Poem of the Week: 4/12/24

Conjuring

It was written in stone, on clay tablets, papyrus,
parchment, linen, paper, plastic and in bits and bauds,
paintings, glyphs, of successful kills on cave walls,
accounts kept of possessions traded in simple stalls.

Bragging of emperors, kings and warlords of battles won.
Pronouncements of prophets, soothsayers, philosophers,
gurus, clairvoyants, preachers and influencers under the sun.
Putting words to what passed down legends had done period.

History written by those and for those only in control,
those written by opponents destroyed in the flaming toll,
that has taken more lives down through the ages,
than famines, pestilences, disasters in their deadly role.

Countless have read and reread the old documents,
coming to new conclusions to meet their current needs.
Conjurers continually stirring the pot to turn it their way,
while so many on the receiving end of injustice, bleeds.

rwh 4/6/24

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Poem of the Week: 4/5/24

Flower's Power

Can you imagine what it would be like,
if everyone knew the power of flowers,
to renew, encourage and excite?

To greet us in the morning sun,
with their cheerful faces open bright.
and their alluring fragrance spreading,
all day into the evening half-light?

Both a joy to see and smell,
while providing for the great and small.
Insects flourish from the nectar and pollen,
while hummingbirds hover above all.

If you see a wildflower where it shouldn't,
think twice before you cut it down.
For wildflowers are just like all the others,
serving all nature without a frown.

rwh 4/1/24

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Poem of the Week: 3/29/24

Time to Repair

When the smell of spring is in the air.
it's time to clean and what repair.
damage done by many winters' leave.
from base of the foundation to the eave.

A time to breathe easy, a time to mend.
A time to take stock, all the way to the end.
For to leave things in shambles is not right.
when we go into that deep dark night.

Put things in order and clear the cobwebs.
for all around, new life comes forth, ebbs.
Seasonal, not like the more often tides.
but also important for what there, abides.

So one can relax, turn face to burning sun.
bask in the summer heat one more time.
before this life, this life of plenty, is done.

rwh 3/28/24

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Poem of the Week: 3/22/24

Jack and Jill (Fractured)

Jack and Jill went up the hill,
to fetch a pail of water.
When they got there,
the well was dry,
unable to get what after.

It began to rain, so Jack kissed Jill.
Happily, they rolled on the wet ground,
doing more than kissing with laughter.

With two buckets full, and bodies, too,
they left the hill with merry chatter.
Jack slipped on the slippery slope,
fell, broke his crown, with Jill tumbling after.

At the bottom, Jill called for help,
with their empty buckets and disaster.
Three months past, and Jack recovered,
while Jill seemed to grow a bit fatter.

Nine months past; Jill could no longer go,
up the hill to fetch a pail of water.
Jack had to do that task twice each day,
only to return to coo at his daughter.

rwh 3/11/24

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Poem of the Week: 3/15/24

Winner

Who doesn't want to be a winner?
They preach we all are a sinner.
Do we have to sin to win?
A question swallowed with dinner.

For every winner, there are many losers,
to win, we have to be our very best.
But to lose, we are not really losers,
just didn't do our very best on the test.

But there are many kinds of contests,
we can always find one we are best at.
Where we can excel above all others,
become a winner from doing that.

Sometimes, it's only persistence.
Waiting out the odds for a very long time.
When we are the last one standing,
there is no competition anymore to find.

A winner by default, waiting it out,
is a wonderful strategy worth trying,
if your health is not in doubt,
before you make it, end up dying.

But if you perfect a single skill,
like memorizing trivia to the hilt,
and go to Scotland by the Moors,
may get higher scores in a kilt.

If you choose the middle road,
you will never be a winner.
But just another bit of matter,
out of the universe's inner.

rwh 3/14/24

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Poem of the Week: 3/8/24

Pondering

In the springtime, late-summer and fall,
I linger by the pond, pondering it all.

Watching how nature renews itself every year,
and then, marches through seasons clear.

With all of the creatures reaping the best,
of new birth, growth, maturity and harvest.

Before the cold winds of November blow,
in midwinter, most sleep beneath snow.

Those that don't, hanging onto life,
waiting for spring to end their strife.

All creatures, both large and small,
depend upon the pond for their all.

Many lessons can be learned,
Pond-side, pondered and earned.

For those that have or take the time,
the blessings are great, they find.

If everyone had a pond to contemplate.
Life would be so peaceful and great.

rwh 3/7/24

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Poem of the Week: 3/1/24

Hides of March

March may arrive like a lion,
sleeping off the last kill,
made while he was lying,
by the pride lioness's will

March Madness has nothing on,
the lunatic, crazy March Hare,
basketballs go bouncy-bounce,
my gloves lined with his soft hair.

I have no reason to beware the Ides,
it's just the 15th of the cyclic moon,
bad things happen to tanned hides,
Caesar ignored it's coming soon.

When the Saints come Marching in,
you won't find me in that number.
I'll be sitting with a tonic and gin,
watching birds and animals asunder.

March may go out like a lamb,
but I won't be fleeced just yet,
it will be April and Uncle Sam,
to try that trick, I firmly bet.

So, if you're hiding in a former,
March Hare secret rabbit hole.
Please let my hide get down under,
before that Eagle takes its toll.

rwh 2/29/24

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Poem of the Week: 2/23/24

Poem of the Week: 2/23/24

Death Race 2024

Every twenty years there is held in this place,
the almost dead presidents race.
They get together on a cold windy beach,
to compete for the prize within their reach.

This year the contenders rose before dawn,
before spring breakers or 500 race was on.
At the Daytona Beach to race to the end,
like the jalopies they drove around the bend.

Of the world as we know it and off the end.
Who would win the race, it would depend.
This year, the contenders were easy to spot,
all of the likely age, but Barack was not.

He was not experienced or wise enough,
to enter with the others in a race so tough.
With Bill, Dubya, Donald, Joe and Jimmy,
for winning this race was no easy, gimme.

Bill came riding on a rogue named Hope,
Dubya relied on a longhorn at a lope.
The Donald had a confiscated helicopter,
Joe had an 18 wheeler, Teamsters, the Pope.

They all laughed at Jimmy's peanutmobile,
burning genuine renewable peanut boil.
But he was the dark horse to win this race,
the oldest and wisest in the wholy place.

The race started with a furious pace,
where the Donald's bellow led the chase,
all up and down the beach his sunoranged face,
scattering spring breakers' from their peace.

But he was disqualified for defrauding the end.
Bill had too many harassment cases to mend.
Dubya's ride got dehorned, couldn't fend.
Joe's big rig broke down and passed wind.

Slow wins the race has always been true.
Jimmy and his slow boat cruised right on through.
Left nary a mark on the pristine beach sand,
sailed to the finish line with oblivion on hand.

Who may win in twenty years more is anyone's guess,
they might all pass off into oblivion leaving this mess.

rwh 2/22/24

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Poem of the Week: 2/15/24

Dinosaur Love

If we think of birds as lovey-dovey,
getting together in a friendly covey,
what about dinosaurs, did they love?
Won't get the answer from up above.

Feathers discovered on dinosaur remains,
making them more birdlike it seems,
roaming what is now the Great Plains.

Did they sit on their feathered nests,
sharing the warm hatching task,
we think only mothers know best?

Did they sing love songs and lullabies,
to each other and to their chicks?
From their skulls they could vocalize.

Did they guard their babies from harm,
from other of their kind so jealous,
to want to destroy their family's charm?

That was 65 million years ago or more.
Perhaps, we'll never know for sure.
But discovery surprises us all the time,
may find dinosaurs knew how to rhyme.
rwh 2/14/24

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Poem of the Week: 2/9/24

Borders

All creatures evolving on the earth,
are bordered by their circumstance of birth.
By river, mountain, ocean, heat or cold,
contained within these boundaries till old.

Birds of the air are free to fly,
but their flight territories bordered by.
Fish of the oceans free to swim,
but not free to swim in water's grim.

But humans have no borders, bounds.
Wherever we go, creating new towns.
We create boundaries with property rights,
with mores, edicts, laws and legal fights.

No limits to discovery of time and space,
finding out what boundaries need replace.
A fine line between grace and disgrace.
Ignorant mores and borders we must replace.

We must create borders by war no more.

rwh 2/8/24

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Poem of the Week: 2/2/24

Calm

Even after the worst storm,
there comes a time of calm.
When the sun breaks through,
bringing warmth, clear and new.

Life can be taxing this time of year,
with so many obligations bringing fear.
So many worries of things undone,
unexpected troubles on the run.

We need to set aside a time to think,
our place in the sun or a pleasant wink.
Leave for a few moments, din of the day,
let all your cares, just mentally drain away.

Some call it meditation, some call it, Zen,
whatever you call it, you need to get in.
Whenever you're feeling a bit overwhelmed,
a moment of calm and silence is held.

Think of our ancestors and what they went through,
our lives are like heaven compared to what they knew.
So just relax and float downstream for a while,
and turn that sour puss of yours into a smile.

rwh 2/1/24

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Poem of the Week: 1/26/24

Too Hot

When it rains, it floods.
When the sun shines,
land is parched and dry.
Mountains are crumbling,
rolling down to the sea.
The oceans are boiling,
edged with algae to fry.
One of our food sources,
as underground, we try.
And only go out in the sun,
with our titanium suits on.
Steel is rusting in place,
while plastic is everywhere.
Part of the food chain,
we were told to beware.
Our world is poisoned,
with our industrial waste.
We didn't know when to stop,
consuming in our haste.
Let the machines take over,
where we left off.
Perhaps things get better,
while we just cough.

rwh 1/25/24

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Poem of the Week: 1/19/24

I Want to Be a Drone

I don't want to phone home.
Don't want to live all alone.
Don't want to gas guzzle roam.
I want to be a drone.

Fly high overhead and see,
just what the bird's perspective be.
Be able to fly so wild and free,
a whole new world open to me.

Be more than a sky streaker,
much more than a loud speaker.
far more than a scene stealer,
more like a universal truth seeker.

Learn more about Earth, my home.

rwh 1/18/24

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Poem of the Week: 1/12/24

Cutting Back

When life becomes too complex,
we want to return to simpler ways.
Sometimes yearn for times gone by,
we think of as the good old days.

But like a favorite flowering bush,
improved by pruning here and there.
But often find that the new branches,
lead us down paths to beware.

Simplify, downsize, and give to the poor,
for you never know if you will arrive there,
overburdened with excess hubris,
could be someone else's good fair.

For when our time is over,
matters not what we have on hand.
It matters what we left behind,
was it stuff or something grand?

rwh 1/11/24

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Poem of the Week: 1/5/24

Winter Snow

Softly fluttering down,
through frosted windowpane.
All seemed a bit warmer,
than earlier, in the rain.

By morning covered over,
land all blended to white.
Transformation quite stunning,
muting fall's left over blight.

First thoughts were of sliding,
down the nearest hillside slope.
Even if only had cardboard,
a sled just a Christmas hope.

Knee-deep in every direction,
challenging a hunting stalk.
Getting up early in the morning,
to shovel clean the walk.

Sliding off the road,
getting stuck in the ditch.
Part of driving snow and ice,
cold to the bone winter witch.

Fairyland of winter beauty,
growing old near winter's end.
With dirty snow everywhere,
ice and slush snow's friend.

Spring warmth melting away,
crusty snow and ice to mud.
So glad to see the sun again,
with no more snow and crud.

rwh 1/4/24

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Poem of the Week: 12/29/23

A New Year

Every year is a new opportunity to grow.
There's always much more in life to know.

The more we know the less we know,
it's one of those Parkinson rules.

To change is easy when we know,
the right direction from good tools.

While science has made our life too easy,
misuse of science is the ship of fools.

Stop fooling yourself and do the right thing,
forget the chasing bling. What can you bring.
to improve the table of life?

rwh 12/28/23

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Poem of the Week: 12/22/23

Wanderlust

I guess it was always in me,
to go beyond what I could see.
To experience what could be,
if I just went a little further.

Got me into trouble sometimes,
but I never, ever got lost.
Knew where and how far I'd gone,
So, returning never cost.

But sometimes that exploration,
went a step way too far,
when exploring a girlfriend's body,
she didn't think it was par.

While secretly she loved it,
her moral compass knew,
if she spent more time with me,
she might give in to it, too.

She didn't know that I was careful,
never to go where it cost.
Though she feared we would go there,
perhaps, why she left and I lost.

Seeking knowledge did not excite me,
but I still learned all I could,
but mostly it was for my own good,
to eventually have a livelihood.

A way to pay for a good wife,
for children and houses without strife.
The kind that reckless exploration brings,
a life of misery, poverty and other things.

But the roads were open to me,
with a cheap car and cheap gas.
With travel built into my blood,
no place was out of my grasp.

I drove boldly into other countries,
wherever the roads would take me,
I picked up traveling companions,
found them, sometimes, a bit shaky.

But I did not fear what they may fear,
or where the roads could take me.
I was rich by travel knowledge alone,
knowledge that would never forsake me.

When I was able to pay for flight,
I traveled around this old world.
Seeking the poorer countries out,
where survival was eked out bold.

Learning from friendly and curious souls,
why they would admire me for my birth.
When I was really nothing very special,
just of the luckiest ones born on this green earth.

Now my time of travel is nearly at an end,
my mind travels in wanderlust of where I've been.
I do not regret traveling no more,
just writing it down thrills like before.

rwh 12/21/23

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Poem of the Week: 12/15/23

Roiling Clouds

As I watch the angry, roiling clouds, my dear,
does that mean our relationship is in for a bad year?

Has all I've done to make you love me more,
evaporated like the clouds do, evermore?

Has the pent up anger of time revealed itself clear,
with changing of clouds as they appear, disappear?

I will not stand with the angriest of all clouds,
the ones that call for war from angry crowds.

For they have a fuse that is way too damn short,
sure as clouds come and go with cannons' report.

I will remain as calm as a billowy cloud afternoon,
come with me, dear, relax in my cloud balloon.

For soon the sun will break through the roiling clouds,
just after the rain replenishes all with its applauds.

All will be bright and sunny once again, my dear,
for the clouds tell me everything you want to hear.

rwh 12/9/23

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Poem of the Week: 12/8/23

Once Again

It was in my youth I saw you,
on a crowded subway train,
when our eyes met briefly,
love struck us both with pain.

For we both got off together,
and briefly touched our hands.
Our eyes shared an honesty,
as deep as the desert sands.

Then, you were lost in the crowd,
and I never saw you again.
Taking that route to work every day,
wishing to see you more back then.

But my wish was never granted,
our eyes never met anymore.
But I longed to see you once again,
as our lives moved on to more.

With my life now on the wane,
I often remember that refrain,
we felt when our eyes met,
on that distant temporal plane.

Now, I wonder if it ever happened,
our eyes won't ever meet once more.
Why you've suffered so much longing,
waiting for me on some distant shore.

rwh 12/8/23

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Poem of the Week: 12/1/23

Troubles

To every soul on this precious Earth
troubles begin at the time of birth.
One may be shielded from troubles,
when one is still an innocent youth,
but parents often pop those bubbles,
for the young ones, considered uncouth.

When one is younger and more carefree,
a time of experimenting, testing the limits to be.
While carefree living may bring troubles to roost,
they are easily handled by an energy boost.

Middle age brings marriage, children and such.
A time when carefree yields troubles too much.
Each trouble is dealt with swiftly as can be,
for a person's reputation is on the Internet to see.

For the elderly unnecessary troubles appear,
must be dealt with; there may not be another year.
But resources and energy have gradually run out,
perhaps only death will all of them rout.

rwh 11/30/23

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Poem of the Week: 11/24/23

Roaming Cat-Lickers

Beware those Roaming Cat-Lickers,
Friday fish breath and hairballs in their craw.
Who pray to craven bloody images,
Drink and eat blood and body with awe.

Beware those rag head Mossy limbs,
running wild across the Middle East,
reenacting old hag Sharon's rules,
with morals like a hungry beast.

Beware those re-formed Crus-peons,
with fish bumper sticker cars.
believe he's coming to get them,
and there's alien life on mars.

Beware of those Jud-cash profits,
with all their money changing ways,
they'll manage your money for you,
while profiting even on bad days.

Beware those Shin-toe kickers,
with their utter obedience ways,
those sam-are-I geisha warriors,
with their superior auto bays.

Beware those More-mon womanizers,
who marry them more and more,
in order to have many more offspring,
until it's hard to keep score.

Beware those Bud-hist mon-key-ries,
giving alms, incense and gold.
To gild their fat boy images brightly,
while they sit around, get rich and old.

Beware those Hind-you cow lovers,
they'll sneak up behind your back.
To steal all of your veggies and nuts,
making up for all the nutrition they lack.

Beware those Com-you-must conform us,
the absolute worst religion of all.
They'll paint a picture of an ideal world,
just to prepare you for the fall.

rwh 11/22/23

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Poem of the Week: 11/17/23

Dog Licks

A dog licks his nose.
to sense where he goes.
whetting his nose wick.
with every quick lick.

Sensing how far he will go.

That nose knows where he goes.
the crotch of the strongest smell.
he would lick if he could.
it would be, oh so, good.

Shooing away makes it stronger.

Goes to the face of human friends.
especially if, where the tongue ends.
The human was eating tasty treats.
he wants to get in on those eats.

Begging for scraps at table's end.

When out in the pack.
nose checking the butt.
of the new or old friend.
From beginning to end.

Checking the hierarchy of things.

And if he should come upon it.
any human's left over shit.
he will gobble it up fast.
as though it wouldn't last.

Then go about licking again.
with the big shit eating grin.

rwh 11/17/23

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Poem of the Week: 11/10/23

No Site for Young Writers

There are sites like AARP just for old people,
and even dating sites for those over fifty.

Authors Den is becoming quite aged,
by reviewing the posters from within.

Old authors are going off to who knows,
where or when, some dying to leave,
and someone wanting the way it was when.

Young writers want action and instant return,
Tick-TockIng, Instagraming and texting,
all day and night long to the throng.

Their writings are abbreviations and codewords,
hip-hop's rhymes that don't fit AD's forms.

Young authors use AI to write perfect prose,
producing without criticism their stories,
that young fans want to know.

Leaving Authors Den in the dust,
while online they seek fame and lust.

But we've all had a very good run,
knowing that we will drift off into the sun.

No site for old writers either,
when we are all gone.

rwh 11/9/23

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Poem of the Week: 11/3/23

Float Your Boat

Float your boat,
on the placid sea,
full of hope and tranquility.
Seeking more equality,
for all the world's citizenry.

Face the world,
your fears unfurled,
eyes opened wide,
to know you tried.

Live the honest way,
each and every day,
peace will come to stay,
and pain will go away.

Keep your emotions real,
do not let them steal,
the way you really feel,
behind a wall of steel.

To your own self be true,
as sure as the sky is blue,
okay to be a different hue,
as long as it's the true you.

rwh 11/2/23

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Poem of the Week: 10/27/23

Roses are Redder

Roses are redder and the sky is deep blue.
colors are more vivid when I'm with you.

Water is wetter and soap is sublime.
when bathing with you slippery, anytime.

Sunlight is brighter on your soft skin.
the whole world is lit up with you within.

Scent of your essence stays on my mind.
like your cooking awakening hungry time.

Air that I breathe is lighter somehow.
breathing it together under tree bough.

Weight of my gravity is greatly reduced.
in your presence, my essence seduced.

Under the covers it's you warmer by my side.
whenever you're away, much colder, I abide.

I'll cry more than ever if ever you are gone.
an avalanche of tears I didn't turn on.

rwh 10/26/23

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Poem of the Week: 10/20/23

Paper Hack Writer

With apologies to the Beatles
for their song, Paperback Writer

Oh, how I wannabe a paper hack writer,
write in the style and genre of the greats.
Path of Stephen, James, even Danielle,
I'll sweat, AI, deal and even steal, Steel.

I'll go to great lengths to promote,
I'll cross over into that television moat.
I will reengineer myself thrice online,
and whenever I publish I will gloat.

A bestseller I will easily become,
write about horror, money and fame.
for nothing attracts misery like misery,
or the quackery of the money game.

I'll write your horoscope in numbers,
to clarify your many bad dreams.
If you only buy my seminars on Ted,
full of promises bursting your seams.

But an indie writer I will always be,
looking in from the outside fringe.
For inside is only for the insiders,
no matter what my writing binge.

rwh 10/19/23

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Poem of the Week: 10/13/23

Writes of Passage

Poets write of the passage of time,
rites of passing from baptism to dying.

I prefer to write of the passing of gas,
the ghastly apparition and smell, alas.

Licks to the funnybone along the way,
painful reminders of bullies at play.

Good old knuckle rubs to the head,
counting brain bumps with dread.

Throwing up from the first good drunk,
waking up wondering why you stunk.

When you embarrassed your date,
forgot to show up or were late.

You lost all that fabulous great deal money,
hid it from everyone, including your honey.

Fired from goofing off at work,
knew deep inside you were a jerk.

Had kids you didn't care for at all,
left them for her to carry the ball.

Left this earth with nothing to show,
except consuming space until you go.

rwh 10/12/23

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Poem of the Week: 10/6/23

Toad Road

I blew a tire along the way,
and it took me off the road.
In the muddy ditch facedown,
I encountered the lonely toad.

He said, "What are you doing here?"
To which I replied, "I don't know."
A thought I muddled over,
but could never let it go.

"You need to get up out of the mud,
and into a higher pastoral plane.
You are aligned all wrong here,
with only yourself to blame."

So, I pulled myself up from the muck,
and looked around for my ride.
It was nowhere in sight, to no delight,
I began walking while carrying my pride.

I didn't know where I was going,
or why I was going at all.
Some stupid toad had told me,
for him, I was taking the fall.

Pulled myself up by my bootstraps,
but I had no bootstraps at all.
I wandered like in the wilderness,
with no place like home I could call.

Toad road leading to limbo,
is the last thing that I recall.
damn toad ringing in my ears,
folks, I guess that's all.

rwh 10/4/23

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Poem of the Week: 9/29/23

Papaya

Oh, Papaya, why you done me wrong?
Left me last December before,
I could write this song.

You were so tall and beautiful,
with a growth spurt so divine,
you were flowering before I knew it,
with fruit like the mammon vine.

Orbs grew so fast and many,
the fruit of your womb large,
it was if you were mine alone,
floating on the Nile in a barge.

Oh, Papaya, why you done me wrong?
Left me last December before,
I could write this song.

You fought the cold so bravely,
as I prayed to keep old winter away,
but global warming betrayed me,
polar vortex swooped down this way.

One day you were green and beautiful,
the next you were dead and gone.
Why did you go off and leave me,
with all that beautiful fruit still on?

Oh, Papaya, why you done me wrong?
Left me last December before,
I could write this song.

For you I long, I long,
but you are dead and gone,
gone, gone, gone.

rwh 9/28/23

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Poem of the Week: 9/22/23

A Call in 2032

One ringy, dinghy Two ringy, dinghy

AI: "The residence of Frank Hutchins. Who's calling?" (In a very pleasant seductive female voice emerging from the lips of an exquisitely beautiful female image on the large screen on the wall, smart pads, watch phones and eye projectors in the room watching and listening. Holograms of her are the rage on YouTube.)

Drake: "This is Drake, your grandson, are you there?"

AI: "I'm sorry, but Ralph is not available to answer at the moment. Do you care to give a video message I can convey to him?"

Drake: (sarcastically) "No, i just got out of the shower and don't have my makeup on."

AI: "Okay, I sympathize with you. I don't think I want to see you that way either. Just leave a voice message and I will get it to Frank ASAP. Okay?"

Drake: (irritated) "Just tell him to call back, or don't you already know that?"

AI: "Now, now. Calm down. I will make sure he calls back soon, Sweetie. Bye-bye."

rwh 9/15/23

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Poem of the Week: 9/15/23

Toll Taking

Got a letter from the attorney the other day,
said I had some toll violations along the way.

I should take heed and pay up quick,
or my credit and reputation would take a lick.

It seems when I travel the road these days,
the county mountie takes a cut in sneaky ways.

With camera and computer they mark my path,
and if I don't pay up quick, I get their wrath.

Seems I didn't travel that way at all,
so I made the attorney a friendly call.

After much pressing 1 and 2 to reach the place,
a friendly old woman reviewed my case.

It seemed I'd violated in an egregious way.
I had no choice but to cough up and pay.

I told her I never in my life traveled that way,
I apologized for my anger and refused to pay.

Just got a notice texted to my phone today,
notifying me in red letters, SWAT is on the way.

rwh 9/14/23

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Poem of the Week: 9/8/23

Warm Walls

We drove up to The City,
Baghdad by the Bay.
My ride was big and classy,
there was no other way.

She was a beauty by my side,
filled with Nordic pride.
I thought about marrying her,
a thought I could not hide.

The Summer of Love was over,
but not its vibrant hippie jive.
We stopped at the Swiss Chalet,
an unlikely rock 'n' roll dive.

Ordered drinks and to the dance floor,
when the music burst forth, serene,
the walls were warm and fuzzy,
we danced, a mesmerizing scene.

She said her drink was watered-down,
the bartender kindly obliged.
Our dancing night was over,
to my studio apartment we arrived.

With the music playing to our dance,
she seemed to come to me just so,
but in our passionate embrace,
she called me Eric and said no.

Our night together was over,
I took her home to her place.
After a week away at a NYC wedding,
she disappeared without a trace.

rwh 9/7/23

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Poem of the Week: 9/1/23

Upside Down World

Few places still remain,
originally primitive and wild.
We have effectively terraformed,
to human productive and mild.

But what was lost in the process,
while taking all the natural spoils?
Water purification process for one,
land polluted with chemicals and oils.

Mass production and mass consumption,
have become the operating economic rules.
While rich get richer, poor get poorer,
as the powerful flex their muscular tools.

Use their power to manipulate:
the church with moral tenets,
leaders with conquest goals and
CEOs with monetary intents.

A military-industrial complex evolved,
creating tension throughout the world.
Making threats evermore dangerous,
almost every citizen feeling imperiled.

Power and money now dominate,
an unnatural order looking bleak.
Where billions suffer under the thumb,
our world comes closer to the brink.

rwh 8/31/23

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Poem of the Week: 8/25/23

Consensus

Once every 10 years the counting begins,
finding out who is on the outs and ins.
It is time to carefully make a count,
to find out what this country is all about.

Counting determines exactly where citizens live.
So there is no speculation or excuses to give.
Counting determines the who, what and where,
before the politicians begin gerrymandering there.

Our country isn't round, oblong or square,
fair representation isn't neatly just there.
it's a messy business of drawing the districts,
based on the numbers that the counting predicts.

We can't go back to where the country was before,
the established always resent new arrivals more,
but the country was built on the backs of the new,
while the established profits from the work they do.

Vitality of a country is based on its youth,
not on strict morality of a bygone lost truth.
A melting pot of new ideas and hard work,
work that the established seek ways to shirk.

Can we all come together and get the facts?
Find out where the money is to fairly tax,
the wealthy in favor of sharing with the poor.
So much better than trickle-down before.

Don't lie when you get your census request,
for if you tell them the truth it will be best.
This country was made great by telling the truth,
it behooves all of us to cast aside the uncouth.

rwh 8/25/23

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Poem of the Week: 8/18/23

Red Tape

Whether it be US, state or local,
government bodies pass laws.
Some of them grant money to citizens,
for one kind or another cause.

Some are quite easy like when we get 65,
Medicare is almost guaranteed,
That is, if we are still alive.

Options for old survivors insurance, SSI,
are quite varied and catch the readers' eye.
But getting them implemented can be a bitch,
when youÕn the govÕnment don't see eye to I.

But when you finally got it locked in,
beinÕ on the govÕnment dole ain't no sin.
pleasure when each month comes Ôround,
and that Eagle shit comes trickling down.

Now, other programs ain't that easy,
you fill out the forms, easy, breezy,
but some eagle eye spots a white lie,
you in a heap of stranglinÕ red necktie.

AnÕ if'on that f-on IRS get aholt yer case,
you could be doinÕ time in the big house,
even if all you was doinÕ was stretchinÕ the truth,
red tape's a bitch and I'm a louse.

Guess that's why she threw me outta on the house.

rwh 8/17/23

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Poem of the Week: 8/11/23

Friends Gone

Refrain

Where have all the friends gone?
Friended them so very, very long.
Where have all the friends gone?
Wrote it in this mournful song.

Childhood friends, don'tcha know,
gone when moved to next town,
cried when they left and were gone,
thoughts of them came tumbling down.

(Refrain)

Classmate friends, on the go,
left for jobs in other places,
changed addresses, telephones,
moved on until lost all traces.

Lovers came and lovers left,
until that friend for life love came,
only to leave in such a way,
the tears fell like eternal rain.

(Refrain)

Acquaintances became friends,
and old friends lost their appeal,
friendships sometimes were passing,
like ships lost sight of sail.

When the end draws near,
so many friends just disappear.
We wonder where they went,
hoping to still join them next year.

(Refrain)

rwh 8/10/23

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Poem of the Week: 8/4/23

Cliques

We are social creatures,
want to have allies and friends.
Very good at including and excluding,
those acceptable for our ends.

We seek like minds for comfort.
Like minds for social joy.
While excluding anyone else,
especially those, that annoy.

It may be only for protection,
from bullying and abuse,
but isolating oneself to a group,
makes socializing of little use.

Some cliques become clubs,
and clubs become organizations.
All with special rules for belonging,
behavior and, often strict sanctions.

Internet interaction opened the world,
for cliques to form remote online.
Where people could assume roles,
and join cliques of their incline.

So, if you find you're in a clique,
does it restrict your view of the world?
You might consider other avenues,
a world more open flag unfurled.

rwh 8/3/23

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Poem of the Week: 7/28/23

Clear the Air

Rush of life can be quite contrare,
with no time left to clear the air.

We misunderstand more than we want,
it's often as though we have the wrong font.

But life is complex and courage is rare,
step up and challenge what some beware.

It takes courage to stop, start over again.
Make things right, don't let them sink in.

For the waters of life are muddy enough,
no use in prolonging them with the wrong stuff.

So sit down and talk your troubles through,
stay calm and resolve, not angry or blue.

You'd be surprised how the air will clear,
when you calmly get a person's ear.

rwh 7/27/23

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Poem of the Week: 7/21/23

Forever

Forever is a very long time.
When people speak of it,
they don't have a reason,
don't even have a rhyme.

Forever stretches off into infinity,
before the beginning of time.
Only a concept in physics,
most people don't understand.

For a child on a long trip,
"When are we going to get there?"
Seems like forever in their mind.
Likewise, growing up's the same.

But life goes by very quickly,
and we shouldn't really miss out,
waiting just for forever,
immersed in longing and doubt.

In old age forever comes quickly,
before we know it, we are old.
Best spend the time to the fullest,
for we may never be so bold.

We get there in a wink of an eye,
in forever time's long scale.
Best to spend time while we can,
rather than in this life just pine.

And if you want to be with forever,
your soulmate of this brief life,
think again of the consequences,
of how boring or filled with strife.

Elysian Fields are here on earth,
enjoy them while we can.
Why wait for some new birth,
and waste our precious time?

rwh 7/20/23

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Poem of the Week: 7/14/23

Impact

It hit me with the impact of a meteor,
how a thought would be so impactful.
life passing by as you hit the wall,
hurts so bad, the impact was awful.

When a news person says, impact,
he/she is telling the absolute truth.
So emotional they can't help but cry,
like being punched by the uncouth.

New graduate hopes to impact the world,
making a lot of money to pack the wallet.
Especially by joining pacts with money,
ramming displeasure down our gullet.

When the impact of becoming pregnant,
finally reaches the young girl's mind,
she is leaving the first trimester,
already, two months behind.

So, if you are one of those impacted,
by one of those very serious claims,
get on the phone with the lawyers,
with a ready line of serious blames.

There's nothing like an exaggeration,
even if it's only an impacted tooth,
to go back with a gun to impact the one,
who spread the lie that wasn't the truth.

If you are impacted by this poem,
I'm sorry that I've told you so.
Just replace impacted with affected,
you will be ready to get up and go.

rwh 7/13/23

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Poem of the Week: 7/7/23

Cleaning Out

Oh, to be free and clean!

All of the garbage piling up,
plugging the hole in the dike,
of my ever more flotsam dream.

I tackle one with gusto every day,
but two more unexpectedly appear,
like eye floaters in my ear,
I can neither see or hear.

I try to stamp them out,
starting calmly not to shout.

But AI on the end of the line,
does not understand my need,
puts me on hold for greed.

Wish I could just throw it all out,
give everything a fresh head start,
turn my old into new art.

But all I do is just fart.
Farting in the wind like a dog,
barking at the moon.
Crap not going away, anytime soon.

Oh, well. When I finish this poem,
I will try again tomorrow.

rwh 7/6/23

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Poem of the Week: 6/30/23

Legend

Something wonderful happened,
in lost distant memory of time,
called a miracle in many words,
languages and songs' rhyme.

There were no written words,
to fully describe the event.
Just the stories of the observers,
describing just how it went.

Huddled around campires warm,
elders told youth tales of yon,
stories of miracles and monsters,
through generations passed on.

It was a terrible time of turmoil,
with tribal territory often fought.
Rulers rose from bloody fight,
boasting what their power bought.

Knowing the power of written word,
rulers sought out scribes to witness,
both every word and deed,
their ill-gotten greatness, greed.

From natural events unknown,
people needed a reason why,
made up gods for everything,
good and bad fortune's ploy.

Good gods were butterflies,
bad gods snakes and spiders,
stories to control the youth,
curbing innocence, reminders.

Elder to shaman to priest,
taught the word of the beast,
drive innocence from the child,
mold it into what beguiled.

Rulers found many gods obscene,
sought only one god for their regime.
Forcing their scribes to write the stories,
how they fought for their god's glories.

Stories were written and revised,
each new ruler, previous, despised.
Wanted his own story exceed the rest,
have his story better, the best.

History arose from rulers' quest.
common peoples' stories much less.
Priests refined stories into legend,
unread and unwashed simply blessed.

Modern science seeks legend source,
often to find out its humble beginning,
not what the people thought all along,
but greatly changed, powerfully wrong.

rwh 6/29/23

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Poem of the Week: 6/23/23

Hello, World!

He awakens to see the light,
eagerly explores his new world,
crawls, babbles, walks and talks,
a whole new experience unfurled.

A puppy licks him in the face,
when he gets dirty exploring,
mother gets a worried look,
thinks his exuberance a disgrace.

Her world grows dark in time,
just when he wants to find,
what it's like to play and roam,
keeps him locked up at home.

Outside it's foul, hard to breathe,
water is filtered, boiled to drink,
vaccinations for virus reprieve,
manufactured food, AI think.

His world online is all he has,
rest is too foul, way too bleak,
he still wants to explore,
go outside, learn more.

Ships are leaving every day,
escaping the hellhole of his birth.
To the colonies, nearby, still,
very far away from Mother Earth.

Befouled by greed and ignorance,
he had no part in the doing.
He stayed back with AI's help,
to right his ancestors' undoing.

Coolsuit on and in a solar ship,
explored the planet, tip to tip.
What he learns to his surprise,
some species have survived.

Vibrant species have evolved,
others, adapted to the heat.
His wonder is beyond compare,
Earth's healing is hard to beat.

He nurtures it with all his worth,
creates new babies so bold,
they can roam this new world,
like they once did the old.

Before he dies at a vigorous 126,
he gets to see villages forming,
green enterprises quickly growing,
pure water and air again, flowing.

rwh 6/22/23

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Poem of the Week: 6/16/23

Miracle

After World War II lives lost,
Japan experienced a baby boom.
With help from US reconstruction,
young cries heard in every room.

All these eager young workers,
using the best American technique,
built better cars and electronics,
sold well, dependable and cheap.

Even developed the best beef,
beer fed steers set a new bar,
they grew stronger and fatter,
highest priced beef by far.

With population rising quickly,
best transportation ever built.
Subways and high-speed trains,
moved people at record hilt.

Big-city expense and crowding,
eventually, had a terrible result,
young couples couldn't afford babies,
having none to their parents' insult.

One young couple had the means,
but couldn't seem to conceive.
They consulted an American doctor,
who found a way, to their relief.

When the little girl was born,
they thought it was a miracle.
So named her phonetically,
our little girl a, Mary Ko.

rwh 6/15/23

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Poem of the Week: 6/9/23

Little Boy

Little Boy is quite squirrely,
his tail is so very curly,
he comes every morning surely,
to get his nut breakfast early.

To say he is scared,
would understate his fear,
but he can't resist,
a Texas pecan held near.

The favorite food of,
South Texas squirrels,
he just can't resist,
like we, cheese curls.

So, he ventures inside,
to eat out of her hand.
When he nibbles her finger,
she just can't stand.

But offers him breakfast,
when he comes around.
Other squirrels only get birdseed.
They don't know what he's found.

rwh 6/8/23

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Poem of the Week: 6/2/23

Silly Love Poem

This is just a sic (sic) stupid love poem. Nothing more.

With open arms, I fall for you,
flat on my face, my nose brand-new.
Now made artificially, smashed so bad,
replaced it with plastic, all they had.

From a distance, I adore your scent,
a combination of sweat and excrement.
Like a hog in a wallow, I jump right in,
because smelling your panties is no sin.

I've loved you from a distance for oh, so long,
my binoculars are wearing out, like my thong.
I don't even have an Internet presence,
because, I find being close up unpleasant.

I'm lovesick and head over heels in love,
but, only with a bird I call my turtledove.
If a cat's got my tongue, instead of my bird,
Tweet, tweet, tweet, gulp, was all I heard.

You are my dream lover from another world,
unfolding like a mystery in my mind unfurled.
You are made of atoms and crazy quarks,
you squirm like ants chewing on my quirks.

So, if you are in love of the kinky kind,
join our secret group of those of like mind.
Indulge in the love of your life, go in blind,
forever and ever, let your sick love bind.

rwh 6/1/23

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Poem of the Week: 5/26/23

Haven't Told You

I know I haven't told you,
that I love you,
in oh, so many ways.

But it's hard for me to say,
I love you, why I havenÕt,
for all these days.

I find it hard to say,
I love you, because it's,
such a misused phrase.

I hope you will forgive me,
and let me show you,
I love you, and many,
multitude of ways.

Those who declare love,
only to deceive,
are the worst kind of lovers,
I truly believe.

For them love is just a game,
that they play, oh so well,
they will love you and leave you,
leaving you in loving hell.

Actions speak louder than words,
and words cannot express,
my true love for you very well.

I hope you accept my apologies,
as I show you my love,
day in and day out,
till our days are through.

rwh 5/25/23

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Poem of the Week: 5/19/23

Forgotten Poem

I forgot to write the poem of the century,
but then, no one mentioned it to me.
I forgot the poem, so I'm to blame,
I'd accuse somebody else, but I'm too lame.

It was a poem to end all poems,
with its power and its amazing glory.
guess somebody else wrote that poem before,
I once or twice before heard that story.

It was a poem to withstand time,
didn't even have any rhythm or rhyme.
I guess I missed the gist of the thing,
could have had a fortune, but not one dime.

It was a poem that made us laugh and weep,
couldn't remember where my soul to keep.
I thought I kept it in my long lost left shoe,
but it wasn't there this morning, how do you do.

If you're planning the greatest poem ever writ,
plan to sprinkle it with anger, love and wit.
You never know how it will actually turn out,
but if you don't get rich from it, you might get gout.

Eat red meat and drink beer,
it will make you stout.

rwh 5/18/23

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Poem of the Week: 5/12/23

Sing the Songs

Refrain

We must sing the songs before they all fade,
ones sang gleefully in the campfire glade,
beyond the memory of many a dawn,
with all of our ancestors now gone.

I'll sing them for you before we go to bed,
I can't seem to get them out of my head.
I can't remember all of the words,
I'll improvise lyrics from what I've read.

(Refrain)

I'll sing them because I know they're soon gone,
songs of the ancients who lived well and long,
their lessons in song come tumbling down wrong,
I have to right them before committing to song.

(Refrain)

With voices still clear and on my mind,
I'll sing them to all who will listen all year.
I'll promise songs that strengthen and bind,
so, the children can sing them without fear.

(Refrain)

rwh 5/11/23

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Poem of the Week: 5/5/23

Poet Don't Know It

This poem was meant to be snarky funny,
don't take it too seriously or personal.

Like one note Johnny,
poet's clearly in a rut,
writes the same poem,
every day in a different way,
like a squirrel planting a nut.

Likewise, there's Ms. Clean,
freed of anguish in the past,
only writes on that single theme.
dwelling on it to make it last.

Poet without a clue,
who writes without a dictionary,
or even a thesaurus, too.
despised by those who do.

With a vocabulary that is so weak,
only by poetizing can make it tweak.
Doesn't even try to make it work,
caught up in a world of instant twerk.

Poet who writes for Hallmark,
or for Currier and Ives,
must always write sweetness,
into dismal readers' lives.

If alcohol can fuel the muse,
there are poets that freely use.
Only with alkyÕs liberal libation,
can they light imagination's fuse.

Right words to pontificate,
their idol-given worldly cause,
taken from their good book,
of phrases without a pause.

Those that lost the shift key,
imitating a certain mis-cummings,
thinking that poetry has no rules,
those that follow rules just dummies.

Poets who master all the forms,
concerned devoutly with norms.
While missing a poem's point,
to enlighten, open life's arms.

To write a poem summarizing it all,
anyone's poem may take a great fall.
No matter if you are short or tall,
a stinky poem leaves a great pall.

Remember, roses are red,
until they are dead.

That's all!

rwh 5/4/23

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Poem of the Week: 4/28/23

Ecstasy

Read this as though the actor is either
a woman or a man, but not me.

You caught my eye in a crowd of others,
you were not what I consider my druthers,
but you were intriguing, just the same,
I wanted to get to know you and your name.

I noticed that you looked back at me,
an encouraging sign, I could clearly see,
I was shy, but tried to figure out how to meet,
I couldn't just walk up to you on the street.

Our paths crossed in the morning each day,
I thought of a way we might meet along the way.
We took the same bus to work, I knew.
I got up my courage to sit down by you.

I asked if the seat next to you was taken,
you looked up at me, a look not mistaken.
You said, "You can sit here if you like."
I sat down beside you as if on a pike.

I was so nervous, I could hardly talk,
an attraction so strong it made me balk.
You seemed to have the same concern,
it was hard to talk to each other, learn.

Leaving the bus with only a paper scrap,
with a phone number that could be a trap.
For I knew nothing of this other one,
they could be fooling me just for fun.

Fooled before by my reckless infatuation,
when no one had ever returned my adoration.
Would this one be different, or just the same?
All I had to know, was a number and a name.

I made the call and we met in a cafŽ,
it was hard to eat, while lust ate away.
At our every attempt at conversation,
every word just added to the notion.

Hand in hand we walked through the park,
moonlight on the water increased the spark,
on a bench we sat, kissed and explored,
each other's hidden secrets adored.

Returning home, we could no longer resist,
feelings we both had as we held and kissed.
We found ourselves undressing in the moonlight,
enthralled in each other's bodies that entire night.

Fingers on flesh quivering from heat, not cold,
we explored each other's bodies instinct told.
Flesh that lay open, exposed and kissed,
electrifying touch reaching ecstatic bliss.

Our tension built up to a glorious level,
we could not deny its bursting at the seams.
Thrusting past the line of no return,
reaching ecstasy beyond our wildest dreams.

A love like this is rare to behold,
it is forever young and never gets old.
So, when the opportunity comes along,
do not deny it; let go, get hot, get bold.

rwh 4/27/23

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Poem of the Week: 4/21/23

Erotica

It comes from deep within our primitive reptile brain,
passionate need to procreate, to survive, fire and rain.

For a man it is visual, looking for beauty and strength,
for a woman, it is comfort for babies, talking at length.

But when they come together at just the right moment,
their differences dissolve into one great wonderful foment.

They hope for the ecstasy they find in their dreams,
ideal mesh, sometimes so hard to attain, it seems.

But when the hormones of puberty rage in bodies pure,
all rules of society seem to melt in the ecstatic blur.

Strange coupling occurs that defies all societal reason,
when man seeks out beauty rather than his season.

Wars erupt both large and small, from couplings like this.
Men and women give up fortune and fame for this bliss.

Chemistry of which is very well known to science,
but societal mores often wrongly want to silence.

For the unfettered longing and fulfillment of love lost,
is the greatest gift we have to dispel all pain and cost.

When two entwine in an erotic lovers' swoon,
there is no better way to love under the moon.

Moon that creates the menstrual cycle in woman,
and brings out the urge of seeking love in man.

Reaching the peak of all sexual desire,
who would challenge such love with ire?

rwh 4/20/23

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Poem of the Week: 4/15/23

Braking for Hey Zeus

Emergency braking on tow truck climb,
is certainly a necessary lifesaving evil.

When need over, why "emergency brake on,"
warning seems to be the workings of the devil.

For the devil, we couldn't find the place,
that pulled the emergency brake on.

So, we called the guy from Zeus Towing,
who did it, and were told, "He's gone!"

My heavens, where in the hell did he go?
"A van fell on him yesterday, don't you know?"

"An emergency brake failed, He's gone.
You'll get nothing out of him calling Zeus."

So, we are deep in Internet gumbo once again,
manual has no picture of the lever or where.

So, I'm calling all angels out there to help me,
show me where the emergency brake is there.

I assure you my mechanic is a godsend guy,
looked everywhere and scratched his head, why?

rwh 4/13/23

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Poem of the Week: 4/7/23

Aggravation

Sometimes I arrive at aggravation station,
guess it's the price of freedom in this great nation.

Freedom to get involved in whatever one likes,
creating obligations from oldsters to little tykes.

Like multitasking when one is on the cell phone,
the outcome often comes with leaving a bone.

A bone to pick away at one's energy bar,
with aggravation growing both near and far.

To tackle every little thing that comes in sight,
can get so aggravating one wants to fight.

But jousting with windmills gets nowhere,
just so aggravating at times, I swear.

Might be better to leave all this freedom behind,
drift off into dementia or just lose my mind.

But I just can't do that because I must control,
for controlling my actions is my very soul.

rwh 4/6/23

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Poem of the Week: 3/31/23

Clear Blue See

Cruising on the clear blue sea,
I get a clearer picture of you and me.

Motors seemingly wind sailing me,
across an ocean of ideas, silently.

Warm breeze and hot sun,
caressing my burning face,
it's hard to find shade,
or, a more relaxing place.

Where blue waters merge,
with the lighter blue sky.
An image forever unchanged,
infinitely, meeting the eye.

My thoughts intermingle,
with the edge of the ocean.
And sometimes, half watching,
Aye, I see, I see a great notion.

But mostly, it just dulls me to sleep,
I dream of diving with creatures of the deep.

rwh 3/30/23

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Poem of the Week: 3/17/23

Flower

Spring flowers the hope of Texas,
on hard scrabble, depleted, ground.
In its own little niche of paradise,
that briefly, annually, comes around.

It turns the hillsides into waves of blue,
reminiscent of a landlocked ocean,
the likes of which never reach that hue.
interspersed with Indian paintbrush notion.

While sprites of the same name abound,
in varying shades of blue to be found,
blooming seasons the world's 'around,
everything Texas better by the pound.

So, ever chance gets you by Brenham,
that south-central Texas German town.
In the time of the year near April 1,
a gem of a spectacle will erase a frown.

rwh 3/16/23

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Poem of the Week: 3/10/23

Fading Memory

Memories I have written down,
in many letters in the past,
but I never kept a diary,
something, that would last.

Yet, I'm amazed at momentos,
mom gave me in a shoebox.
And the pictures that she took,
now out of my long reach,
held off in the distance, in,
a place I can no longer breach.

I've written down and published,
all that I could remember.
But memory fades with every year,
from early April to December.

As my days continue to grow short,
and some memories are confused,
I sharpen my memory by using it,
while I lose what's never used.

I hope my memory remains sharp,
on my very last living day.
So I can tell the ones I love,
why I'm happy just going away.

rwh 3/9/23

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Poem of the Week: 3/3/23

You Are My World

Refrain

You are the world to me.
You are all my world I see.
You are everything I'll ever be.
You are the world to me.

You greet me in the morning,
with a smile and eyes open bright.
After sleeping nearby to help me,
through my long and fitful night.

In the morning you are cheerful,
as you scurry around the place.
Put me on my exercise machine,
break my fast with amazing taste.

(Refrain)

You feed me with your kindness,
and prepare me for my day of work.
In all the years we've been together,
through thick and thin you never shirk.

When evening comes I wait for you,
to prepare me dinner like fine wine.
I'm never hungry within your sphere,
you fill me up with love every time.

(Refrain)

And when my day is finally over,
you prepare me to go to bed.
In all the years we've shared,
it is though we were forever wed.

I sing to you songs of love,
and songs of wrong and right.
Before and after you tuck me in,
and I close my eyes good night.

(Refrain)

rwh 3/2/23

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Poem of the Week: 2/24/23

Friends and Acquaintances

From many acquaintances,
over many a long year,
few became friends,
and fewer became dear.

As a writer with great passion,
one must have time alone.
One's friends and followers,
must understand and atone.

Foes can become good friends,
when an understanding is reached,
but it takes courage to understand,
extend a hand across the breach.

Acquaintances tend to flatter,
hang around for self alone.
Taking more than sharing,
like a dog guarding its bone.

Through trials and tribulations,
true friends tend to stay fast.
Not giving prayers and platitudes,
but real help that lasts.

As the years go by,
and old friends just die,
it's good to have new friends,
one can count on nearby.

Fans are not real friends,
they can make your life hell.
If you wish to become famous,
pay attention to what I tell.

Acquaintances will come and go,
but your friends will stay for the show.
Cultivate your friends with care,
especially, when you're ready to go.

rwh 2/23/23

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Poem of the Week: 2/17/23

Touch of Spring

How gently you come upon the scene,
struggling to give birth, from branch or earth,
for all your worth, sunshine and shadow,
freezing cold wind and heavy rain.

Killing cold is not yet old,
can come at any time.
You bask in the new sun,
till your brief flowering is done.

As you bring forth beauty to the world,
and sweet fragrance to attract the bees.
To pollinate your brief appearance,
with diligence and breathless ease.

Your beauty and your fragrance,
attracts us to your side.
We may cut a few of your kin,
to adorn our houses inside.

Whether naturally wild,
or cultivated in the yard,
a touch of spring you bring,
so stimulating for the bard.

rwh 2/16/23

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Flash in the Pan

The wick burns gradually but brightly its end.
When the trigger is pulled the flash to begin.

All it takes is a trigger for the hammer to fall,
the hammer comes down to a flash seen by all.

Followed by a roar as the audience cheers,
like shot out of a rifle, a star suddenly appears.

Leaving obscurity to fame, far and wide,
a newborn star can no longer hide.

Joining the galaxy of stars in the realm, one needs to have someone take the helm.

If that someone manipulates the rest of one's life, it adds to the pressure, causes more strife.

Too much, too soon, like a plug in a gun's barrel,
pressure without release, an explosion, will follow.

Whether it is an accident, overdose, or suicide, paparazzi,
fans or tabloids--one runs, but can't hide.

Demand for better and better working one's inside,
coming to a conclusion no one can abide.

A flash in the pan expended too soon,
another great talent has left the room.

rwh 2/9/23

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Poem of the Week: 1/27/23

Turn Me Baby, Baby

Turn me baby, baby,
turn me baby, on,
turn me baby, baby,
all night long.

Turn me inside,
turn me out and on.
Turn me baby,
dusk till dawn.

Feed me baby,
feed me so well.
Your food of love,
that rings my bell.

Turn me baby, baby,
turn me baby, on,
turn me baby, baby,
all night long.

Turn me quickly,
turn me real slow.
Turn me on or off to,
tell pain it's time to go.

Turn me gently,
turn me, so long,
Ain't long afore,
I'll be gone.

Turn me baby, baby,
turn me baby, on,
turn me baby, baby,
all night long.

Afore I'm gone,
gone, gone, gone.

rwh 1/26/23

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Poem of the Week: 1/20/23

Turn Me

Turn me every half hour,
like an egg over easy.
I need to open like a flower,
not the one to be queasy.

Turn me into a tyrant,
if you angrily so desire,
although I didn't rant,
to create that kind of ire.

Turn me like the seasons,
returning faithfully every year,
while as I age for reasons,
please update my gear.

Turn me into a saint,
for all the good deeds I do.
Giving freely of what I ain't,
for it could be me or you.

Turn me in to the devil,
for the devilish things I pull.
Hammering on his anvil,
making life better and full.

Turn me into a butterfly,
emerging from my room.
Where I watch the world go by,
on TV, the Internet and Zoom.

And most of all.

Turn me on to ultimate thrill,
while you dance and sing your song.
What can be had without a pill,
before my time to enjoy is gone.

rwh 1/18/23

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Poem of the Week: 1/13/23

Freeze

I live in a subtropical clime,
where exotic plants can grow,
flourish, with care in due time.

Some like bananas and papaya,
need more than a year to produce.
While they give us luscious fruit,
that you and I all love and use.

Native plants can handle a freeze,
as a natural way that they live.
Crepe myrtle and mimosa, along with,
pecan and wild berries freely give.

Oranges, lemon and lime,
all produce wonderful citrus,
growing in their due time.

Change in climate has made it clear,
tropical exotics can prosper here.
But change in climate has also brought,
with it, wild swings in temperature dear.

Our tropical jungle no longer to appear,
with wild growth and beauty now gone,
next year, new growth to carry on.

If only these occasional freezes,
would end for just a year or two,
our garden would flourish,
and, our crop would ripen, too.

What a wonderful thought,
to look forward to.

rwh 1/12/23

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Poem of the Week: 1/6/23

Resolute

Don't give a hoot, just resolute.
Don't want to toot a horn, for scorn.
Resolving is just like revolving,
going in, coming out, lukewarm.

Promises are easy to break,
when everyday stresses give-and-take.
So, why would one resolve to do,
they later regret or have to fake?

To stay the course may not be wise,
but doing something different just lies.
We are all in the same moving boat,
takes gumption, just keeping it afloat.

Let's all take in a brand-new year,
tackle our problems with verve, not fear.
Our mugs may be only half full,
but it's better than half empty by any rule.

Be resolute, don't give a hoot,
to what others say or do.
You know what you have ahead,
take care of the real, you.

One thing is for certain. Everything will be
higher resolution in the future. RWH

rwh 1/5/23

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