Poem of the Week: 10/5/08/08

Frosty the Snow Dog

By Roger J. Hull

Frosty the Snow Dog is a jolly little elf
Playful as a pup, not mindful of self
Dark brown eyes and a charcoal nose

Cute as a button and light on his toes
A graceful specimen of the
Household protector with nose

Upon the hassock he'd lay
Legs all asunder with
With nary a twitch, even for thunder

Curly white fur, soft to the touch
Stretch of the back, extended shoulders
Low in front, high in rear

In and out he'd go as the occasion occurred
Never quite sure where we'd all be
We'd be in he'd be out and vise versa

Run of the back yard, a barking he'd go
Chasing imaginary birds across the sky
Check every corner,
Where'd that Rabbit go?

Amble gait, tongue hanging from the heat
Always a smile, tail wagging
Happy for company, on his beat

Night time come, it's in his bed
He'd rather dream of doggie treats
(or little bitches)
Than get out and guard the shed

Frosty, an eleven year old Bichon Frise
resides in Peoria AZ with his master Tom.

9/27/08

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Poem of the Week: 10/5/08/08

Days of Thunder

By Roger J. Hull

Back in days of yore
Roundabout Nineteen hundred sixty four

The big bore Corvettes
And Cobras would roar

Round Road America, round
They'd go, pedal to metal

Inches to spare, they'd clip corners
With the outside front wheel in the air

Blue with white stripes, white with red
the colours would tell who was ahead

The ground would shake
And the crowd would scare

Down Canada Corner hill
Rolled the big bore thunder

Spinning and squealing the tires
Round the corner, black rubber fires

Round they'd go like dogs in the chase
A fearless lot with smiles on their face

Up the Dunlop hill and disappear
Only to later on the horizon, reappear

Like mystical Ancient Gods and
The rumble of approaching thunder

Sports car racing at Elkhart Lake, WI,
Road America in the '60s

9/28/08

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Poem of the Week: 10/5/08/08

A Fall Drive

There was a time not long ago,
when, after church we would go,
on a fall drive.

Our week's work done and free for fun,
to enjoy the season's angled sun.

Gas was cheap, the sky was clear,
nothing better to do this time of year.

We would stop by the creek,
a lonely picnic table to seek.

A tablecloth Mom would spread,
pick your topping on sliced white bread.

Quick to eat and wander off,
skipping rocks we'd laugh and scoff.

Dad would pick a scenic route,
and we would watch for crow or coot.

The road would wander hill and farm,
mid green fields, white house, red barn.

Hillsides ablaze with scarlet and gold,
accenting the green with colours olde.

Ooohs! and Aaahs! 'round every turn,
we, with breath abated, waited, yearned.

For the derelict shed, the rusty tractor,
accenting nature's wondrous actor.

We returned home to the tasks at hand,
refreshed to know more of our great land.

RWH: 10/4/08

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Poem of the Week: 9/28/08

Resurrection Reversed

I died.
They buried me.

Bugs crawled over my casket,
looking for a way to test it.

Eventually slugs eroded a way in,
water followed without a fin.

The air in my casket was stale,
smelling faintly of ale, my last drink.

A perfect incubator for bacteria,
a cafeteria of human waste.

The little devils flew into hysteria.
Once they got a taste.

My body turned to yeast,
Bloating never ceased.

Foul gas was released,
that could not break out.

Eventually, it blew the top,
of my casket off, raising a bump.

Eons flew by like the leaves in the wind,
they came, found the bump, and looked in.

Suddenly, I saw a bright light.
Hadn't seen something like that,
for a long, dark night.

They were so ugly I had to laugh.
I laughed so hard I burst my heart.

I died.
They buried me.

RWH: 9/27/08

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Poem of the Week: 9/21/08

Aftermath

Looking over all destruction,
cutting a wide swath.
I'm thinking of larger things,
like the little moth.

All the debris is meaningless,
except in the larger view.
Most should not be there at all,
for nature will renew.

Insurance is a wonderful thing,
but should all bear the cost,
for the wasteful ways of some,
as though it were our loss?

Neighborliness is wonderful,
when people truly need.
But should we support stupidity,
and always lurking greed?

Some will always seek,
the leisure, lowland way.
But should we inhabit at all,
the realm of eco-sway?

I think not.
Some places,
are for the birds.

RWH: 9/20/08

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Poem of the Week: 9/14/08

Eye of Ike

The eye of Ike stared down the Texas coast,
and Galveston, he thirsted for the most.

Preceded by a stealthy surge,
he tricked the unwary with a fleeing urge.

With winds of might and saber wide,
the swath Ike cut was not denied.

With flooding rains and rising tide,
those caught twixt the two,
could not hide.

And though Ike's eye veered to the right,
sparing much of Houston from his might.

Without electricity it's hot and dark,
camping out with no water is no lark.

The eye of Ike blessed us bad,
the costliest disaster we've ever had.

But we will learn and soldier on,
for Ike's descendents will come again.

RWH: 9/14/08

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Poem of the Week: 9/7/08

Equilibrium

It's a fine line we tread,
from born 'til dead,
but we must carry on.

Much has been said,
twixt joy and dread,
heard it in a song.

From the moment we're bred,
'til that final bed, spent,
surviving that 10 count gong.

The heart and the head,
when all is written and said.
life doesn't last very long.

So that tightrope we walk,
on the trigger finger of fate,
we must walk the talk,
'fore it's too late.

RWH: 9/6/08

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Poem of the Week: 8/31/08

Dew Drop Inn

The Dew Drop Inn clings by the sea,
on a craggy cliff of mystery.

Whether tis there, whether tis not,
is not a subject for this spot.

For she is shielded by the mist,
seen by some, but not by this.

She drops in, on thirsty plants,
on the furry, hair of ants.

On parched desert's dunes of sand,
all the creatures far inland.

She adds color to the pale,
shields against the Sun's hot hale.

So, do drop in if you have the chance,
bring your jokes, your song, your dance.

For you are always welcome,
at the Dew Drop Inn.

Like the gift of water,
you dew me in.

RWH: 8/30/08

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Poem of the Week: 8/24/08

Pushing up Daisies

Pushing up daisies is just my speed,
I'm mother nature and I feel the need,
to procreate,

I feel the need, to plant the seed,
that'll last for a millennium,

To lie in wait, until conditions are right,
to burst forth with all my minions,

To heal the scars of landscape Mars,
and shatter all pessimistic opinions,

For I am the mother of all invention,
I work my ways without intention,

But through the power of natural selection,
and survival of the fittest,

I turn bland to rich, and rich to wonder,
I do not pillage. I do not plunder,

So don't mess with me..,

... or you will be pushing up daisies.

RWH: 8/23/08

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Poem of the Week: 8/17/08

Roses are Dead

Roses are dead. Violets are too.
The air takes on, a strange yellow hue.
The river becomes a deep, muddy brown.
the ocean exhibits a slimy green frown.

It is hot, oh, so hot,
with no relief in sight.
Can't sleep in the day.
can't sleep in the night.

How brown is my land,
once green with life.
The wind blows unceasingly,
with dusty clouds of strife.

The last food ran out,
some time ago.
Good water is scarce,
and dying is painfully slow.

Oh, when will the suffering end?
The answer is clear.
When everyone is dead,
and that time is now near.

RWH: 8/16/08

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Poem of the Week: 8/10/08

8-8-08

Celebrate! It's 8-8-08!
Isn't it great, great, so great,
that the Olympics chose 8-8-08,
to open the games in China?

And so we stayed up late,
too, too, way too late.
slipped over into 8-9-08,
by then it didn't matter.

And then we ate,
ate, ate, and oh we ate.
Can you spell, "sate."
Fell into a deep stupor.

Arrived at heaven's gate,
sawed, sawed, and sawed that grate.
Woke up in a sweaty state,
wondering what is fate?

So set the clock and set the date,
thirteen months from now.
Will be fine at 9-9-09,
at least that's the line.

Plan to celebrate again in 9-9-09,
nine, nine, oh nine is mine.
Eat, drink, and stay up too late.
Will have C4 in bed this time.

Boom!

RWH: 8/9/08

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Poem of the Week: 8/3/08

Joyful Toast

Come all ye joyful,
come all on in.
Take off your clutter,
free yourself from sin.

Take off your clutter,
and join on in,
Sing a song of sixpence,
to your kin.

Sing a song of sixpence,
praise to the vine.
Lift your glasses high,
with the new made wine.

Lift your glasses high,
praise be to the gods,
who shelter my family,
against all odds.

Who shelter my family,
through thick and thin.
Come share our plenty,
so all can win.

Come share our plenty,
there's plenty for all.
And joyful we'll sing,
until the fall.

RWH: 8/2/08

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Poem of the Week: 7/27/08

Tardy Poem

I admit this poem is late.
Certainly not my style.
But fighting tech has been my fate,
putting me off by the mile.

The struggle has been mighty,
and in my pocket deep.
At times so frustrating,
a weaker me would weep.

Still, I soldier on,
unwilling to embrace defeat.
While thoughts of a new computer,
creep onto my street.

But it's getting late...

So, here you go...

A poem on your plate!

RWH: 7/27/08

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Poem of the Week: 7/20/08

Starting Over

When I found you, you were the best.
You stood tall, above the rest.

For a while, you were mine.
Exceedingly fast, you passed the test,
of what I had in mind.

But age and viruses came along,
and had me singing a different song,
Corruption was just around the corner.

Still I believed, with you on my sleeve,
I persevered, carrying on and on,
while you sang a swan's song.

I sought counsel of the highest kind,
and it went on for several weeks.
All tried and failed, after many tweaks.

Finally, disgusted, I started over,
Carefully saving our precious moments,
Just like all the geeks.

With a single click I cut you loose,
Never to return-hit restore.
But you proved harder to get back,
a lesson I can't ignore.

I thought I wooed you right,
but discovered I was wrong.
I spent too many hours in restore,
Could have just copied all along.

Now that we are back together,
Things still aren't just fine.
Old problems lurk in the wings,
Will you ever really be mine?

RWH: 7/20/08

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Poem of the Week: 7/6/08

Unseen Interlude

There is a lovers' interlude,
that takes place this time of year.
Openly in the brilliant sun,
when the lovers have no fear.

They came by way of back fence,
these gypsies of the field.
Arriving unaware of my hidden,
voyeuristic window shield.

They sat close, side-by-side,
close, but not to touch.
Their familiarity was obvious.
They knew each other much.

A constant chatter insued,
I could not understand.
For lovers have a way to,
disguise their amorous hand.

She was dressed in neutral browns,
to blend in with the grass.
He was not so subtlety colored,
in black, white, gray, and brash.

He, in bold display, flew up,
feathers extended, chest outthrust.
She, in demure, subdued excitement,
sat quietly, admiring his lust.

Once, twice, thrice he flew up,
his love for her displayed.
His colors thus transformed,
and magnificently arrayed.

He touched her as in a kiss.
His mate for life now made.
Together, they flitted from my fence,
and left me in a dreamy glade.

Men go to the ends of Earth,
To see the bowerbird's love dance.
While I have stolen the amazing,
unseen interlude of two sparrows on my fence.

RWH: 7/12/08

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Poem of the Week: 7/6/08

Dead in the Water

"We can fix the problem," the out-sourcer cheerfully replied.
"Just give me control of your computer to do it." She plied.
Six techs and a month of Sundays later, she lied.
Old XP, she still crashes mightily, and my work's on a slide.

My voice file recognizer got compromised and shut down.
My voice file followed suit and left me with a frown.
Reinstalling Dragon NaturalySpeaking only faltered.
Somehow, even my installation disk was altered.

Undeterred, Microsoft deferred to research the problem.
"Please play with your computer until we call."
The system started giving blue screens regularly.
Today, couldn't work at all.

Microsoft, the enterprise giant, controls the techie mall.
Selling cheap and licensing deep, they seem above the pall.
Hackers wait in the wings, ferreting out every pitfall.
Programs don't match, hardware doesn't attach, no eye is on the ball.

Apple frowns on the enterprise model, only on the goal,
To build a computer that works great, a simple, productive whole.
Linux frees the game board, so re-tired Bill won't own your soul.
Soon, we'll all talk to our computers, and Microsoft can go to hell.

RWH: 7/5/08

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Poem of the Week: 6/29/08

Work

This world of work never ends.
Though time moves on and sunlight bends,
in the waning day.

Time to sup and fill up,
the belly forever empty.

Time to think and make a chink,
in the armor of the hard-fought way.

Time to drink and rethink,
why we've come this way.

Until the night comes crashing down,
and the sound of a howling hound,
that won't go away.

Famine, war, disaster and pestilence,
hound us where we stay.

Hound our nighttime dreams,
until the light of day.

When we dust ourselves off,
pick ourselves up,
and off to work we pray.

Work is hard and it's unfair.
Work can poison bodies and the air.

But without work we are nothing,
but empty-- despair.

RWH: 6/28/08

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Poem of the Week: 6/22/08

The Genie and the Box

The genie is out of the box,
and no one knocks its convenience.

But finding locks in airless space,
is becoming quite an experience.

There are no wires, no sight, no sound,
just invisible electrons floating around.

Thinking outside the box is wild,
a 21st century play like a child.

Can we act it out? I doubt.
There will be no warning shout.

It will sneak in softly on an ether wave,
and slay us without saying before we can save.

Our life, our love, our very existence,
gone in a nano second for a mere pittance.

The air is crammed with messages,
and our heads are filled with sage.

Eating away at our brains.
Until we disengage.

A silent killer in our midst. Taking us unaware.

There is no escaping this violence,
so... beware!

RWH: 6/19/08

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Poem of the Week: 6/15/08

Tech Wars

My computer's been choking,
and about to seize.
When it used to compute,
with relative ease.

Got Microsoft on it,
but forgot my keys.
She said, "Dat's okey,
" From India or Belize.

She took control,
and soon was gone.
Pillaging my software,
from dusk until dawn.

My cursor was flying,
and the Leopard was loose.
My mouse disappeared,
like a blue screened goose.

With its Vista gates wide open,
XP-diting its demise,
iPhoned for a pizza,
but the GPS lies.

My scanner was scanning,
across a screenshot sky.
When it zipped up a virus,
and went bye-bye.

My backup was backing up,
when it hit an end of file.
The drive kept on spinning,
spewing tape a mile.

My memory is over extended,
and my bus is delayed.
I'll never finish this poem,
with my spyware slayed.

RWH: 6/14/08

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Poem of the Week: 6/1/08

Vignette

I sliced up a little vignette,
served it with a nice vinaigrette.
I must say, it was tasty.

Blowing baritone from a barrette,
it turned into a pirouette.
Sexy, but a bit pasty.

I beat this dead mule for days,
but he just lay there.
No more brays...

Worked and reworked the manuscript,
but the editing was so bad,
I got no praise.

Decided to commit sewer pipe,
but couldn't find my keys.

Put a cell phone to my ear,
and accomplished it with ease.

While I'm shooting the breeze,
how about a little bullshit,
while this thought I cease?

The day in perfect harmony,
spinning this twisted homily,
no one to appease.

Time to drop out, tune in,
and float downstream,
to contemplate my knees.

RJH: 5/31/08

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Poem of the Week: 5/25/08

Mark My Words

I put down these words,
as pixels on light.

No matter the media,
these words have might.

They transfer thoughts,
to the page.

Once on the Internet,
they never age.

These words can uplift,
inspire and raise.

These words can sting,
and fill with rage.

Words are my way,
to learn and emote.

Sticks and stones hurt,
not my words wrote.

Read them and learn,
work through the pain.

With new insight,
you'll never be the same.

So mark my words,
with bloody red, please.

I learn from each remark,
set my mind at ease.

Spellcheck me well,
and grammar my prose.

Tickle my wits,
and keep me on my toes.

For life is the chapter,
and we are the book.

Mark my words,
there's always a hook.

RJH: 5/24/08

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Poem of the Week: 5/21/08

From Shadow to Beau

By Roger J. Hull

Where'd da "Shadow" go?
Only da "Beau" nose.

Underfoot, rug rat, right behind
hence name da "Shadow"

Gota haircut and then a picture
but only the nose showed

New name hard to foller
and even harder to swaller

So a vote was made
and the "Bo" was titled

Where'd da "Shadow" go?
Only da "Beau" nose.

Roger's family brought "Shadow"
( A Shitsui) home from the shelter.
And then his name was legally changed to "Beau"

RJH: 5/20/08

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Poem of the Week: 5/18/08

Kaleidoscope

Extraterrestrials are not naïve, nor are they shy.
For twixt the stars they must fly.
To think them monsters is a lie.

They are seekers of the truth.
They have found eternal youth.
And only we are uncouth.

To think of them as spies,
or terrorists in our eyes,
to be despised... simply lies.

Survival is the test,
for only the very best,
survive and do the rest.

That losers only dream of,
and die while they scheme of,
things that go "bump" in the night.

Our heroes must destroy,
Extraterrestrials can easily deploy,
defenses to our every war toy.

If they know us, they think us silly,
filling our lives with endless frilly,
fruitless pastimes--willy, nilly.

When extraterrestrials arrive we will be amazed,
we will honor them and give them praise,
our lives will be forever raised.

For in a kaleidoscope of brilliant color,
the world will lose its evil pallor,
and we will know the truth.

RWH: 5/17/08

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Poem of the Week: 5/11/08

Woe Is Me

Woe is me. Woe is me. (Chorus)
The world keeps on turning; how can that be?

I sit here in wonder, and count to three.

The world keeps on turning; how can that be?

I used to be woo when I was free,
but now it is woe that I surely be.

(Chorus)

I sit here and sigh at what I see.
The world keeps on churning,
like my love for thee.

But woo was for two and now we are three.

(Chorus)

The oceans are rising like my love for we three,
but the tides of our times foretell what to be.

The tides of our times strike a bad note,
Time after time we struggle to float.

(Chorus)

The woo in me longs for the peace of the sea,
but woe in me pushes to bended knee.

The stars in the sky shine constantly,
but the earth 'neath my feet yearns fervently.

(Chorus)

Woe is my future as far as I can see,
Woe tears at my soul as I gasp this last plea.

Woe is the teacher that brought me to the tree,
where life springs eternal, marching from the sea.

(Chorus)

And when my woe is over and I can clearly see,
The nightmare passed and once again I'm free.

My woo will return and we'll be more than three,
we'll dance and sing and love life long, eternally.

Eternally... eternally... we'll dance and sing and love life long,
eternally...

RWH: 5/10/08

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Poem of the Week: 5/4/08

Going Green

Going green is what it's all about.
Everyone's doing it, there's no doubt.

Makes me want to sing and shout,
"Green, green... green, they say,
on the far side of the hill."

Here, take your pill... it's herbal.
Going green is highly verbal.

Like I am Irish (3/10 of a percent).
Wearing of the green is where it went.

Greens on my table instead of red meat,
I used to roar and now I bleet.

Hired ChemLawn to do my grass,
now it's greener than my gas.

Always knew I had a green thumb,
Pruned my peach into a plum.

Bought a hybrid cuz that's my pride,
Handful of oats and a donkey mile I ride.

Turned all my stocks into cash,
to keep an eye on my green stash.

Everyone's green with envy at my style,
showing off my green teeth, I just smile.

RWH: 5/3/08

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Poem of the Week: 4/27/08

Blue-Green Waters

Blue-green waters call to me,
although I'm far from the sea.

Primal thoughts urge me on,
like the sun chases the dawn.

Like the moon creates the tides,
my love of the sea waits... abides.

Hides... until that wondrous day I see,
and remember... so clearly.

The place of my lowly birth,
on this heavenly, wondrous Earth.

That I call my home,
and am so free to roam.

It makes me warm,
when the blue-green waters form.

In my mind's eye,
A reflection of the sky.

For it is from,
This tepid, fertile bath.

That I emerged,
to tread my path.

Salt water still running,
in my veins.

Then on those cold dark nights, all alone,
I dream again of my blue-green home.

RWH: 4/26/08

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Poem of the Week: 4/13/08

She's No Bother (A Song)

She's no bother, she's my lover, she's my friend.
(Repeat-Chorus)

She's a sleeper, she's a stunner, she's god sent.
She's a looker, she's a leader, she's money lent.

She's a fighter, a make things all righter, a mend.
She's a winner, she's a wonder, she's a wend.

(Chorus)

She's a worker, a tear jerker, she's well penned.
She's alive for, what she dies for, until the end.

She's a joker, a mind blowing toker, when she sings.
She's a saint, she's a savior when her voice takes wings.

(Chorus)

She's my banker, she's my anchor, she's my tend.
She's a straight shooter, a backseat rooter, will not bend.

She's much franker, then my rancor, so-called friends.
She will hold me, unfold me, fly with me to the end.

(Chorus)

She's my friend...

RWH: 4/12/08

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Poem of the Week: 4/6/08

Come with Me

Come with me, and you will see,
the blue marble ever shinin'.

Come with me, and you will see,
the places where she's dyin'.

Air so thick with smoke, the birds choke,
but they just keep on flyin'.

Ice melting so fast, it will not last,
but polar bears keep on swimmin'.

The rain forest gone, but wild animals live on,
in faraway zoos for their asylum.

Dirt packed and bare, people going nowhere,
except producing babies for the dyin'.

Come with me, to the sea,
a hundred miles of debris floatin'.

Oh what have we done!, Can't you see?
a scene that's got me cryin'.

Big business grows on and on,
oblivious to the end, lyin'.

Come with me, and you will see,
the last of our legacy sighin'.

Come with me, to history,
and tell me that I'm lyin'.

RWH: 4/5/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/30/08

Reptilian Brain

I fondle my reptilian brain,
while listening to a metallic refrain.

I gather round my little chicks,
while watching some good porno flicks.

But don't you touch them, hear?
I'll rip your guts from dick to ear!

I took my 'roids my freshman year,
and now my anger hovers near.

It's only my maker that I fear,
I wear his symbols, here, here, and here.

I even wear one on my left ear.
But don't you dare call me a queer.

I'll cut your balls off just for spite,
to show you just who has manly might.

Took my Viagra the other night,
and balled until the early light.

Prostitutes are nice,
give you no shit at half the price.

Can even snuff them if I need,
scum like that no one will heed.

Cults are my seduction, self-destruction,
I travel in packs for more protection.

I'm patriotic and wear the flag,
but don't you dare, call me a fag!

I eat from hunger and not from greed.
And even more when I'm on speed.

When I've passed through this life of pain,
and hear that heavenly refrain,

I can finally kiss your asses goodbye.

RWH: 3/29/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/23/08

Serenity Spring

I lay me down beside still water,
in the green, green grass of spring.

Far from the long, hard winter's fury,
far from the howling wind's sting.

I smell the fragrant wildflowers,
and listen to the song birds sing.

Far from the flash flood's fury,
destroying all hard works bring.

I bathe in the warm sun's glory,
for a moment, forget everything.

Far from the hounds of war,
waiting for the bells to ring.

I sleep the sleep of serenity,
and wake to begin again.

RWH: 3/21/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/16/08

Coral Chorus

I sing a song of the sea,
not where mighty pirates be,
but of the place beneath.

Where waves gently roll,
but do not crash upon,
the sandy sheath of shore.

But upon the shoal of more,
where the waters gently pour,
they call the coral reef.

A place beyond belief,
where motion in myriad color,
steal the sun's rays like a thief.

A rainbow relief of hiding places,
where iridescent fishes races,
to the waves' rhythmic beat.

A feeding frenzy of fashion,
played out in sharp relief,
like the rumba's undulating heat.

Where rays sway and octopuses play,
morays lay in ambush wait,
and sharks snatch a treat.

From some unknown disease,
the coral's colors are fading,
like bright cloth in the sunny breeze.

Soon, coral's song will be silent,
like the buzzing of the bees,
and the bird call in the trees.

So lift a conch shell to your ear,
and listen to the sound you hear.
The dying coral is calling near.

To cast spore upon the waves,
someday long ago and far away,
new coral will grow from its graves.

In the sunlight of the sea.

RWH: 3/15/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/9/08

Honey-Baked Ham (Song)

-Chorus-

Gimme a hunk a that, honey-baked ham,
honey-baked ham...honey-baked ham.
Peanut butter and jelly, strawberry jam...
honey-baked ham...honey-baked ham.

You are what you are,
and I am what I am,
two peas in a pod,
is how we jam.

You'll be my Sue,
and I'll be your Sam.
We'll swat flies for supper,
as the swatter goes wham!

(Chorus)

Like bread and butter,
we spread just fine.
We walk together,
we walk the line.

We're pressed together,
like a stamp and a letter,
scanned the batter,
but found no better.

(Chorus)

In the plate and the platter,
we see each other's shine.
On the griddle of life,
we do double-time.

When it comes time for countin',
pennies in the pot.
Know who you can count on,
when the griddle gets hot.

(Chorus)

RWH: 3/8/08

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Poem of the Week: 3/2/08

Techno Rubble

Beneath the pile of rubble,
where mighty men once stood.
We searched for answers,
but found none very good.

A tribute to their perfection,
climbing to the pinnacle they could.
And not stop at reaching it,
or go where not they should.

First, they conquered all the beasts,
both large and small.
They understood not what they'd done,
they couldn't conquer all.

And then they conquered one another,
while heeding some higher-order.
To justify their continual murder,
in the name of where they'd come.

They took these places as their own,
and called them now civilized.
They took these places from their nature,
creating beauty in their perfect eyes.

But time and nature takes its course,
and civilization always dies.
If not from a natural catastrophe,
then from man's avarice, greed and lies.

An artificial world hastily rose,
as human population multiplied.
It covered every corner of the land,
and could not be denied.

An artificial system was wired,
to fill the insatiable need.
The artificial system was required,
to fill man's insatiable greed.

All nature's creatures large and small,
lived in a world created by default.
Man planned everything so well,
that nothing was left out.

It took a while,
but finally broke through.
Men no longer lived on the Earth,
they lived in a self-made zoo.

The natural selection,
that made him so smart and so strong,
had been engineered away,
so the weak could live on.

It wasn't his artificial intelligence,
that finally did him in.
It was his lack of intelligence,
to quell the technobabble din.

Of his world crashing down,
from his own benign neglect.
And the hopes of his children,
lost in the escalating wreck.

Like so many species long before,
his overpopulation rotted his core,
with anarchy rampant and no hope in sight,
mankind succumbed to a long dark night.

We can only riddle at the rubble they left,
we gather and hunt in the folds of its cleft.
They must have been great to build so high,
while we warm by the fire to an open sky.

RWH: 3/1/08

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Poem of the Week: 2/24/08

Politica

Who a broke a Obama's back?
And rushed Limbaugh's pac?

I donno... donno.

Who pilloried harried Hillary,
for that red party suit she wore?

Was it that john, McCain, in disdain,
with Paris Hilton or Hanoi Jane?

I donno... donno.

Was the mitt Romney wore,
more man than a Huckleberry?

Was blue jay Leno, really read,
or was it something blue red Letterman said?

I donno... donno.

Can we jimmy Kimmel''s locks?
Find out who conan the O'Brien knocks?

Does the biased FOX know its ABCs,
When C's network out blows C's BS?

I donno... donno.

Why is it that conservatives, liberally spend,
while liberals conserve against the trend?

By george, Bush is in the White House,
and going to win the war with more, and more.

I donno... donno.

Political pundits and their pacs,
blogging bandits and washed up hacks.

I'm voting for the Oscars' primary race,
Jon Stewart humor without a trace,

Of politica.

RWH: 2/23/08

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Poem of the Week: 2/17/08

Love Waits

Love waits in the quiet corners,
for you to come by.

Love waits for the right moments,
to catch your eye.

Lust comes rushing in,
burdened by sin,
in the dangerous din,
of your inner ear.

And then love comes,
and everything is clear.

With love there is no guilt.
Life can come full tilt.

While love waits,
to turn sand to silt.

Love does not waver,
love does not wilt.

Love waits to bring you happiness,
like sun's rays bring new hope.

My hope is that love waits for you.

RWH: 2/17/08

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Poem of the Week: 2/10/08

Drops of Eden

Drops of Eden fell below.
Whether rain or tears,
They did not know.

High in the canopy,
that protects Mother Earth,
the leaves that nurtured them,
gave them birth.

The gradual warming,
transformed the sea.
Belched forth carbon dioxide,
that none could see.

The air grew heavy,
and full of doubt.
The unsuspected,
never figured it out.

Plants grew skyward,
looking for sun.
Through clouds and mist,
they struggled,
but found none.

Still, they grew,
spurred on by something,
they never knew.

The very gas that clouded the sky,
had given them this growth,
to seek the high.

As time passed,
a lush forest grew.
Ushered out the old,
ushered in the new.

Tiny creatures myriad as leaves,
evolved and flourished,
in the trees.

When the Sun finally broke through,
the leaves rejoiced and greener grew.

All of the creatures,
hid in the shade.
Fearing the brightness,
of the light's sharp blade.

And so the circle,
had turned full cast.
And the land of Eden,
had returned at last.

RWH: 2/9/08

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Poem of the Week: 2/3/08

Silence's End

(Idea courtesy Paul Simon)

Whispered in dreams,
or so it seems,
between creased seams,
echo the sounds of silence.

Where thoughts abound,
go round and round,
and never quite come out.

Hallowed in halls,
weathered on walls,
the shadow of doubt,
comes through.

The leaves of the trees,
sense the unease,
what is it all about?

The subconscious mind,
its meaning unwind,
as if trying to find,
its way out.

Someday the silence will sway,
push the folds away,
and shout!

RWH: 2/2/08

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Poem of the Week: 1/27/08

Hard Road

It's a hard road ahead and you know it.
It's a hard road ahead and you show it.
It's a hard road ahead, blood's gonna shed,
so get in your boat and row it.

The crop's in the field, so grow it.
The crop's in the field, better stow it.
You'll never need to know to know it.
The crop's in the field, so don't blow it.

The time is right for for the pruning.
This is no time for swooning.
No time for blue mooning.
Time to set sail for the soon.

And sing a different tune.
Before the road aligns with the rune.
Spit in your spittoon and get going.
The crop's in the field and it's growing.

It's a hardscrabble road to heaven.
And you won't pass any 7-11.
So gear up your ass and step on the gas,
it's a hardscrabble road you are given.

The problem to solve is a puzzle.
That can't be written with a muzzle.
The freedom of speech should outreach,
the hardscrabble life of the muddle.

It's a hard road ahead and you know it.
So hop on your shining steed and show it.

RWH: 1/26/08

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Poem of the Week: 1/20/08

Flights of Fancy

Flights of fancy take you into
realms of rancy, dancy, prancy

Swirly girly giddy gancy
kinds of glancy

Puddin and pie right in your eye,
my, my... sigh, sigh

Soft and swoony,
so blue moony

So what to die for,
that's what the sky's for,
here's to the mud in your eye

Surface so foamy,
fingertips so roamy,
eyes touch so cuddly,
shoot the sky

When you get ready,
hang on to that rocket, teddie
and fly on the sly

Into the realm of your inner space
trace, trace where you never erase
and cut to the chase

What's really on your mind?

RWH: 1/19/08

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Poem of the Week: 1/13/08

Razor Sharp

Dull is last century,
sharp is in.
So sharpen your pencil,
and let us begin.

Throw out those rants,
about your long lost love.
Stop boring our senses,
with endless turtledove.

Get out your Thesarus,
and find some words.
The crap you've been writing,
makes well formed turds.

The sky is blue,
and so is the sea.
So what's new,
about these revelations,
since 1803?

I don't care how long,
he's been hurting you.
You need help to get away,
not our pity to continue.

And for you lotharios,
with one track minds.
The cell phone is more portable,
for texting ass finds.

So if you find me dull,
with my meter and rhyme.
I should say , "Go stick it,"
but instead, "Read my line."

Where the word is a razor,
and cuts a fine mime.
Sometimes the truth bleeds,
at an inconvenient time.

There must be meaning,
in my verse.
All else it is just nonsense...
or worse.

RWH: 1/12/08

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Poem of the Week: 1/6/08

Angry Clouds

Angry clouds flew by today,
but I gave them no mind,
and kept my sunny disposition.

Angry clouds scudded the beach,
with dreary gray, but I gave them no mind,
ready for the hurricane's Inquisition.

Angry clouds ran into the mountain,
obscuring the sky, but I gave them no mind,
zipping my coat to the cold's incision.

Angry clouds confronted my plane,
With buffeting sway, but I gave them no mind,
flew around the blast of my reputation.

Birds fly through angry clouds with ease.
Honeybees continue gathering nectar.

Your anger is like the angry clouds,
closing in on a vector... only,

To see the sunshine of your smile once again.

RWH: 1/5/08

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Poem of the Week: 12/30/07

The New Year

Who knows what the new year brings?
The life of man is held by strings.
That connect him to his universe,
his purse, his nurse, his verse.

Will the robin sing in the spring?
The life of man is by his things.
That connect him to his worth,
his earth, his girth, his mirth.

Will the corn grow high or die?
The life of man is by his wings.
That connect him to his flight,
his fight, his right, his light.

Will the autumn sky turn gray?
The life of man sees its day.
That connects into his spirit,
his love, his hate, his fear it.

Will the snow topped trees sing?
The life of man is still king.
That connects sunshine,
his white wine, his woman fine.

As they sit down to dine,
will it be the last time?

RWH: 12/29/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/23/07

The Turn of the Shrew

With the turn of the shrew,
old becomes new,
and the world sees a better time

So get your shrew driver,
your just-in-time arriver,
and start righting some rhyme

When dinosaurs came due,
it was the lowly shrew,
that lived for years underground

Jump started the pace,
of the mammalian race,
and our time to come around

But time has its sway,
and there comes a day,
when the world turns on its axis

Events come into play,
when the old has seen its day,
that were meant to tax us

But rhyme is not enough,
when times get tough,
and the shrew warns of our fate

Are we the right stuff,
do we have enough,
to put aside our hate?

Before it is too late,
and the turn of the shrew,
comes around again

RWH: 12/22/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/16/07

She Comes Around

She comes around,
and my heart starts to pound,
with a heat of the sun in the morning.

She comes around,
and we soar to the sound,
of the early bird's call of warning.

We soar through the day,
like children at play,
never heeding our inner yearning.

We fly through the fray,
our dragons to slay,
and the world keeps on turning.

Turning, turning, turning.
Soaring, yearning, burning.
Never heeding the warning,
in the sunlit morning.

For the day burns,
and the world turns,
into the evening,
jaws yawning.

The soar of the day,
turns into fray,
and she suddenly leaves,
without warning.

Never to come around again.
In the morning... Forlorning.

RWH: 12/14/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/9/07

Epitaph

Somewhere in time,
on a distant, desolate planet,
scrawled in a strange hand,
on rock thousands of years old,
an epitaph was found.

"I am the last one left," it said.
"Soon, I too, will be dead.

I come from a noble race,
over 10 billion strong.

The victims of our success,
we couldn't get along.

We called our land, Eden,
for it was a lush and green.

Teaming with beautiful creatures,
bursting at the seam.

Each one surviving,
in its own, unique, way.

A balance we called nature,
held all things in its sway.

Many species died trying,
if their niche had slipped away.

Somehow, we were different,
somehow we were strong.

Not in strength or numbers,
but how we were right in wrong.

We conquered all in our path,
destruction was our song.

Relying on our leaders,
an idiotic throng.

Our science was superior,
and pointed the right way.

But fear and superstition ruled us,
to our eventual dismay.

We said we believed in 'Life,'
to save our own kind.

We let all the others die,
putting us in a terrible bind.

For nature had tricked us,
and we could not see.

That the gene for our survival,
our biggest threat would be.

Since we could sense the future,
we gathered for the storm.

Some gathered more than others,
and our thirst for greed was born.

When something got to be rare,
we drove up its price.

Our moral compass wavered,
and we wound up like the mice.

Scavenging the planet,
for the last grain of rice.

I was the strongest of them all,
the smartest they are dead.

So I am scratching on this rock,
these words run through my head.

The last rain was a week ago,
when I last quenched my thirst.

The hunger gnaws inside of me,
deep within my girth.

For I know that I will die today,
the last man on the planet Ear..."

RWH: 12/8/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/2/07

Viva La Difference

By chance of fate, he came late,
traveling light, and spread upon,
the glowing land.

But a great drought, forced her out,
of Eden's wondrous glow.

His thought was bright, he saw the light,
and knew that he must go.

To hunt and gather what she could,
so her family would thrive and grow.

His trials, they were many,
His losses, they were great.

But she learned how to survive,
she learned how to relate.

For nature changed where ere he went,
and he must have learned or die.

As her tribe grew, many split to few,
and went their separate ways.

There were those who doubted or grew old,
and decided not to follow.

There were those who sought new fortune,
and left on their own.

The constant search for a new horizon,
reached to all the lands.

The arrivals had acquired different traits,
to aid in their survival.

But they were all the same thinking man,
in all his glorious measure.

The world was now her oyster,
and all its things to treasure.

Out of it she carved a life,
to become his culture.

Wandering now led to war,
because all the lands were taken.

Some cultures were strong and fierce,
some were just forsaken.

The conquering culture flourished,
creating the idea of a nation.

Forgetting that in the beginning,
we all held the same station.

Each culture has its gifts,
to cast upon the world.

The beauty of communication,
is to see these gifts unfurled.

See survival in free hopes and wishes,
not in the ideologies propaganda dishes.

For we are all the same,
there is no one to blame,
but ourselves for not seeing it.

RWH: 12/1/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/25/07

Tis the Season

"Tis the season without reason,"
said the leopard to the frog.

"I am lounging in this tree,
and you are sitting on that log."

"Some guy in China wants my penis,
so he can be a man."

"Produce more children in his name,
as part of some personal glorious plan."

"My brotheren they were many,"
quoth the frog from his perch.

"Of glorious spotted hue, fading fast
in the wearied eyes of search.

"Soon, the only leopards will be in cages,
and all of us remaining frogs in the zoo."

And so they waited, nothing they could do.
No need for spots in the monsoon.

Tis the season without reason,
coming to your home soon.

Stay tuned...

RWH: 11/24/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/18/07

The Net

The Net is a web of mythical proportion,
hiding its mythical spider.

The one that that is on the outer edge,
where you went so far to find her.

The one you meet in clandestine rooms,
rather than sit down beside her.

On the front porch swing,
stealing a feel, knowing it's real.

Before that all important kiss,
to seal the deal and steal her heart.

No, this is more like hit and miss,
like sending out an Amber alert.

For she is not what she seems,
pictured beyond your wildest dreams.

She's probably a guy, the FBI,
teasing your heart to the seams.

Or a perv with a lot of nerve,
fishing for a filthy little fly.

Or a fag to make you gag,
when you find out he's a guy.

But she's probably just a floozy,
online whenever she gets boozy.

Trying to impress you with her art.
Trying to give her life a jumpstart.

So never try to meet her, cuz,
she's not interested in an old fart.

RWH: 11/17/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/13/07

Bury Me Not

Bury me not neath fragrant clover.
Not under the old oak tree.

Not down by the Black River,
where all my folks seem to be.

Where sometime in the future,
they will come to resurrect, to dissect,
every little part of me.

Where they will come to bring me back.
To a world I cannot now conceive,
and can't even dream of.

No, let me be as I am.
Cut me open like a clam,
and take my pearls of wisdom.

My heart, my lungs, my kidneys,
my corneas, my liver, my skin,
my very marrow and pass them on.

For they are in good condition,
though used, seen little wear.

They have a fine patina,
from years of gentle care.

The rest please give to science,
for spinal cord research.

A little forensic archaeology,
to find the cause I search.

Finally burn to ashes, dust to dust,
the remains of what I trust.

Cast to the winds as fertile food,
part of the universal must.

Feed more than just daisies,
from my grave site thrust.

RWH: 11/9/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/4/07

12-21-2012

I was born on that cold December day,
long ago and far away.

When all the prophecies came to rest,
and humanity was put to test.

When the Mayan calendar and I Ching,
both predicted the very same thing.

Time would come to an end.

The Bible,
and Nostradamus said,
all our trouble would come to a head.

A time of hunger, pestilence and fear,
when we would lose all held dear.

When Edgar Casey predicted the end,
and we wouldn't know foe from friend.

It is quite clear that it will be by fire,
the Sun's last rant, its funeral pyre?

Whatever it is, the time is near.
Scholars and media spread the fear.

I plan to celebrate my birthday that fateful night,
have a drink, go to bed, and turn out the light.

To wake to a crystal-clear morn.

RWH: 11/4/07

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Poem of the Week: 10/28/07

Candy Is Dandy

Maybe it was the pumpkin pie,
or the full moon that caught my eye.

Whatever it was, it led to my demise.
At least in the church's eyes.

For I have sinned. Gave inned,
to my inner mission.

I was not a pedophile, no,
passing candy single file.

Touch and go, no no,
it was much worse than that.

I ate it all in one sitting.
For me it was so fitting.

Leaving nothing for the poor,
little waifs come to my door.

I shouldn't have bent over,
but it was too late.

A Santa Anna wind came up,
and the rest was fate.

RWH: 10/27/07

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Poem of the Week: 10/21/07

Blank Page

The blank page presents an opportunity.
A place for words from here to eternity.

A love sonnet with creamy words on it.
A rant of maniacal hate and fear.

The Constitution of a nation,
Or its declaration so pure and clear.

The start of a great novel.
A will to ones held dear.

The deed to land held close.
A great theory mathematically pure.

A lesson learned from life.
The lifetime of seer.

A bit of wit and wisdom.
A joke that brings a tear.

A page on which much is written,
that should still be wiped clear.

So with blank mind I ponder,
this page I hold so near.

Should I write blank nonsense?
Or leave the page still pure?

RWH: 10/20/07

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Poem of the Week: 10/14/07

Road Wish

Going eighty on I-80,
Eighteen-wheeler on my rear.

Ending up as road kill,
Is my nascent fear.

Seven days of pounding,
Concrete ridges bore.

Counting miles and time,
Like someone's keeping score.

Or smoothly tires screaming,
Siren above the roar.

Safety grooves a singing,
An ear-piercing soar.

Music pulsing to the beat,
Cruising down main street.

Looking for America,
And finding only traffic.

So put some magic,
In these controls.

Make them fly,
Like pilot's souls.

Above these asphalt,
And concrete trails.

Where the sun sets,
On cloud's wispy tails.

And every trip,
Has a silver lining.

RWH: 10/14/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/23/07

Mind Control

Shopping till I'm dropping--exhausted.
Switching to free lanes on a freeway.
Intercepting calls on a play-by-play.
Balancing bills on payday.

Mind racing a mile a minute.

Munching takeout from a greasy spoon.
Meeting deadlines way too soon.
Head filled with that crazy tune.
Scanning e-mails way past noon.

Scrambling to stay in it.

Juggling remotes with buttons ablaze.
Text messaging sonnets with eyes aglaze.
GPSing the way through the maze.
Popping pills to cut through the haze.

Trying to manage all of the shit.

Hearing lost in all the noise.
Eyesight dims in the spotlight.
Feelings become out of touch.
Mind loses control,

... and more rushes in.

RWH: 9/21/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/15/07

Letting Go

Sometimes the best laid plans,
take us to and fro.

No matter how we work it out,
we just have to let it go.

The world is full of choices.
We make them while we can.

But choices don't make us wise,
the fallibility of man.

We all want to hold on to love,
at least that's what we know.

But love is a fickle thing,
and we must let it go.

Life is what we make of it,
we choose our path so well.

But life does not go our way,
like the ocean swell.

Sometimes up, sometimes down,
sometimes heaven, sometimes hell.

The only real certainty in life,
is that we must let go.

RWH: 9/15/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/9/07

Fever

Where have you gone, Patti Page?

Heat from within,
mortal sin,
wavering in the distance.

Heat from without,
with a doubt,
shimmering in resistance.

Mind grows dim,
thoughts are grim,
vaguely in persistence.

Chances are slim,
on the rim,
all life's existence.

Delirium comes,
night sweat sums,
to pool that persistence.

Until it breaks,
or life it takes,
on the other side of existence.

See it coming in the distance?

RWH: 9/7/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/2/07

Titillating

Your tender tips,
your swaying hips,
your ruby lips,
undulating.

Deep in the night,
with unseen sight,
your magic fingers,
flying.

Legs spread wide,
cover to the side,
cross panties slide,
defying.

A taboo thing,
your earlobes ring,
insides sing,
dying.

A lovely pain,
penetrating rain,
gently slain,
sighing.

Watching in lust,
with your trust,
hardness thrust,
trying.

To get some sleep,
in the heat,
of the titillating night.

RWH: 8/23/07

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