Ron's Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week: 2/17/18

Killing Machine Gene

On the food chain of nature,
Man is in between,
always killed for food,
with a killing gene.

Survival of the fittest,
orders the nature of things,
removing the weakest,
giving intelligence wings.

To shape the natural order,
in favor of the best,
and let the harsh environment,
take care of the rest.

A territorial imperative,
ruling for the masses,
those with the most territory,
gaining power as time passes.

It started with family,
and local tribal feuds,
branched out to villages,
when war began, still eludes.

But war has become a part,
of the order of all things,
we call it, "defense,"
when offensive it rings.

The nations of earth,
are always at war,
whether it be international games,
or to settle some old score.

We create weapons,
meant for our defense,
but then use them unwisely,
as a means of offense.

For the gene of killing,
is ingrained in our sole,
so we would rather get even,
than forgive and console.

The weapons of war,
are readily at hand,
so that we can use them,
in some ill-fated stand.

When will we ban,
the weapons of war?
Become a brotherhood of man,
stop settling the score?

RWH: 2/16/18

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Poem of the Week: 2/10/18

Carrot or Stick?

Every child comes into the world,
with wonders to behold.
A curiosity unbounded,
soaking up new from the old.

Eyes open to dancing light,
fingers feel everything with delight.
Every sense comes alive,
craving attention through the night.

Some mothers find it so hard,
to meet their baby's every need.
Getting anxious, frustrated and angry,
danger signs they can't seem to heed.

And fathers also are to blame,
when all they do is plant their seed.
And then, leave nurturing all to her,
a kind of dangerous, selfish greed.

Crawling brings a whole new world,
within a child's eager, wandering grasp.
Hands reach out and mouths taste,
sometimes, inviting a dangerous, gasp!

A child's misstep can be met with love,
or it can be met with anger and pain.
Why do we curtail simple curiosity?
With punishment and with shame?

So, how we treat a child from early on,
quite often determines their later fate.
When we ignore their eager questions,
beating for what could make them great.

Later, we blame their teachers,
for not setting our children straight.
When it was us who ignored their needs,
by teaching them ignorance and hate.

Psychologists have found the carrot,
properly leading our children right,
gives them a sense of accomplishment,
a confidence creating personal might.

Psychologists have found the stick,
when applied in anger, frustration or fright,
restricts the child's ability to reach out,
making them less likely to see the light.

So, every time you pick up the stick,
remember what these words have said.
Would you rather have a bright wild child,
or obedient with subliminal hate instead?

RWH: 2/8/18

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Poem of the Week: 2/3/18

What the Heck?

What the heck?
GOP's agenda's a train wreck.

Cow jumped over the blue, bloodied moon,
tax reform come to roost very soon.

Get your little money and spend it quick,
boost the economy; that's the trick.

Stock market's reached an all-time bubble,
overextended like this means big trouble.

Meanwhile, paychecks are not keeping up,
big boys' accounts runneth over their cup.

Amazon is monopolizing all healthcare,
don't buy from monopolies--beware.

Retail stores rapidly cutting their staff,
compared, coal miners are just chaff.

Welfare will not be able to handle the flood,
workfare is required or there will be blood.

Nearsighted thinking is running the show,
get while the getting's good, then go.

Off to your gated community retreat,
retired and insulated from the street.

What the heck is going on we say?
What's wrong with everyone earning good pay?

Everything shows this country is great,
why do we discover that way too late?

RWH: 2/1/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/27/18


Sometimes just shooting blanks,
and never racking up a score.
Nothing left in the bare bank,
like nothing was there, before.

Looking out at a beautiful day,
with nothing but a blank stare.
Straining eyes to see the light,
finding nothing moving there.

Staring at a blank canvas,
wanting to connect the dots.
With no dots to connect,
empty holes filling blank spots.

While swearing blankety-blank,
couldn't find slippery words.
They were censored anyway,
by bots pretending to be nerds.

So, if you're ever feeling blank,
fill in the empty space.
Looking for it the next day,
will not even find a trace.

RWH: 1/25/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/20/18


Ice is nice in our cold drink,
a luxury we don't even think.
Keeps cool hot summer day,
refreshing after strenuous play.

Ice is deadly on the road.
Slip-sliding like a greased toad.
No matter what direction head,
ice takes control increasing dread.

Often a slow-motion horror,
car berserk like never before,
heading for some awful crash,
or off the road in a dash.

Heavy laden bough and limb,
weight of ice to the brim.
Some will come crashing down,
electricity out brings a frown.

Ice forms over water like glass,
keeps the rest from freezing.
Caught in a desert of ice and snow,
water everywhere, to drink? No.

An ice storm brings glittering palace,
a fairytale landscape, deadly malice.
For creatures large and small,
ice can cause suffering to them all.

So next time you savor ice in your drink,
or view a glittering landscape, think.
Someone or some animal may have died,
so you can drink up with cool lipped pride.

How about you?

RWH: 1/18/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/13/18


Feeling kind of, blah, blau or blue today.
How about you? Ennui, too?
The weather is halfway everything,
a little cloudy, dreary, rainy, blue.

There are tax reports, emails to delete,
want to stay in bed, and off my feet.

I've got the blahs there ain't no doubt,
it sure ain't the flu that's got me down.
Don't feel like writin', world's a frown.

Too many nasty little tasks to do,
and my equipment keeps breakin',
as I do--damn updates, too.
Just when I get 'em working right,
updates turn the screw.

So, I'll just muddle through,
and wait for a sunny day,
to come along to melt,
these blahs away.

How about you?

RWH: 1/11/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/6/18


The holidays give reflection,
on what we did last year.
Tell us what we're doing right,
tell us what's wrong, we fear.

Promises, sometimes easily made,
are not as easy to hold or keep.
Promises can make us happy,
but broken, can make us weep.

Contracts made with handshakes,
require great mutual trust.
Contracts made on legal paper,
when disputed, are a must.

Whether we be sad or happy,
this time of year rolls 'round,
we often make resolutions,
some silly, some profound.

Resolutions are promises with ourselves,
to make things better or make them right.
Resolutions can be quite sappy or wacky,
can even keep us awake at night.

I never make resolutions or write them down.
Instead, I work hard at doing right all year long.
So I smile every time I hear someone say,
"This year my resolutions are going to stay!"

RWH: 1/4/18

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Poem of the Week: 12/30/17

She Had (Mariah Carey Thighs)


She had,
Sia black/white hair,
Betty Davis eyes,
Beyonce booty, and
Mariah Carey thighs.

Capable of anything,
a woman of plus size,
she had the gall, going,
with it, to totally ostracize.

There were two in the oven,
and three on outside ties,
she had what it took,
to populate and publicize.


Preaching to the choir,
far more than being wise,
she had an Oprah, way,
to amazingly popularize.

Powerful in the pulpit,
twisting men with lies,
Madonna moment catapulting,
Queen of many guise.

Not to mention going Gaga.
So I won't. Cuz she had,


RWH: 12/23/17

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Poem of the Week: 12/23/17

Christmas Drunk

It started at the office party,
open bar free booze for all.
Next thing I know the office flirt,
has me in the closet in the hall.

After hours of carousing,
seem to have lost that flirt,
ended up in a cold snowbank,
at least it wasn't muddy dirt.

The car wouldn't start,
bless it's dead battery heart,
so I slogged on home,
walking, slip and start.

Got a ride somehow,
like a drunk or fool,
arrived home very late,
snow melting in a pool.

Slipped on that wet floor,
and went down hard,
with a loud, "Oops, owww!"
bang! Like a sack of lard.

Sleepy eyed son appeared,
asked, "Is Santa here?"
through my bellringing head,
I yelled, "No, back to bed, dear!"

Wife was not happy,
with a husband so sappy,
trimming the tree, when,
all he wanted was a nappy.

Woke up with a hangover,
to the kids' loud play.
No joy there for me,
just another, hungover, day.

RWH: 12/21/17

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Poem of the Week: 12/16/17

Comes the Sun

Darkness slashed with a sliver of intense light,
as eastern sky turns black to blue bright.

Mist hangs heavy in morning dank bog,
where forest trail disappears into fog.

Sun's new warmth soon dispels mist,
melting the fog from its appointed list.

Dew still coats all leaves, limbs and grass,
sunlight through dew like prism's glass.

Casts rainbows throughout the meadow green,
wet blanket covers creatures seen and unseen.

Provides vital moisture for all concerned,
a reward for a good night sleep's earned.

Warm earth sprouts new seeds and growth,
morning for awakening and creatures' mirth.

Sun climbs high to greet the high noon,
casts shadow small like well heated room.

Late afternoon sun can be oppressively hot,
creatures take shade to nap or not.

Sun goes down in a glowing ember in sky west,
warm day is over; creatures seek shelter, rest.

RWH: 12/14/17

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Poem of the Week: 12/9/17

Dark and Dreary

Dark and dreary painted on the sky,
makes me weary as days go by,
makes me so weary, hungry, cold,
I just want to cry. Die.

Days roll into weeks, months and years,
haven't seen the sun; brings me to tears.

Black snow and dirty rain,
air stings my eyes, so much pain.

No crops, no food, without spring or summer,
eating from cans is such a bummer.

How long this will last, I have no clue,
although I know the sun is long overdue.

Wait! I see… the clouds have parted!
Blue sky above, my gloom departed.

I know it's coming; I just know now,
here comes the sun again. Wow!

RWH: 12/7/17

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Poem of the Week: 12/2/17


My name is Minh Chow,
I live by the docks in Macau,
My establishment Chow's Chow.
floats on an ancient dhow,
I do not serve cow.

But I do serve the rat,
ratty, tat tat. lickety-split.

I have the chickie flied lice,
It is oh, oh, so velly nice.

We have the pressed duck,
run over yesterday fresh truck.

Sweet-and-sour pork,
must eat with chopstick,
we have no fork.

Thousand year old egg,
dog found yesterday,
in city dump, he gag,
Very tasty but not cheap.

And my special Chow's chow mein,
muchy better my Chow's chop suey,
Likey much better my cousin, Huey.

Served up in hurry, lickety-split,
If you no likey, you go take a shit.

With two, you get egg roan.

As the Italians say, leaving the boat,
"Ciao, Chow's Chow."

RWH: 11/30/17

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Poem of the Week: 11/25/17

The Hunt

The forest opens up this time of year,
there's a chill in the air for ventures so dear.

Walking quiet is difficult on a carpet of leaves,
the rustling signals all creatures beware.

But they are hiding until it is clear.
To come out warily and forage near.

Putting away fat and stores for the winter ahead.
Making sure they can spend it in a warm bed.

Smoke rises in the distance, joining rotting leaves.
Acrid smell of autumn rekindles ancient beliefs.

Hunter sits quietly and waits for the sound.
A squirrel, a partridge, rabbit, turkey come 'round.

Shoots with skill to make a clean kill,
not wanting the animal to suffer any ill.

A time-honored pastime to put food on the table,
all men and boys used to hunt if they were able.

The greatest feeling is to spot a big brash buck,
emerge from the forest for those that have luck.

Heart races as the antlers come into range,
kill must be quick, pull the trigger so strange.

Gun's report echoes through the valley and trees,
he runs for a bit, then mighty buck falls to his knees.

The family won't go hungry this winter of cold.
With warm blankets of fur and venison to behold.

RWH: 11/23/17

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Poem of the Week: 11/18/17

Useless Factoids

Oppressive heavy clouds all water weight,
better rain now before you're overweight.
There's no gold left at the Golden Gate,
but plenty of cyber Bitcoin to escalate.

The baby of a zebra and donkey is a zonkey,
Let's Make a Deal contestants surely zonkie.
A chimpanzee is not a monkey, jerky,
a ham for Thanksgiving is not a turkey.

The GPS will take you to nowhere,
texting the whole time totally unaware,
one finds oneself in the middle of where?
As if common sense vanished into thin air.

It's not warm and fuzzy in outer space,
it's cold and dark... a miserable place.
On most planets will be no kissy face,
going without a space suit death, not disgrace.

Because it is written does not make it real,
if it smells a bit rotten, probably is to the feel.
We are prone to mistakes that make us reel,
but we can inflate that fish photo, no big deal.

Conspiracy theories are always around,
like gossip and taxes they can be found,
at the tip of your fingers Facebook bound,
if fake news were facts, they would astound.

Actually, it makes me so sad, to think,
that so many's perception is so weak.
They don't know a smell from a stink.

RWH: 11/16/17

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Poem of the Week: 11/11/17

Autumn Chill

There's a chill in the air that can't be denied,
run shivers on skin that clothes do not hide.

Gone are the days of bare skinned pride,
the chill is a signal of winter's bide.

Damp dark on the sky of a summer grayed,
with dismal thoughts, autumn's color fade.

Trees starkly stripped of their colorful garb,
stand sentinel in the moonlight's pale orb.

Foreboding thoughts cross the mind,
Will death's scythe be coming close behind?

Light a warm fire to drive out the chill.
Put your feet up with a hot toddy to fill.

Kiss your grand child's rosy cold cheek,
chase those dark thoughts away so bleak.

Hot sun will be back out again next week,
surviving the holidays is not for the weak.

RWH: 11/9/17

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Poem of the Week: 10/31/17

Batty Boo

Had bats in his belfry,
ghouls in his shoes.
Wise owl just winked,
as the witches abused.

Cackling clowns came out,
in a bloody mist that night.
Ghosts appeared just ghastly,
in the eerie pink half-light.

Kiddies were all dressed up,
in expensive costume delight.
Little knowing what awaited,
on the street lit just right.

Skeletons rattled picked clean,
cartooned bleach white bones.
While in the treetops hiding,
tortured regurgitated moans.

Wizard orchestrated mayhem,
flew out of the worth.
Content in the belfry,
bats gave it girth.

In the final hour,
the victims arose.
Kiddies not coming home,
that's the way it goes.

RWH: 10/27/17

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Poem of the Week: 10/28/17

Do As I Say


Dogger, doer or driver, don't do as I do,
I want to have a much better life for you.
Do as I say, and not as I do,
a much better life, I want for you.

Don't be a banker of other people's money,
for you will be beholden to them that you use.
You can never satisfy that thirst for more,
that temptation to steal will always abuse.

Don't come home drunk and beat your wife,
don't leave your children haunted all their life.
You have no excuse for beating her so,
have the courage to stop and tell yourself, No!


Don't be a gambler and waste all your money,
the temptation is great in the land of milk and honey.
But gambling has always had a slippery downside,
you're up with adrenaline, but down on your pride.

Don't live unhealthy and use up your youth,
so many wasted pastimes that are just uncouth.
Smoking, drinking, drugging and bad food,
will bring you down in time, change your mood.


Don't take risks that you can't back up,
some risks are too costly to drink from that cup.
Recognize danger before it's too late,
don't put your loved ones in your fate.

Don't be a salesman and sell yourself short.
Each quarter better than the last you report.
At some point those quarters will decline,
and all those dollars spent to your last dime.


RWH: 10/26/17

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Poem of the Week: 10/21/17

Turnkey Life

We all want a turnkey life,
wrapped up nicely,
and free from strife.

Where everything is done,
so neatly and clean,
thinking you'd have won.

A lottery, a perfect life of fun,
with no effort on your part,
constantly on the treadmill run.

Some find it in religion,
where everything is solved,
by simply believing--resolved.

Some find it in addiction,
some in escaping addiction,
others in strong conviction.

That they are right,
and others are wrong,
for which they will fight.

For compromise is hard to do,
when a turnkey life,
is what you subscribe to.

We all want safety, security too,
but take away the safety net,
and we are cast into the blue.

So get out your bucket,
and try out things new,
it's high time to chuck it.

And let serendipity rise,
turn that key outward,
you're in for a surprise.

RWH: 10/19/17

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Poem of the Week: 10/14/17


Just when you think you have it made,
worked and saved to make the grade.
Something comes along to upset the cart,
tears you thoroughly deep in your heart.

You're underwater with bills to pay,
seems there are new ones every day.
Robbing Peter to pay Paul,
you manage somehow through it all.

And then it comes, out of the blue,
biblical rain begins falling on you.
Water rises so fast you cannot flee,
you're underwater in reality.

You cannot swim against the flow,
you climb up because you can't stay low.
Rescue saves your life but not your things,
suddenly, you're thrown into shelter's wings.

Earthquakes, tornadoes, pyroclastic flows,
sneak up without subtlety everyone knows.
Sooner or later, if you live in the zone,
the rising tsunami will take your home.

When fire comes roaring down the hill,
run for your life before smoke seals the deal.
Avalanches are sudden, blizzards are slow,
but both will kill you if you're not in the know.

At a great gathering, an explosion occurred,
body parts fly as bloody screams are heard.
Sputtering of gunfire rakes through the crowd,
ducking for cover, searing pain cries out loud.

Fear is the factor that grips us inside,
there's no escaping disaster's ugly side.
No reason to stop living in disasters' path,
pick up what's left and before long, laugh.

RWH: 10/12/17

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Poem of the Week: 10/7/17

I Think of You

When stars blanket the cold, dark vacant sky,
I think of you and why, I'm warm, so warm.

When the water's mirrored on the placid lake,
I think of you and how, you give, give and take.

When the sun is settling softly below ocean view,
I think of you and why our love is always new.

When I awake from nightmare's dream,
I think of you and if you heard my scream.

In times of toil and great indecision,
I think of you and how you've risen.

To every obstacle thrown in our way,
I think of you, morning to morning, every day.

You are never far from my thoughts' view.
I hope you know that, and that I love you.

RWH: 9/28/17

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Poem of the Week: 9/30/17


Hummingbird, hummingbird, can I fly away with thee?
You seem so relaxed. You seem so free.

You seem to know exactly what you're doing,
and where to go, fluttering in and out, to and fro.
There is no indecision and you never go slow.

Where can I get this kind of purposeful resolve?
For I am so caught up as the days unravel, revolve.

Hummingbird, Hummingbird, take me along.
I don't know if you'll hear, but I'll sing you a song.

I know that you're flying far south from me.
I want to go along south. I want to see.

All the wonders you have seen as you pause,
while cruising for fast food on the sly, so high.
Coming upon scenes of oohs and awes,
from a unique ability to hover like a dragonfly.

For your unique ability to silently sneak,
a peek through a window or clearing below,
of lovemaking in the morning light's peak,
or late afternoon's warm bath of waning glow.

Voyeur of habitat from Canadian spruce forest,
to the great grassy flowery plains turned to corn,
relying on urban gardens and fake nectar,
for sugar lost from the wild prairie's scorn.

Hummingbird, I'm singing your song.
I want to go along. I want to go along.
I want to experience what you do.
I want to experience along with you.

Hummingbird, Hummingbird, can I come along,
before you, too, your habitat and you, are gone?

RWH: 9/24/17

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Poem of the Week: 9/23/17

Listen to the Wind

Have you ever listened to the wind?
Gentle whisper of a brief breeze?
Tinkle of the wind chime tease?
Rustle of the leaves in the trees?

Tap, tap, tapping on windowpane?
Whiplashing fury of a strong storm?
Howl of a blizzard on the high plain?
Bearing down sound of tornado train?
Or the roar of a hurricane all night long?

Wind instrumental of subtle sound.
Its tonal quality always surround.
One never knows when the wind blows.
Only its sound as it comes and goes.

Primordial melody of the flute,
clear crisp clarity of the clarinet,
raspy graspy growl of the sax.
Echo of trumpeting horn call,
Majesty of the organ's mighty all.

So whichever way your wind blows,
listen for the sound as it comes and goes.
Familiar sounds the wind always makes,
reminding us of the whim of life's breaks.

RWH: 9/21/17

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Poem of the Week: 9/15/17

What Will I Bee?

What will I bee?
A little bit of wee?
An insignificant tee,
or a knat you can't see?

Buzzing around the biz,
trying to take a whiz,
exclaiming geewhiz,
my stats are so diz.

Trying to suck a flower,
at this late great hour,
to make my bed or bower,
no longer in my power.

Struck by the great disease,
try to put my ducks at ease.
Sucker's so hard to please,
as I drink the blood of bees.

So if you want to be a fairy,
and flutter around poems airy,
of this bee, be very wary,
for the stinger I carry.

For it may, "float like a butterfly,
and sting like a bee." But,
my sting is softer just for thee.

Rhymes without reason of late,
you may think they're trash, or great.
But the bee made me open the gate,
open or closed, still makes rate.

So we leave this poem with a query,
are you lonely and so damned weary?
If so, don't be so damned leery,
when I call and you are so beery.

RWH: 9/15/17

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Poem of the Week: 9/9/17

Heat Sink

Thermodynamics is not a subject for the timid.
It is only understood by the mathematical few.
But the science gives us some understanding,
of the trouble we have gotten ourselves into.

The atmosphere is heating up,
all the records easily show.
While controversy rages on,
the numbers continue to grow.

These numbers bother people of power,
money and interest, in the status quo.
For their superiority lies in being right;
always being ahead and in the know.

But nature knows not ideology,
responds as it always does to strife.
Through extinction, migration and adaption,
in a never-ending cycle of renewing life.

The result is immense diversification,
a planet teeming with variety so blessed.
Where every corner of the living planet,
has myriad life, so different from the rest.

But atmosphere, land and water,
do not know biological life's distress.
They only respond to heat dynamics,
dictated by laws of equilibrium and rest.

We ask why storms are now greater,
in the Atlantic and Pacific realms?
It's only thermodynamics operating,
no one or thing is at their helms.

Like water going down the drain,
the heated air seeks great relief.
It spirals upward to a higher cool,
in a vortex of a great heat thief.

Sucking heat of overheated ocean,
the humid, overheated air.
Into the higher atmosphere,
where it hits the cold up there.

All this action creates wind and rain.
A natural heat sink of great refrain.
It is singing a song that we don't like.
Wind and flood in its destructive lane.

Science has clearly predicted,
more droughts, floods and storms.
Above all historic memory are coming,
above all reason and human norms.

The cause is quite clear,
still, hard for us to get a bead.
For power, plunder and greed,
Are desires far exceeding need.

When will we understand?
When will we heed?
Before it's too late, and
our excess makes us bleed.

RWH: 9/7/17

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Poem of the Week: 9/2/17

Houston: Sanctuary City

Built on Buffalo Bayou by two enterprising NY guys,
Allen Brothers scheme of their own free enterprise.

From a swampy, mosquito infested estuary,
a mighty, sprawlng city would eventually rise.

Cursed with yellow fever, drought and flood,
Houston was continually plagued by dust or mud.

So it wasn't until Galveston was destroyed,
that Houston had much to offer or any pride.

Austin took away its claim to be a capital,
but Houston always remained pivotal.

As a sea, railroad and road junction,
the city began to find useful function.

A seaport was dredged to Galveston Bay,
the foundation of a great city was underway.

Oil and natural gas flowed like milk and Honey,
by pipeline, ship, train and truck, money.

Along with timber, cotton and sugar,
from points west, south and east with rigor.

But Houston had a bad reputation as "Mud Town."
Howard Hughes paved streets to put that rep down.

With downtown often threatened by flood and hurricane,
in 1940 two flood reservoirs were built to ease the pain.

Houses were built high and the streets drained.
Bayous were drained and ditched, but still remained.

A super space city rose from its swampy earth,
air-conditioning fueling the arrivals from the north.

Housing for the multitudes spread like an invasion.
people from every country, creed and persuasion.

Houston was a city on the move and of change.
pushing the limits, replacing old with rearrange.

But mother nature paid no heed to the progress made.
Mother nature never adapted to the decisions we bade.

Burn fossil fuel until the last vein of coal.
Drill for oil and burn it; we were on a roll.

But with global warming comes tropical rain.
Mother nature warned us, but the same old refrain.

Came from the rich lords of the manor of oil,
Dig, dig, drill, drill. Burn, burn, labor and toil.

When the weather changes and heated skies turn gray,
the rain keeps on coming and doesn't go away.

Allison taught Houston that its location wasn't safe.
But Houston continued to ignore and seemed to have faith.

That the infrastructure built would keep the city from harm,
when the truth is that nothing will ever be the norm.

Hurricane Harvey arrived and changed all the rules.
Normal emergency measures were the stuff of fools.

So the good people of Houston stepped into the breach.
Provided emergency assistance with kind outreach.

The rumors that people of this country can't come together,
are as false as the claims that fossil fuels don't affect weather.

It is time we understand nature and the nature of us.
We are all good people and need to quell the fuss.

For our problems are many and caused by our own largess.
We all need to work together to make this world blessed.

RWH: 8/30/17

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Poem of the Week: 8/26/17


Harvey is lurking and churning out in the Gulf.
From out of nowhere with amazing stealth.

He came uninvited like a thief in the night.
He came to the unaware of their plight.

There are always those who are unprepared.
The naysayers or without information shared.

Harvey was predicted not to have much blow.
But he strengthened and will eventually showed.

His original intention when he hit the coast.
His party arrived with a 20 foot waves,
and 10 foot surging boast.

His party hurt where it hurts the most.
Partyers drunken and caught in their boast.

Swept away for their arrogance to his power.
Misunderstanding his tide and storm wall hour.

Predicted to linger on the land for six days.
Harvey is dumping his full bladder several ways.

He's pissing on people living so low.
As if by living there, they didn't know.

Rivers and bayous swelling to their banks.
They will overflow and flood neighborhoods,
regardless of their owners' ranks.

For rich and poor will feel Harvey's floods.
There will be no reprieve for arrogant bluebloods.

People who drive fancy cars into deep water.
People who think that they are so much smarter.

Or people who run when there is torrential rain,
thinking that they will escape only headlong into pain.

Caught on the freeways without water or gas.
They curse themselves for being such an ass.

Harvey does not care while thousands are rescued.
He wrings out his clouds on the hapless queued.

Awaiting the government bailout for getting screwed.

So, Harvey, Harvey please go away!
Don't stick around anymore,
No even one more day.

RWH: 8/24/17 Revised 8/26/17

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Poem of the Week: 8/19/17

Jean Queen

Like in a dream, I remember,
the Jean Queen named Jean.

She was blessed with those special genes,
that made her high school prom queen.

At the park she could be seen,
with bare midriff and splitting seams.

As fit as someone who worked out,
the top cheerleader when she'd shout.

Not only beautiful, she was kind,
touched everyone, left none behind.

She touched us with her gentle soul,
when she winked or kissed without goal.

In a miniskirt her legs were long,
a flash of pantie for a song.

We dreamed of her all day long,
we dreamed up words for her song.

In a bikini at the pool,
she gathered followers,
and some would drool.

Just the nature of young guys,
she understood and let us spy.

We all wished for our own Jean Queen,
some of us got ours in wedding scene.

Some of us didn't, but were blessed,
to have known the Queen of jeans.
Still, after all these years, the best.

RWH: 8/17/17

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Poem of the Week: 8/12/17

Life Choices

Life comes to us, one and all.
No matter how big, or how small.

We have no choice in the matter.
From the time we walked, pitter patter.

To some, great fortune comes along,
they did not earn, but for a song.

To some it takes much growing up,
must work very hard to fill their cup.

Suffering the slings of outrageous fate,
for some, too early, some of late.

So many are pawns of the powerful,
like sheep to the slaughter, sorrowful.

Some die young seeking to be great.
Never reaching their potential or the gate.

Many waste their lives in trivial pursuit.
Wandering purposelessly to the down chute.

Many seek salvation at the end of their days.
Some live this life as the end of their ways.

Which would you prefer if you had a choice?
As a pawn to the power? Or with your own voice?

We all have choices that make the difference.
Regardless of life's whims; it is our inference.

RWH: 8/10/17

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Poem of the Week: 8/3/17


Life can be boring,
life can be fun.
Nobody really wants,
life on the run.

But certain urges,
at puberty time,
drive us to madness;
we cross the line.

Some get the lesson,
some do not.
Some turn to blessing,
some tie the knot.

With so many vices,
from which to choose,
we get off the track,
into a life of lose.

Either running from,
the last big mistake,
or settling for 9 to 5,
slave wage stake.

Lost in this madness,
of routine discontent,
we secretly seek out,
excitement we rent.

We reach for the ring,
on the carousel round,
maybe the lottery this time,
our salvation to be found.

We secretly wish,
for chaos to come.
plunder for the taking,
life on the run.

Living out the fantasy,
of I, me, and mine.
we crave the excitement,
of life on unwind.

With a better future,
for all just around the bend,
so many fools want chaos,
so their torture will end.

RWH: 8/1/17

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The Poem of the Week: 7/29/17


Into every life comes the inevitable choke.
It comes unexpected and is no joke.
It comes in daylight and darkness's cloak.
But it comes regardless to every and all.

A chicken bone swallowed in haste.
A glass of wine breathed without taste.
A reflux of acid, dry and sticky like paste.
Both the lowly and mighty make the fall.

Feeling the hands tight around your throat.
A time for panic, not a time to gloat.
And then you wake up, and that's all she wrote.
It was only a dream, a tale, tall.

Before a great audience, speech comes to end.
Turning red, and then blue, as signals send.
High blood pressure pumping around the bend.
Heeding the urgency of emergency's call.

And if you say that you never choke.
We all come to that fork in the road's yoke.
When our balloon is burst with a single poke.
And our composure takes on a gray pall.

So don't test the water of an inevitable choke.
Be kind to yourself and throw off the yoke.
Roll with the punches and laugh at the poke.
For you never know when a choke will call.

Heimlich maneuver and give it your best.
The time is not now, to enter your rest.
Be prepared and answer the inevitable test.
And live to see another beautiful fall.

RWH: 7/27/17

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Poem of the Week: 7/22/17


Why is it that compassion is so hard to find?
When the self-righteous strike out blind.

Religion condemns more than it saves,
meek and helpless lost in the cultish raves.

Survival of the fittest still rules the land,
the strong get stronger, as though planned.

But money has taken over evolution,
and money has created genetic pollution.

Where the rich use platitudes to placate the poor,
while stealing from them mightily, citadels to shore.

"Let them all live," is the hypocritical compassionate claim,
to a life of poverty and misery, no one to blame?

We only take care of family and close friend,
the rest are just suckers on the tit, never end.

Unless we can have compassion for all that are here,
we can never have peace and be free from anger and fear.

It takes education and changing our minds,
it takes understanding of our motives, left behinds.

For everyone left in suffering and in pain,
there are people indulging in selfish gain.

Parade their pet examples for all to see,
sweep under the rug billions, not free.

So if you are sure that your mindless cost-cutting is right,
like Jesus, live with the masses; understand their plight.

RWH: 7/20/17

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Poem of the Week: 7/15/17

Lost in Dream

Life is but a dream,
a never-ending stream,
of consciousness supreme,
creating who we are.

A stream of sight, scent and sound,
that surrounds us all day round,
until we think we've found,
who we've become so far.

But life forever turns,
it inflames and it burns,
never quite reaching yearns,
like a far-off distant star.

So some of us are depressed,
gone too far out, and then, regressed,
others think they're blessed,
perspective of who we are.

In sleep there's no sight nor sound,
our consciousness comes 'round,
dreams seem so profound,
often raising the mental bar.

Gradually sliding into that big sleep,
memories begin to return and creep,
dreams often then repeat,
calling us from afar.

Eventually, the only dream,
returns to endless moonbeam,
and sensory solitude supreme,
as life ends in par.

RWH: 7/13/17

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Poem of the Week: 7/8/17

Powerless and Deflated

Have you ever had one of those days?
When everything seems to be going sideways?

When every time you have something solved,
a new problem arises that's unresolved.

When you've tried and tried, and tried again,
and finally gave up fricasseeing that fried hen.

You hand over the job to someone else to do,
they don't do it very well, or stick it to you.

Friends are very encouraging but don't lend a hand,
they are fair weather friends that won't take a stand.

Constant changes that don't make any sense,
leading to going backward as recompense.

Like changing your underwear with your neighbor,
in a new form of keeping up with the Joneses there.

Why are we fixing what is already good?
Are we just chasing a fad in the neighborhood?

With all this commotion, one runs out of steam.
How to give up the ghost, without losing esteem.

When we run out of power, we have to give some up,
the question is, to who? And, how much to cough up.

Everything has its price, and the escalating tide,
takes everything you have, to stay in the ride.

RWH: 7/6/17

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Poem of the Week: 7/1/17

Why We Lie

Man/woman was not designed to stand 24/7.
He/she must lie prostrate half of his/her time,
under God's great canopy of heaven.

Besides, before there was a chair,
he/her had to lie down flat to sleep.
But with modern recliners,
he/her can do it in front of the silver screen,
forgetting to say, "My soul to keep."

But there is an inherent danger,
in lying flat on one's back.
Besides the tendency to snore,
comes the sleep apnea attack.

We politely say, "He/she went to sleep."
When he/she choked to death on his/her own,
vomit while holding his/her breath too deep.

So much for the midnight snack...
Leading to that stroke or heart attack.

We politely say, "I slept with her/him,
when we mean just the opposite.
We certainly are lying while doing sex,
unless we are in another position,
to avoid the dreaded missionary hex.

If you thought this poem was about lying,
you certainly were right.
There are little lies all through it,
that you can contemplate as you lie,
unable to sleep over it, tonight.

RWH: 6/29/17

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Poem of the Week: 6/24/17


Too many fonts,
king of all wants,
my cup runneth over,
with expression.

With a quill as a pen,
calligraphy was in,
an artwork to leave,
lasting impression.

Body of great art,
grew from the start,
to encompass the world,
with its passion.

Draw from the past,
create what will last,
Google the best,
and add to the fashion.

World of an oyster,
no longer a cloister,
but everyone's grasp,
its own profound lesson.

Computing is now here,
giving everyone new ear,
when it comes to expressing,
unique literary perfection.

So express it my dear,
finger the screen without fear,
until you fulfill,
your life's ambition.

RWH: 6/22/17

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Poem of the Week: 6/17/17

Mind Melding

It's already happening,
the melding of minds.
In small innovative steps,
and scientific finds.

Before written history,
minds knew others' thoughts.
Like father, like son--family ways,
through DNA, character oughts.

Out of the communal family,
like thinking slowly evolved.
Into tribe, village, and nation,
group thinking became involved.

With the advent of writing,
ideas could be widely shared.
The readers of these ideas,
could assume them unbared.

Through constant repetition,
long-term memory hardwires thought,
until ideologies are firmly entrenched,
and change little with so much bought.

But young minds are different,
they are readily open to change.
So each new generation must be schooled,
to indoctrinate thoughts elders engage.

Group thought creates ideologies,
philosophies, religions and nation states.
Conflicts arise between these group thoughts,
arguments, fights and wars in the fates.

First books, and then newspapers,
spread the word of known events,
followed by telegraph, telephone,
radio, television, Internet lightning sent.

Social media and real-time video,
is changing the social landscape fast.
People throughout the earth are learning,
the facts unfiltered and uncensored at last.

Implants will soon enhance us,
sight, hearing, translation and knowledge.
Virtual reality will conjure up new scenarios.
Humankind will finally venture to the edge.

Of a brave new world where secrets,
and privacy will no longer exist.
Where honest sharing of information,
will instantly reveal avoiding the evil twist.

Group thought will be put to better use,
to solve great problems now delayed.
and ideological differences will disappear,
when the greater good is clearly displayed.

These technologies can be used,
with both good and evil purpose built in.
But I think the good will outweigh the bad,
each new generation starts free of sin.

RWH: 6/15/17

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Poem of the Week: 6/10/17

Honestly on Trial

What constitutes the truth?
Is it authority, forsooth?

Or is it something else altogether?
Something as fickle as the weather?

The truth lies in the scientific method.
Its process too tedious for lazy person.
Much better to get an interpretation,
a watered-down, expert spun, version.

Hence, we have prophets, pundits and kings,
to tell us what we want and other things.

So we can go on with our tedious little lives,
and let them do it for us, like workers in hives.

We certainly are busy little ants,
tending to our prejudices and rants.

While never having to be responsible for our belief,
leaving them up to fate or some god for relief.

We lie a little every day to make others happy.
We have real emotion,
even though it may be sappy.

We don't really know who is controlling who.
We just want to "get along" and get through.

It's easy to blame the "other" guys for our troubles,
for in every life, there are burst bubbles.

But when we are lying to ourselves,
we put progress aside and up on shelves.

It's time to be honest and take a good look.
We need to read the lines more carefully in the book.

Lying is pathological and can come to no good.
Starting right in your own neighborhood.

Truth may hurt, and it may require change.
But the truth always turns a new, clean page.

RWH: 6/8/17

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Poem of the Week: 5/27/17

What's It About?

What does it mean to live perfectly?

It's not about you.
It's not about me.
It's about all the wonder around us,
as far as we can see.
It's not about you.
It's not about me.

So why are we so selfish?

So why don't we feel free?
What is it about us?
That makes us not see?
That all we behold is in our hands.
We cannot remake; remold these lands.
For they are a gift we must only treasure.
Land that we must not materially measure,
once we have destroyed its heritage,
will no longer be part of the natural page.

So when you lay blame,
just look at yourself, because...
It's not about you.
It's not about me.
It's about all of our future,
and what we really want to be.

Do we want to be narrow?
Do we want to pull in?
Do we want to blame everyone?
For what we call, "sin?"

So if you're looking for someone to blame,
just look at yourself before you light the flame.

It's not about you.
It's not about me.
It is about all of us,
can't you see?

RWH: 5/24/17

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Poem of the Week: 5/20/17

Wayward Swan

A wayward swan flew off course,
and happened to rest in my view.
She drifted there among the lilies,
white against green, water blue.

She was so beautiful in the morning sun,
elegantly breaking the mirror of the lake.
With purpose and direction gliding along,
rolling ripples of surface in her wake.

I thought of my love so far away,
taking her swim to greet the new day.
Why did I leave her to swim all alone?
Why did I leave the comfort of home?

I thought about how lonely this swan must be,
with no mate to nest with that I could see.
Still, she was regal in her own private realm,
like a princess awaiting her prince to come home.

Two days went by as I thought of my love,
each morning the swan reminded me of,
what I missed of her watching from above.
I secretly wished she was here to see.

That symbol of peace and calm resolve,
waiting so patiently as though with a plan.
Waiting so patiently day after day,
knowing somehow she'd be joined by her man.

On the third day, to my pleasant surprise,
another white swan flew in before my eyes.
I knew then that she was wayward no more,
both had promised to meet on this far shore.

That evening at the airport I awaited your return,
my joy overflowed seeing you dressed in white.
We re-consummated our love all through the night,
and greeted the swans' arrival at first light.

RWH: 5/18/17

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Poem of the Week: 5/13/17

You're Fired!

There are two words that are hard to hear,
regardless of the time of year.
These two words are, "You're fired!"
Especially if soon after, "Your hired."

We all can't be entrepreneurs,
with businesses of our own.
It takes luck, hard work and skill,
and customers to condone.

The rich have capital reserves,
to get them through hard times.
To a struggling sole proprietor,
that heroic thought just pines.

So we must work for others,
for our daily bread.
Most work is not satisfactory,
but it's all we've ever had.

When we hear the words,
"We have to lay you off."
It does not soften the blow,
although we know it's scoffed.

Most of us have no safety net,
until our next paycheck.
Our bills become overdue,
frustrated, throw up our hands,
say stronger things than, "Oh heck.

To be fired is a form of insult,
regardless of the cause.
It's hard to get over the anger,
doesn't give our thoughts pause.

To be laid off used to have a promise,
of coming back to work soon.
But it's used now for "financial exigency,"
replacing harsher words by goon.

If it weren't for two income families,
and unemployment checks.
Many more would go homeless,
at the whim of profit facts.

Few can get a "golden parachute,"
that the elite have to escape.
Wage slaves must suffer hardship,
eating retirement saved at rapid rate.

There is no good side to, "You're fired,"
although some will say it woke them up.
Those harsh words have a sting to them,
that leaves a bad taste in your cup.

What a blessing to be comfortably retired,
and never, ever have to hear again, "You're fired!"

RWH: 5/11/17

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Poem of the Week: 5/6/17

Across the Chasm

There is a chasm that yawns,
between the minds of souls.
a gulf that love bridges hearts,
like a timeless bell that tolls.

It opens with a smile,
and a warm, "Hello."
Sometimes leading instantly,
to a recognition deep below.

A melding of hearts and souls,
sometimes, instant and profound.
As though magic had occurred,
and a soulmate had been found.

This doesn't happen very often,
but when it does, it's a fire,
that burns without any fuel,
purely on primal desire.

But time erodes everything,
including bridges of fate.
Without refueling love grows cold,
must be revived before it's late.

For those few souls in each life,
who've earned the calm of trust,
a lifetime of love and friendship,
will outlast the chasm of lust.

RWH: 5/4/17

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Poem of the Week: 4/29/17


Nature is the best landscaper,
perfecting every niche and cranny.
Nurturing every new form of life,
like a well-trained perfect nanny.

Survival is a hard-won fight,
winnowing the sick and weak,
so the strong can take flight,
and hiding places for the meek.

There's only so much in nature's cup,
survival decides what is coming up.
And what is going down.
There's no way around.

Nature provides from its bounty.
And nature takes away in time.
Nature shows no unnatural mercy.
Yet there is a method in its rhyme.

The result is a fantastic array of life.
Flora and fauna symbiotically intertwined.
Resulting in diversity and biological strength.
As though it were created by a superior mind.

But man thinks he's superior to nature's ways,
a Johnny-come-lately, he plots his days.
Seeking to get the most in his grasp,
not thinking about how long it will last.

So man has been dismantling nature's wonder,
selectively harvesting in ways more like plunder.
Carelessly driving some species from life,
not heeding what he has brought asunder.

But nature rules in the end.
If man sullies his nest to his own demise.
He will surely pay the price of his wend.
Long after man's gone, diversity will,
once again, arise.

RWH: 4/26/17

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Poem of the Week: 4/22/17

Fickle Winds of Fate

The fickle winds of fate,
blow of late, my dear, of late.

They are at the gate, my dear,
those fickle winds, at the gate.

You may have heard them coming,
or hoped they would be gone.

You may have dreamed their whispers,
you may have heard their song.

But the winds do not obey our thoughts,
only they know where they belong.

I would not tempt the evil ones,
waiting in the sidelines so long.

For the fires along the watchtower,
have picked up the winds of late.

Sighs winds make in the trees,
foretell forever's fate.

RWH: 4/12/17

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Poem of the Week: 4/15/17

Goin' Fishin'

I'm goin' fishin' down to that old fishin' hole.
On my bicycle on a warm sunny day.
Shirt off. Wind and sun on my back.
Everything is goin' good and my way.

Farmers' dogs suddenly come running out,
chase my bicycle by barking their shout.
But I laugh at their panting futile attempts,
to nip at my heels until they wear out.

Stop by the roadside bank to find a sweet treat.
June strawberries are ripe and plump in the heat.
Pop them in my mouth with explosions of flavor,
Mother Nature has ways that always favor.

At the end of the long ride is a meandering river.
Shaded pools overflowing into riffles of rock.
The last flood trapped fish in these pools,
to be the first to cast a line there rules.

For the fish left behind are hungry for a bite.
They go for my lure ready to fight.
Some are so big and so strong,
I find that my line breaks before long.

Other days are more relaxed and laid-back.
I sit in the shade on the bank and reflect.
Thinking of that girl in the third row with me,
making out on a blanket wild under this tree.

A kingfisher flits in and out of the sun dappled trees,
catches an unaware minnow off the water with ease.
A frog goes kerplunk from the bank to the pool,
he will commence his song if I'm quiet and cool.

It's time to go home so as not to miss supper.
It's nice to have fish to clean for my mother.
But some crab apples baked green from that old tree,
will make a fine apple pie that for her is no bother.

If a storm came up unawares on the way,
it was getting cold drenched or stand under a tree.
Some days were so hot a stop at that old pump,
offering tangy iron tasting water ice cold for free.

Some days goin' fishin' I come home with some.
Some days goin' fishin' I come home with none.
But all days goin' fishin', whether rain or shine,
those days goin' fishin' were fun 'cuz they're mine.

RWH: 4/12/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/25/17

Gone with a Whim

Thoughts come upon me,
quickly these days.
Like smoke in a daydream,
indistinct in the haze.

I capture them sometimes,
and hold on fast.
To create an idea meantime,
and hope that it lasts.

A story may emerge,
a poem or a joke.
I dare not tarry.
I dare not choke.

For these whims of fancy,
are flighty at best.
Will be gone in an instant,
if I let them rest.

So I take up my pen,
figuratively, that is.
And jot down the thought,
before it goes, fizz.

Like the carbon dioxide,
escaping an abandoned Coke.
Like a mystery unraveling,
still hidden under a cloak.

So I scooped this one up,
before my eyes grow dim.
And captured it, before,
it was gone with a whim.

RWH: 4/5/17

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Poem of the Week: 4/1/17

Ear Duct Cleaning

Got a call from a sweet young thing the other day,
said that she would clean my ear ducts,
in my home, and do it right away.
She was in my neighborhood, so she say.

And said that she'd do it for next to nothin'.
Said it was required for a good housekeeping seal.
It was like nothin' could stop her friendly zeal.

Sos I said, "Come on over, I'm home all day.
My ears always need a cleaning,
Cain't mostly hear what you say, anyway."

I spruced up my underarms and brushed my gums,
was hoping that young lady would be discreet,
when she comes--shore hoped she comes.

Twarn't no time a'tall they was at my door.
Thought I faintly heard ringin' before they,
pounded some more and then... more.

Two men entered, one young and one old.
That young woman who had called me,
wasn't there--not like she told.

That young man listened to what the old man said;
brought in a stepladder, started unscrewing screens.
When he got the screens off, stuck in his head.

The old man told me that he smelled mold and mildew,
for only $129.99 they would clean those vents,
disinfect them through and through.

He asked me if I had allergies, asthma and sinus bad?
I told him I had bad hearing and my ear ducts was clogged.
"Don't know nothing about that, see a doctor." he said.

See a doctor? I already had. Said it wasn't covered.
"Pre-existing condition" was what I had. To insurance--bad.

So I told him to go ahead to see if it would help my ears.
Hadn't cleaned those air ducts in many years.
Was getting too old for crawling around and such,
let that young man do it, he really could stretch.

After sweepin' and blown' for nearly an hour,
that old man asked me if I wanted it to smell like a flower.
"Only $59.99 and will also spray that smelly old shower."

Now these guys was startin' to get in my pocket,
startin' on my furnace into every electrical socket.
Soon they'd tell me I had unravelin' duck tape.
Let those ducts unravel, for heaven's sake!

So I shooed them out the door, to their surprise.
No ear cleaning for me today. A word to the wise.

RWH: 3/28/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/25/17

Itchybod Bane

My name is Itchybod Bane.
I ain't no superhero kind of man,
but like all them, I have a secret pain.
My itchy body is my claim to fame.

No sleep for me in Sleepy Hollow,
headless horseman thoughts to wallow,
scratching is my perrenial nightmare,
dusk to dawn into day to follow.

You'll see me scratching like a dog,
with my right foot behind my right ear.
Foolishly, feverishly whipping away,
as though I'm scratching into next year.

And you'd be right, because I did and do.
Last year, the year before that,
and even the year before that, too.
At least I was consistent, persistent.

But some places are so damn hard to reach,
for those I need help to charge into the breach.
For those may require a long Chinese scratcher,
or a willing assistant while I'm on the crapper.

Ever have an itch that you just couldn't scratch?
Ever have an egg that you just couldn't hatch?
What does an egg have to do with this poem?
I don't know, but I sure got you going.

Pills, ointments, salves and creams,
I've tried them all, so it seems.
They all work fairly well for a little bit,
but soon, I'm back on an itching fit.

So every time you have an itch that bothers you a little,
think of old Itchybod Bane and let out a whistle.
I'll hear you whistling and run to your side,
and scratch your bloody sweet little hide.

RWH: 3/23/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/18/17


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 3/16/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/11/17

Spring Forward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 3/9/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/4/17

Comes the Rain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Banish the rain and make me shine.

RWH: 3/2/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/25/17


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

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

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

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

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

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

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


RWH: 2/23/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/18/17

Hollyweird Hills

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/17/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/11/17


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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/9/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/3/17


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/2/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/28/17

Eden Walled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you satisfied now?

RWH: 1/25/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/19/17

Edge of a Verge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/19/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/7/17

Cold Warring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/12/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/7/17


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/5/17

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Poem of the Week: 12/31/16

Urine or Out

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

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

Or not.

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

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

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

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

Might even scorch.

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

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

RWH: 12/29/16

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       The Kaleidoscope Effect    A Love Story

       Alone?    A Life Story

       Hanging by a Thread    A Love of Life Story

       War's End    A Love of Humanity Story

       American Mole:  The Vespers    A Love of Country Story

       American Mole:  The Cartel    A Lost Love Story

       It's in the Water and Other Stories    A Love of Short Stories

       Verge of Apocalypse Tales    End of Earth Stories?

       Impolite Stories: Sex, Politics & Religion    Love of Controversy Stories


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