Poem of the Week: 3/7/10

Wireless

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

Where all things are possible,
once they are done.

Think of an idea,
and make it run.

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

With magical fingers,
we make it play.

Soon cloud computing,
will "make our day."

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

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

Driving while brainless,
if that isn't enough.

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

Going wireless is easy,
going wireless is fun.

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

RWH: 3/6/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/28/10

Of Sleep Deprived

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/27/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/21/10

Only a Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, what a wonderful world it would be!

RWH: 2/20/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/14/10

How Far the Spring?

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

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

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

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

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

Nourishes me again.

RWH: 2/13/10

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Poem of the Week: 2/7/10

The Scribe

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

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

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

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

When day turns to night,
he writes by candlelight.

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/6/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/31/10

It's in the Water

It's in the water,
they always say.

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

Armageddon.

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

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

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

Water was our lifeblood,
our source, our tool.

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

With no time left,
we huddle and pray.

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

RWH: 1/30/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/24/10

And Haiti Sings On...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/23/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/17/10

From the Bottom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/16/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/10/10

Flaggin'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

While I'm laggin'.

RWH: 1/8/10

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Poem of the Week: 1/3/10

Time Tumbling

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/2/10

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Poem of the Week: 12/27/09

The Clock Ticks on...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Only time will tell,
and the clock ticks on.

RWH: 12/27/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/20/09

Jack Frost

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 12/19/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/13/09

Somewhere There Are Christmases

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 12/12/09

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Poem of the Week: 12/6/09

Hellcat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 12/5/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/29/09

Utopian High

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

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

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

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

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

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

When I get sour lemons,
I make lemonade.

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

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

A study of history,
shows us the way.

We've always made progress,
day to day.

We've always made progress,
dear to dear.

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 11/27/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/22/09

A Fine Madness

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 11/21/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/15/09

Turkesaur

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 11/14/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/8/09

Soar

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

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

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

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

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

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

And soar again...

RWH: 11/7/09

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Poem of the Week: 11/1/09

The Morning After

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 10/31/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/25/09

Autumn Light

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 10/24/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/18/09

Another Life

If I had known you,
in another life.

I would have known you,
free from strife.

I would have known you,
in your younger years.

I would have known you,
before your fears,

took you down.

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

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

to overflowing.

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

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

to overwhelming.

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

And another life is forming.

RWH: 10/17/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/11/09

Dying Young

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

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

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

Who will be remembered,
and who will not?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will be remembered.

RWH: 10/10/09

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Poem of the Week: 10/4/09

Parallel Universe

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 10/3/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/27/09

High Definition

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 9/26/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/20/09

The Golden Bough

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 9/20/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/13/09

You Haunt Me

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 9/12/09

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Poem of the Week: 9/6/09

Impossible Moments

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 9/6/09

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