid you say, to take the chance?
I think you doubt your own strong stance.

For if you believe in another existence,
you've nothing to fear but your own resistance.

For those that want to take others along,
you are selfish fools, so very wrong.

To kill for pleasure of your own undoing,
is despicable and with no redeeming.

Give others their lives in you're going,
headlines will not make you glowing.

Euthanasia is a quieter, gentler way,
to take suicide seriously on that day.

When all reason for living is finally done,
and one can rest quietly, one last run.

For death comes to all, violent or calm.
For some, suicide can be a welcome balm.

To go quietly into that deep dark night,
without any fear and without any fright.

RWH: 11/19/15

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Poem of the Week: 11/15/15

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

Clarity

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

Luck

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

Artistry

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

Boomerang

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

Relief

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

Heat

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

Whatchamacallit

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

Abilities

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

Golden

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

Flood

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

Butterfly

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

Mediocre

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

Quatermain

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

Seasoning

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

Quality

"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

Wild

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

Complifuckation

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

Print this poem here.


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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