Poem of the Week: 8/29/10

August Heat

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

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

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

in the August heat.

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

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

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

In the August heat.

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

When the ecstasy of desire,
overcomes, we retire.

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

In the August heat.

RWH: 8/28/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/22/10

Rowing River

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

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

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

Up this river of time
Up this river of rhyme

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

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

Up this river of time
Up this river of rhyme

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

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

Down this river of time,
leaving this river of rhyme

RWH: 8/21/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/15/10

Snakes, Snails and Puppy Dog Tales

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 8/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/7/10

Hero in the Gulf

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 8/5/10

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Poem of the Week: 8/1/10

Solar Crazy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 7/31/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/25/10

Exploring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 7/24/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/18/10

Angel Air

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 7/17/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/11/10

Dance

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

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

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

and, I awaken from the dance.

RWH: 7/10/10

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Poem of the Week: 7/4/10

Pale Moon Setting

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 7/2/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/27/10

I Write the Poems

My apologies to Barry Manilow...

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

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

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

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

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

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

I write the poems.

RWH: 6/26/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/20/10

Breezy

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 6/19/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/13/10

Oh Mama!

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

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

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

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

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

(Refrain)

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

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

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

By overprotecting him,
you let the evil in.

(Refrain)

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

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

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

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

RWH: 6/12/10

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Poem of the Week: 6/6/10

Tipping Point

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 6/5/10

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Gasoline Alley

Poem of the Week: 5/30/10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 5/29/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/23/10

Soilent Sea

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 5/22/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/16/10

Predator

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Queen of the skies,
nothing-belies,
she is highest and last,
to see the setting sun.

RWH: 5/15/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/9/10

Wheeling Free

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

Sailing the sea,
your hair windblown free,
one day

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

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

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

Yes, we can

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

Free wheeling be we.

RWH: 5/8/10

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Poem of the Week: 5/2/10

May Flies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 5/1/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/25/10

Grammar Time

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 4/24/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/18/10

Color Me Rainbow

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 4/17/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/11/10

Spring Came

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 4/10/10

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Poem of the Week: 4/4/10

No Satisfaction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will get no satisfaction,
from defeating me.

RWH: 4/3/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/28/10

Abuse of Power

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

Racking up a score,
until the raven says,
"Nevermore."

And the clock returns,
to "before."

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

Darkening clouds of discontent,
shatter the great good night.

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

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

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

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

Dissolving in the afterglow,
of truly equal right.

RWH: 3/27/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/21/10

Spring Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and breathed the coming dawn.

RWH: 3/20/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/15/10

Roaring 20s

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 3/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 3/7/10

Wireless

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

Where all things are possible,
once they are done.

Think of an idea,
and make it run.

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

With magical fingers,
we make it play.

Soon cloud computing,
will "make our day."

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

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

Driving while brainless,
if that isn't enough.

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

Going wireless is easy,
going wireless is fun.

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

RWH: 3/6/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/28/10

Of Sleep Deprived

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/27/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/21/10

Only a Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, what a wonderful world it would be!

RWH: 2/20/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/14/10

How Far the Spring?

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

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

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

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

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

Nourishes me again.

RWH: 2/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/7/10

The Scribe

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

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

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

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

When day turns to night,
he writes by candlelight.

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/6/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/31/10

It's in the Water

It's in the water,
they always say.

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

Armageddon.

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

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

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

Water was our lifeblood,
our source, our tool.

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

With no time left,
we huddle and pray.

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

RWH: 1/30/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/24/10

And Haiti Sings On...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/23/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/17/10

From the Bottom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/16/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/10/10

Flaggin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While I'm laggin'.

RWH: 1/8/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/3/10

Time Tumbling

As I came tumbling down through time,
I spotted a sidewalk lonely dime.
Picked it up and invested in rhyme,
and gained a dollar for my prime.

The dollar burned a hole in my pocket,
invested it in a private rocket,
bought for me a new, hipper socket,
a diamond necklace with a locket.

Gave that necklace to my girl,
in turn she gave me quite a whirl.
While on the dance floor in a twirl,
sent me down like in a swirl.

When I woke up I was broke,
couldn't tell me from a tavern bloke.
Was time tumbling some kind of joke?
Was I in a dream and never woke?

She picked me up from the gutter.
Not one word did she utter.
The angel spread my dread like butter.
I was so scared I could but stutter.

Off to her mansion I was carried.
Time tumbled on and I never tarried.
My life alone was somewhat harried.
From sword to sword I always parried.

When time came to the point of my dread,
and she was on my last words said.
She came to the side of my bed,
and time tumbled out of my head.

RWH: 1/2/10

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Poem of the Week: 12/27/09

The Clock Ticks on...

One tenth of the century gone,
and the clock ticks on.
What have we learned,
in the new century's dawn?

We learned that hatred,
is just around the block.
When the twin towers fell,
like Jack in the Beanstalk.

We learned that war,
can be unexpected.
When shock and awe,
toward us, is deflected.

We relearned the danger,
of going to and from space.
But we must press on,
To find our place.

We learned making money,
is not what it seems.
When we are caught up,
in Ponzi schemes.

We learned that warming,
like a tropical isle.
Can bring us disaster,
and a new lifestyle.

We learned that America,
is not the center of power.
When we bow to Asia,
and its economic tower.

We learned that hurricanes,
cost more than we can pay.
with billions in damage,
and millions in harms way.

We learned that tsunamis,
come from earthquakes.
And the millions more die,
then when the earth just shakes.

We learned that the economy,
can be brought down by greed.
The signs were everywhere,
but no one would heed.

We learned that a black man,
would be allowed to lead.
But will he overcome,
the racism of hatred and creed?

Will we be ready,
when the next surprise comes along?

Only time will tell,
and the clock ticks on.

RWH: 12/27/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/20/09

Jack Frost

Jack Frost travels far and wide,
covers the world in a single stride,
following the morning tide.

Jack Frost turns the world to white,
heralds the winter's come at night,
heralds its cold and gripping might.

Jack Frost nips at nose and ear,
dries the eyes and makes them tear,
but still is kids' happiest time of year.

Sunlight bright, Jack's delight,
it will melt him though...
clouds and snow, to hide he'll go.

Jack Frost creates a landscape scene,
softening all that was ever mean,
as if transferred from a white dream.

Jack Frost obscures window panes,
on houses,
cars, and moving trains,
making driving cars almost insane.

And so it goes, when Jack Frost is done,
and we see the bitter winter sun,
we know we're in for winter's run.

RWH: 12/19/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/13/09

Somewhere There Are Christmases

Somewhere there are Christmases,
where the light of love shines bright.
Somewhere there are Christmases,
where the land is bleak with blight.

Where snow falls this time of year,
and sets to cheeks its rosy cheer.
Or turns to cold rain and mud,
making mere existence drear.

Where colored lights fill the nights,
and bring all hearts to joy.
Or where the electricity is cut off,
and children work but have no toy.

Somewhere there are lavish gifts,
bestowed upon the dear.
While unemployment checks,
run out the first of the year.

Somewhere the sounds of family,
reverberate through the house.
or the foreclosure last month,
left it quiet as a mouse.

Somewhere they are singing,
Christmas carols with glee.
But there are children crying,
from sea to shining sea.

We give generously at Christmas,
to share our wealth with the poor.
And ignore their plight the rest of days,
as though generous no more.

For some there are no Christmases,
in far-off away foreign lands.
Yet they work very hard to please us,
with gifts they make with hands.

Somewhere there are Christmases,
if only in our dreams.
Christmas is not for everyone,
or at least, so it seems.

RWH: 12/12/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/6/09

Hellcat

I'm a hellcat on a hot blade,
on my way to Mars.
Escaping the velocity,
keeping me from behind bars.

I'm a roamer runner on the run,
looking for my lost gun.
Aren't we having fun,
with our butt in a bun?

I'm a rooty tooter on a train,
kinda, sorta looks like rain.
Got a run because I'm to blame.
Out she went and in she came.

I'm a loner on a loony lane,
trying to balance on the plain.
Trying to escape this picture frame,
on a horse that's way too lame.

I am a singer of salty seas,
via the netscape with wicked ease.
Can't find the forest for the trees,
while you do what you please.

I'm a tight roper on a tease,
I'm a seizure about to seize.
Watching the monkey while he pees,
and the hellcat, freeze.

The moron was on a mission,
the hellcat cut him off at the knees.
But how could the cat do that,
when he was in the freeze?

RWH: 12/5/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/29/09

Utopian High

The future is not as bleak as it seems,
although we all have had bad dreams.

It is hard to count the ways,
the world is imperiled.

Some people think,
that it is God's wrath unfurled.

Some people think,
that it's nature's revenge.

Some people think,
that it's in the cycle of things.

Whatever it is; its power is great.
Some people think, it's already too late.

When I get sour lemons,
I make lemonade.

We've come too far,
not to make the grade.

We've made too much progress,
to go retrograde.

A study of history,
shows us the way.

We've always made progress,
day to day.

We've always made progress,
dear to dear.

We've always made progress,
year-to-year.

Oh yes, there have always been wars.
pestilence, famine and political boars.

Weak man's attempts to put us asunder,
that led many young man to an early down under.

The fact is that in spite of all the ups and downs,
as time goes by there are fewer frowns.

We are not despots. We are not clowns.
Success is our weakness. More ups than downs.

I see a bright future, when all is said and done.
A shining Utopia, when, over ignorance, we've won.

RWH: 11/27/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/22/09

A Fine Madness

-in all cases please feel free to substitute "she" for "he."

There is a fine madness in the mind of man,
it slips in quietly, as though on the lam.

It slips in the cracks in his defense,
and it helps him get off the fence.

But that is his demise.
Most men catch it.
Only the few become wise.

He wasn't born that way; his heart was pure.
But his culture awaited, wanting to make sure.

That he learned all their mores, good and bad.
That he learned their prejudices, like all he had.

But then he came to a place called school,
where he learned about other things,
like the Golden Rule.

School opened his mind to the world,
and with that many contradictions unfurled.

Some contradictions were easily slayed,
but others were angrily displayed.

Sometimes he had to fight for what was right,
even if he looked a fool in his friend's sight.

Choosing his friends became the rule,
his friends made him strong,
his friends made him cool.

But he had to grow up and get on with his life,
go to college, get a job, and take him a wife.

Some looked to college, as training for a job,
others to cool, gain knowledge, or hobnob.

For some the pressure of college was too great,
a fine madness got him and it was too late.

For those without college options were few,
work for his father, flip burgers, or stew.

Over why he couldn't have the finer things in life,
while a fine madness crept into his strife.

If he chose the military, with long boredom,
followed by brief shots of instant terror,
if alcohol didn't get him, a fine madness lay there.

And so, like most men, he fell in love and married,
so often too early when he should have tarried.

A fine madness crept in and split them apart,
their promises of forever were never smart.

The middle of life he struggled with money,
the house, the car, the kids, and, the honey.

He had no time for thought or general reflection,
what his buddies did, was his only expectation.

He grew tired of his work and other men's rules,
sought retirement early, not like other fools.

He blamed the government for his dilemmas,
and sought its protection and its tools.

A fine schizophrenia that caught him unawares,
government was bad when it cost him,
good when it countered his terrors.

As he grew older and hoped to be wise,
a brain disease came over him that he despised.

Forgetful and inarticulate, he gradually gave in,
to the prejudices of his childhood, allowing them to win.

Afraid of his life, and fearful of death,
religion overtook him, to his last breath.

RWH: 11/21/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/15/09

Turkesaur

Without the lowly chicken,
mankind would not get far.
If you don't eat the eggs,
you can pickle them in a jar.

Chicken meat is tender,
of unoffending taste.
When a plate is full of chicken,
nothing goes to waste.

The chicken's mighty cousin,
a wild and wary bird.
First vexed the Pilgrim's blunderbuss,
until the natives heard.

Showed those weary travelers,
how to catch the beast.
Roast it to perfection,
and gather up a feast.

Turkeys like to herd,
like their ancestors did.
They'd rather run than and fly,
but fly after they hid.

For there were monsters out there,
ready to gobble little Turkesaurs up.
No self-respecting Turkesaur,
wanted to be a Lasso Raptor's sup.

And so they developed hair for wings,
to make a flying escape.
Turkesaurs also dove into burrows,
to out reach the long claw's rake.

When the meteor came,
those that flew were flame.
Those that dove were game,
to live and reign.

Among the world of beautiful birds,
one of the ugliest by far.
That doesn't taste like chicken,
but tastes like dinosaur.

RWH: 11/14/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/8/09

Soar

Soar o're the starlet sea.
Soar o're the momentous mountaintop.
Soar through the night and come to me.
See the world before your stop.

Come to the coveted comely cove.
Come to the rainbow's random reds.
Come to me wherever you rove.
Comb the world to its sea beds.

Run to the river's raging rapids.
Run to the reach of rolling range.
Run to me through countless cupids.
Run to the canopy of strange.

Sail the salty, stormy seas.
Sail the calm of sunlit strait.
Sail to me in balmy breezes.
Sail before your luck is late.

Drive to the defying death divide.
Drive straight through to the other side.
Drive to me on that old back road.
Drive to me before I get old.

Walk a wild and winding way.
Walk the night into a new day.
Walk to me through thick and thin.
Walk your heart out until you win.

And soar again...

RWH: 11/7/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/1/09

The Morning After

As the dawn broke,
on the terrible sight,
hardly anything,
had survived the night.

Candles were burned,
down to the core.
Smell of burnt pumpkin,
permeated the air.

Costumes were ripped,
and thrown asunder.
Poor souls that wore them,
still deep under.

Tricks that were played,
from plans well-made.
Would vex the town,
for the next decade.

When the mailman came by,
the dog tried to reply,
but it was still too hoarse,
from all that howling.

Cupboards were bare,
but mom didn't care,
she'd had enough candy,
to lure the darlings.

Speaking of candy,
we all know it's dandy,
but that stupor and after taste,
killed his randy.

And up on the hill,
the scarecrow is nil.
The crows snitched his clothes,
and perch on the sticks, so handy.

RWH: 10/31/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/25/09

Autumn Light

The autumn light this time of year,
eclipses summer light by far.

An eerie feeling is in the air,
as we feel what great artist's share.

They go there for the light.
They go there for the color.
They go there for the sight,
of the Sun dancing on the water.

And we come too, to catch the sight,
of dust floating in the light.

Slanting beams through cracks and seams,
lazy days in and out of dreams.

A time for calm and reflection.
A time to study light's deflection.
A time to hustle and prepare,
for winter's coming predilection.

Sitting in the warm sun, dozing,
soon, my time will come.

And I will only paint write,
in the autumn light.

RWH: 10/24/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/18/09

Another Life

If I had known you,
in another life.

I would have known you,
free from strife.

I would have known you,
in your younger years.

I would have known you,
before your fears,

took you down.

If only I had been around,
to build you up.

If only I had been around,
to fill your cup,

to overflowing.

If only I had been there,
a hand to fit your glove.

If only I had been there,
to fill your heart with love,

to overwhelming.

But that will have to wait,
until a new gate opens up,

And another life is forming.

RWH: 10/17/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/11/09

Dying Young

Life is fickle, or so it seems.
Life is long, only in dreams.

The good, they die young.
The bad are left to carry on.

No prayer has ever closed death's door.
When death comes knocking once more.

Who will be remembered,
and who will not?

The good and bad together,
That's all we've got.

Do you want to be forgotten,
after you are gone?

Or do you want to linger,
long after the finger of death,

Is placed on your chest?
labeled, like all the rest.

After thinking about it a while,
will you have the guile?

To put on your ghastly hood,
and write really, really good.

So, like Edgar Allan Poe,
when you write and early go,

You will be remembered.

RWH: 10/10/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/4/09

Parallel Universe

There is a parallel universe,
it is scientifically so.
I am the one that saw it,
but who am I to know?

In a parallel universe,
you are always mine.
In a parallel universe,
couplets always rhyme.

In a parallel universe,
there is no need for war.
In a parallel universe,
no one's keeping score.

In a parallel universe,
recession is a mathematical term.
In a parallel universe,
there is no need to learn.

In a parallel universe,
the weather is always right.
In a parallel universe,
day can be night.

A parallel universe,
is anything we want it to be.
I saw a parallel universe,
and it means everything to me.

RWH: 10/3/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/27/09

High Definition

With high-definition and high-speed,
we know now better what life will be.
We know now better what life has been,
we will know the what, how, and when.

It is easy to see the mistakes we made,
when life was slow and our vision obscured.
We saw what we wanted in plans that we laid,
and made sure that the images were blurred.

To forestall the future we became insured,
a hedge against happenings sometimes absurd.
All because we got the word,
and it wasn't always the best voice heard.

With high-definition we can zoom on in,
see our foibles before they begin.
Point out the flaws in former poor vision,
straighten the crux with renewed revision.

A mind is clear and lightning fast,
we cluttered it with dogma in the past.
We clutter it with trivia day and night,
but now we can focus from wrong to right.

The choice is ours and the time is ripe,
we can fritter our vision on trivial din.
Do we have the guts and eat the tripe,
so we have the supervision to win?

RWH: 9/26/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/20/09

The Golden Bough

A golden bough upon your head,
rest little baby,
no need to cry.
Daddy's rich, your Mom's good-looking,
rest little baby, warm, safe and dry.

The future foretold you'd live this way,
no toil and sorrow will come to you.
No illness or injury on this day,
only fabulous fortune tried and true.

Everything you want is at your side,
it is just the way the bough bends.
Without asking you'll have a pony to ride.
The best of friends good money sends.

On a golden bough you will ride,
through a life of wealth and plenty.
You will never see the seedy side,
except when rake and randy.

When the bough bends deep,
you feign but do not weep.
True to your self you always keep,
when life gives pits you get candy.

But when the bough breaks,
and the earth quakes,
will you give up the gold,
for what's handy?

RWH: 9/20/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/13/09

You Haunt Me

Deep in the night, the firefly light,
sparkles in the mid summer dew.

Distance narrowed, sounds arrowed,
as I grope through the damp for you.

The bark of dog, the chirp of tree frog,
conspire in the mist to deceive me.

A pale of light, dim in the night, beckons,
I am drawn to it against my desire.

I climb to a limb, an eye on beware,
like a moth to the light of fire.

An image comes clear, framed in a mirror,
once again it is you, taunting.

Checking your hair, you know I am there,
I can hear soft music playing.

Soon your T-shirt is gone, sharp tan lines, linger on,
my reason of senses desert me.

You play with your jeans, an eternity it seems,
to reveal pouting pink through the mist.

My time is near, my purpose is clear,
I know now the promise in your gist.

Just for fun, your stockings may run,
put them on, take them off, inspecting.

Combos you try, candy for eye,
I teeter on my perch, genuflecting.

Tiring of teasing, practically sleazing,
you give me that "come hither" sign.

I'm out on a limb, too slender to shin,
but I must finally have you for mine.

Off in a rush, the pressure's too much,
no time to think of my pride.

I'm falling again, deep into sin,
and awake with only sweat by my side.

RWH: 9/12/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/6/09

Impossible Moments

When that impossible moment comes along,
take a moment to hum a song.

Take a moment to take a deep breath,
take a moment to think of the best.

For this is the best time that ever was,
and the future will be better if we just pause.

And take stock of what we want,
and separate it from what we flaunt.

There is always a way to save the day,
if we just relax and find it.

There is no use fussing and such,
when we don't get our way very much.

Many are starving for lack of food,
while we complain about what is good.

That, when given thought and time,
turns the impossible to the sublime.

Impossible moments are more frequent now,
more and more becomes less somehow.

So, relax and let these moments pass,
so you can bend down and kiss green grass

RWH: 9/6/09

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