Ron's Poems from 2001

Poem of the Week: 12/23/01

Small Miracles

Small miracles happen; they happen every day.
Sometimes they go unnoticed; sometimes they get in the way.

It is easy to overlook them because they are so small,
But if we didn't have them, we may not have at all.

For it's the little things that matter in the scheme of time,
Little miracles every day that keep us in our prime.

Whether it's timed or coincidence, it makes no matter which,
What's important is that it happens like someone threw a switch.

And what had seemed so important suddenly was moot.
A little miracle saved the day and made our day to boot.

It's the big ones that we think about; like when our life was saved.
But it's the little ones, every day, that save us from an early grave.

So count your blessings and be glad for the little that you have,
Little miracles, one by one, to cover like a salve.

To heal the wounds life daily supplies,
And wipe the tears from our eyes.

And begin to live again the great design.
These little miracles divine and entwine.

Into the mosaic called life.

RWH: 12/22/01

Poem of the Week: 12/16/01

Handful

She was a handful in more ways than one,
A handful even when her life began.

Tiny, not much more than his four fingers long,
Her father held her in one hand and sang to her a song.

"You are so sweet my dear petite, you rest upon my hand,
For that my child, I christen thee, ' Handful ', and proclaim it to the land."

Handful was tiny, that was true, but she made up for it in spunk.
Her father had been wild, too; but compared to her, he was a monk.

She was terrible in her twos, traveling with the dogs.
Biting back bite for a bite, as they chased the hogs.

Dirt and dust from head to toe, she slept up in the tiles, Grabbing food from the fire, wearing naught but smiles.

Preferring manly ways, she ran with the boys instead, Always thoughts beyond her place rose up in her head.

She learned her wily ways, bargaining not to fight,
It kept her feminine, somehow, and saved her in the night.

She left her village in the dark, her father at her heels.
In the town, she sold flowers and begged for the wheels.

To the city with its pleasures, and its treasures true,
But Handful longed for something else across the waters blue.

In factories she did toil, her fingers to the bone,
But as hard as Handful worked, she refused to call the factory home.

Instead, with a helping handful from a man of ill repute,
She crossed the seas to America, a handful without dispute.

Handful had become a young woman of beauty so fresh and rare,
That everywhere Handful went, the men would stop and stare.

Her exotic dark-eyed good looks soon brought her to her fame,
That she could sing with the angels further made her name.

Handful sang and danced her way across the stage to everyone's delight,
Soon, she was making movies and working day and night.

Though many men wanted her, a handful's all they got.
She used and abused them, and gave them up for naught.

Though many men wooed her, and asked her for her hand,
She threw their advances aside, and dreamed of a faraway land.

Where she could run naked and barefoot in the dusty streets,
Where dogs and hogs would join her for some tasty treats.

But that could not happen; it never could again,
Instead, her fame and fortune grew, and spread across a land.

Handful died without husband or children in a foreign land,
Her beauty and her friends had fled, but she remained,

A handful to the end.

RWH: 12/16/01

Poem of the Week: 12/9/01

Autumn Color

Autumn come, color my view.
Change my oak leaves' color from green to new.

Yellow gold or scarlet, whatever the hue,
Naturally chosen to be true.

Paintbrushes of masters in every touch,
Subtle and soft the canvass is much.

The work is like magic as it spreads through the land.
Swiftly and silently it transforms green to grand.

Landscapes so colored and strikingly set,
That subtlety change with light and the wet.

To die, fall, and float on waters transparent,
Reflecting the sky in a moving apparent.

Mosaic of gentle surface patterns grow,
Covering with a deep carpet below.

Colors and softness take the edge off of time,
Autumn's great glory is its colors of rhyme.

Seen to be savored on a warm fall day,
Before the winds of winter blow them away.

So savor those colors in your mind's eye,
So even the gray walls of prison won't let them pass by.

Picture them in your mind and let them show through,
The colors of autumn nature prepares for you.

RWH: 12/9/01

Poem of the Week: 12/2/01

Picture This

Picture me, picture you.
A picture's worth a thousand words--it's true!

Picture pixels dancing through,
Myriad colors, shades, and hue.

Picture lifetimes brought to view,
A thousand pictures, give or take a few.

A fading memory of lives long lost.
A picture worth keeping, valued far beyond its cost.

A picture is as old as the caves of man,
Drawn to gain power over the unknown.

Draw a picture with words if you can,
The reader will need mind's eye to fill in.

The gaps that words cannot describe,
Like time erases the stone carver's scribe.

Picture a memory so vivid and true,
That lasts only the lifetime of me or you.

Pictures on paper, canvas and stone,
Will eventually fade until they are unknown.

But when a picture is electronically coded,
It can be copied and transported without being eroded.

To dance through the ether until the end of time,
Recovered in an instant, like new and so fine.

RWH: 12/2/01

Poem of the Week: 11/25/01

Poem on Your Plate

It's getting close to the day
When we give thanks in every way.

When plenty's filled our plate so full
And we've stored our harvest for the chill

That's coming soon without delight,
All through a long winter's night.

But I am going to grandma's place,
To savor the food and embrace,

Memories of a long life, family, and such.
That's, my dilemma I must confess.

How can there be a Thanksgiving poem,
If I'm on the road rocking and roaming?

The answer is very simple, you see.
All I have to do is write the poem early.

Then post it at the last minute,
Leaving you thinking that I had done it,

According to my regular schedule,
Instead of frolicking without a care.

Don't you wish you were me?
Don't you wish you were there?

I wasn't.You weren't.So what's the worry?
The poem got done, didn't it?

So did the turkey.

RWH: 11/25/01

Poem of the Week: 11/18/01

Without a Thought.

Without a thought, without a care,
I go through life as though a dare,

Had goaded me to this point.
A new poem, I must anoint.

That nagging thought on Saturday morn,
That a new poem must be born.

Suddenly, thoughts race through my head,
If I don't come up with a poem, I am dead.

What will my adoring reading public think?
When all seven or eight of them come to drink.

From the pool of my ideas,
Only to find me lacking.

Slacking, loafing, no good, not hot.
Without a clue, without thought.

To avoid being naught, I give it all I've got,
And drop another poem in the slot.

Without a thought.

RWH: 11/18/01

Poem of the Week: 11/11/01

A Poem's Idea

The idea of a poem is not in its rhyme,
It is more ethereal, more sublime.

The primary emotion that evokes a line.
Comes from within, without define.

It comes in a moment, a brilliant flash.
Or it seeps in slowly, begging to ask.

Am I worthy of a poem?
Am I worthy to last?

Or just a passing thought,
Gone missing in the past.

And so we enter the poet's dilemma,
Finding that thought that makes a difference.

It cannot be got through scientific inference.
It cannot be got through total indifference.

It must have come from something of substance,
Not a wild thought that nags your existence.

It must come together in a moment of truth,
Like sensing existence comes in your youth.

The poet's bane and the poet's delight.
Is getting it wrong and getting it right.

When you're wrong, you're wrong, and have to accept it.
But when you're right, it's right and you can't deny that,

In the fight for existence, the poem's the thing,
That quickens the heart and makes it sing.

The idea of a poem?
I knew all along.

It's the heart of a poem,
And words for a song.

RWH: 11/11/01

Poem of the Week: 11/4/01

Strange

There's a strangeness in the air.
It's almost undetectable; but it's there.

It's in the tint of the fall light,
It's a murmur in the night.

You can feel it crawling up your spine,
Your hair stands up like a sign.

A primordial sense of feeling
That at night, sets you thinking.

Tossing, turning as it comes stealing,
Into your dreams and leaves you reeling.

It's a warning to beware,
This strangeness in the air.

If you choose not to heed its warning,
You might wake up one sunny morning.

To find all you loved and cherished gone,
To the strange before the dawn.

RWH: 11/4/01

Crossroads

There are many crossroads to living, crossroads to life.
Whether you are choosing a school to go to, or taking a wife.

The choices are not easy; they are not fair.
They are just choices, they are just there.

Arriving at the crossroads, chooser beware.
For you may think you know where you're going, but you're going nowhere.

For many the first crossroad is when their parents divide.
You beg, plead and cry to no avail, but they decide.

Who you will stay with until you can't abide,
Living under their roof anymore with your maturity and pride.

You take the road to work or school,
Whatever you decide.

If you decide to marry, take a husband or a wife,
You must choose right, or suffer all your life.

If you choose the wrong work, and end up getting fired,
You can depend on friends for little, as in debt you are mired.

Then comes disaster, with life's hardest knocks,
Wiping you out and leaving you shipwrecked on the rocks.

So you start over and pick up the pieces,
Laying out your life map again, carefully folding the creases.

Neatly, so that you will someday live with ease,
When along comes a life-threatening disease.

Medicine or surgery, which will you choose?
Whatever it is; it's your health you lose.

Finally in the end, you don't have to choose.
In an obituary, you are just small news.

RWH: 10/28/01

Poem of the Week: 10/21/01

Reaching the End

Oh, the struggle, oh, the pain, .
The passionate power of the game.

You suffer and sacrifice, to little avail,
Nothing is gained without great travail.

You twist and turn your mind in knots,
But words do not come in great thoughts.

Instead, they come in little surprises along the way,
To brighten your struggle and make your day.

So it is the land that you have passed through,
Not the land arrived at that makes your due.

It's not the outcome that stakes your claim,
It's the journey through trouble that is your fame.

And so when I sit here and look at my tome,
I don't feel fulfilled; I don't feel I'm home.

I feel the ennui of an unfinished life,
I want to get back to that trouble and strife.

There's no satisfaction in the journey's end,
Only in the struggle with life's turn and bend.

The end.

RWH: 10/21/01

Poem of the Week: 10/14/01

Nine Years

Nine years have come and gone,
Still, we struggle and push on.

First, it was language we had to overcome,
When English was not your native tongue.

And then there was culture, so broad and vast.
We had to bridge the Pacific step by step to last.

I taught you how to drive and read a map.
You taught me patience and to take a nap.

My decline was obvious; yours so entwined.
So full of doubt, mine more combined.

And so we struggle, to reach that distant goal.
The Grail of retirement, to save our soul.

When we'll have time to do what we want
And money to spend on whatever we've not.

Two steps forward, three steps back.
We have no trouble getting what we lack.

We'll just work harder, longer for sure,
Nine years, times nine and more.

RWH: 10/14/01

Poem of the Week: 10/7/01

A Great Loss

What is the cost, a great loss?
Can it ever be repaid?

We all lose if we choose,
To live life plans laid.

There are hazards, great and small,
Life puts in our way.

Challenges so great and mighty,
That we may never see the day,

When everyone will be free from loss,
Be free from strife and pain.

The answer, is, "No."
So we must go out while tears rain.

Going about our business, every day,
Smiling, laughing, and joking again.

To keep the pain away.

RWH: 10/7/01

Poem of the Week: 9/30/01

Autumn Chill

An autumn breeze is in the trees, a chill is in the air.
It serves as warning to all, large and small, to beware.

Of winter's coming, and the time to prepare.
To gather fruits of the summer and to share.

The sky's become so blue of different hue,
The light, more intense than bright, revealing too.

The summer heat has flown, replaced by the pervading chill,
That alerts the sated senses, and brings to them no ill.

The chill slips silently down from the north,
It slides in gently over night, and brings forth.

The coming of a fresh sweet day,
Where I can dream the hours away, or

Wake up to a time to run, a time to play.
Spend, yes waste, this fresh, newborn day.

For soon, very soon, the winter winds will come,
And blow the wool warm chill away.

And I will long for the chill, still breeze,
Of a warm leaf falling, sunlit, autumn's day.

RWH: 9/23/01

Poem of the Week: 9/23/01

Freedom From

Freedom from the kingdom come.
Freedom for to live and die.

Freedom frombe tread upon.
Freedom from the lie.

Freedom is a sacred thing,
Freedom's cost can be high.

For freedom can be dangerous,
Because with freedom you can try.

Anything you wish,
And not be asked, " Why? "

Freedom must be used wisely,
For freedom can spread the lie.

That my life and liberty is freedom,
To tread on the other guy.

Freedom from religion,
Freedom from strife.

Freedom to be tolerant,
And let others live their life.

The price of freedom is control,
Of which the world is rife.

Freedom cuts both ways,
Like a two-edged knife.

There is no higher authority,
Than one's own self control.

When we let ideologies rule us.
We have lost that role.

Our freedom is lost with it,
And so is our soul.

RWH: 9/23/01

Poem of the Week: 9/23/01

I Witness

I saw the fire in the sky.
I saw the people jump and die.

I saw the anguish on the faces,
Of those who watched, helpless in their places.

I saw the smoke, fire and fright.
I saw the hour our darkest night.

When in full light of day,
The mighty towers did give way.

And collapse upon themselves.
Like a stack of flimsy shelves.

Taking all still left within,
To the ground in mighty din.

I saw a great gray cloud churn and grow,
Encompassing all for blocks below.

In disbelief, I, stunned in wonder
Could not comprehend what lie under.

That pile of burning rubble-nothing.
Not a stirring soul for help to call.

Television was my window.
I did not see alone; we saw it all.

Over one billion watched with me.
The watchers were as one.

Because we saw it the same, that hatred will bend
And we were witnessing terrorism's end.

RWH: 9/19/01

Poem of the Week: 9/16/01

Terror

Terror strikes from the left,
It slips in from the right.

Terror shocks us in our sleep,
Not only in the night.

We know not the manner of our death.
But in terror it is not right.

Terror is a primal fear,
A dark shadow on the light.

Of our life and happiness.
A threat to our greatest might.

We cannot let terror defeat us.
We must rise to the fight.

And fight not with hate and vengeance,
Two wrongs do not make a right.

When all ideology is enlightened,
And hope for all is in sight.

Terror will vanish from our lives.
And end the long, terror-filled night.

RWH: 9/16/01

Poem of the Week: 9/10/01

My Tree Sleeps

My tree sleeps with the fishes,
Or so it would seem.

My tree sleeps under the bushes,
But it does not dream.

Two weeks ago, it all fell down.
It's been dead for a long time, but hung around.

A home for the birds and a bug's delight.
My dead tree hung on for dear life.

Now it has tumbled down to the ground,
Falling to pieces and scattered around.

The termites love her and earthworms too.
She's falling to pieces, fallen from view.

Some of her to be burned; some to be thrown,
Over the fence into the unknown.

I planted her, pruned her, till full grown.
She grew no fruit, and now she's gone.

I will miss her and the bird's song.

RWH: 9/10/01

Poem of the Week: 9/2/01

My Tree Weeps

My tree sleeps in the gentle rain.
My tree weeps, a soft, sweet refrain.

Although it is dreary, dark and dank.
I've got a lot, much for to thank.

For with the dark and dreary, heavy and wet,
Comes a coolness you don't have to sweat.

Comes a sweet stillness in the heavy air.
A time to think and it time to prepare.

There is a certain sadness to my tree laden down.
Heavy with rain, nearly touching the ground.

And so I sleep, my head to my pillow.
She is after all, a Weeping Willow.

RWH: 9/2/01

Poem of the Week: 8/26/01

Water Melon Days

Water melon days,
Blue moon nights.

The smell of new mown clover,
Warm, shady afternoon delights.

Cotton candy carnival,
The smells and the sights.

Turtle sunning on a rock.
In the lazy water's reflection.

Popping peas from the pod.
Sun warmed to perfection.

If it would just stay this way,
Birds wouldn't fly south.

And childhood would last forever.
Like mothers feed the open mouth.

RWH: 8/26/01

Poem of the Week: 8/19/01

Midsummer Blues

It's midsummer, so what's the news.
I think I've got, the midsummer blues.

Wish I were floating on the lake,
Between air and water, like a snake.

Instead, I'm stuck here in this room,
Thinking about the lake in bloom.

Wish I were fishing by placid stream,
Catching bluegill and occasional bream.

But I just sit here, all alone,
By my computer window, and dream.

Of summer evenings in the park,
Charcoal air, and kids yelling till dark.

Instead, I eat before the TV news,
Air-conditioned in my midsummer blues.

Wish I could look from some mountain ridge,
A valley far ahead to bridge.

Instead I look at my old fence,
And figure how to pay my rents.

I know it makes no sense,
Counting dollars and counting cents.

I'd rather be watching the stars fall with you,
Than sitting here with the same old view.

On midsummer nights these old blues,
Weigh me down to my toes.

The way I'm feeling, nobody knows.
Guess that's just the way it goes.

Everyone's busy these summer days.
Got no time for living midsummer ways.

So I write with great passion and try not lose,
My zest for living with these midsummer blues.

RWH: 8/18/01

Poem of the Week: 8/13/01

Just the Way It Goes

Sometimes in summer, it rains, and in winter, it snows.
Sometimes there's plenty for the harvest; sometimes nothing grows.
That's just the way it goes.

Some lives are filled with happiness; others filled with pain.
To some love comes easy; to others it's always on the wane.
That's just the way it goes.

You say it don't come easy; well everybody knows.
Sometimes life hits you in the face, and you get a bloody nose.
That's just the way it goes.

Sometimes there's a rainbow, without a pot of gold.
Sometimes there's a message, without on hand to hold.
Sometimes there's a mountain, too high to behold.
Sometimes there's a poet, his muse too meek to unfold.
Sometimes there's an opportunity, untaken until it's cold.
Sometimes there's a love that finds you when you're old.

The summer is always too hot, and the winter, too cold.
Hold me in your heart; hold me in your fold.

So savor this sweet life while you can, for everybody knows,
That it will pass, like the rest, and that's the way it goes.

RWH: 8/13/01

Poem of the Week: 8/5/01

The Creator's Edge

The creator's edge is finely honed,
For turning new ground.

There are no guides or signposts,
To help one get around.

There are no learned courses,
Instructions so profound.

No help, waiting in the wings,
Just in time, to be found.

Just risky business,
As is the creator's trade.

Stirring up controversy,
With each new batch that's made.

Pushing thoughts and ideas to the edge,
To such a risky place.

They may fall off and be lost,
To the shadowy edge of time and space.

As if one day, you told your mind,
Be Gone! Erase!

And, what you worked so hard to create,
Vanished without a trace.

RWH: 8/5/01

Poem of the Week: 7/29/01

Talking Computer

I got a talking computer the other day,
It not only speaks, it listens in its own perfect way.

It seems to have a bit of a tin ear,
But probably, only because I don't speak so clear.

I find myself talking to this computer a lot,
Trying to get it to understand me, or not.

Sometimes I think it actually does understand me,
And, that this is getting a bit out of hand.

But then, I have to stop and think,
Because I am plowing new land.

I wonder what the computer really is thinking,
Maybe it understands, maybe not

Maybe, I just like the sound of my voice,
As it's reflecting what I'm thinking.

Whatever it is that bugs me,
Is hiding in the back of my mind.

Maybe, just maybe, it really does understand.
And will talk to me, one day, in a new land.

RWH: 7/29/01

Poem of the Week: 7/22/01

Spend

Burn it up, Baby, like it's never going to end, spend.
Use it up, borrow more than you lend.

It's there for the taking, Eminent Domain.
Kill the heathen, let them take the blame.

For you are the superior race.
You can tell by your clothes and your fine taste face.

Let them grovel in their hovels while you rape them dry.
You deserve what you get and they deserve to die.

Other people's money, other people's time.
No scrimpin' for you, for the thin, thin dime.

Saving's for misers and hoarding to boot.
Their money's soon parted and you don't give a hoot.

So, go on wasting to the brink of the end.
You can't take it with you, so why not spend?

And while you are at it, take your descendents down.
Who cares if they suffer, you won't be around.

So burn it on both ends, burn while you can.
Devil take the hindmost and spend, Baby, spend.

RWH: 7/21/01

Poem of the Week: 7/15/01

The Lone Wolf

Wild wolves howl in the night.
They stir in me, a primal fright.

But wolves are not just evil and mean,
Blood thirsty calls would have them seem.

They call to communicate their heritage and right.
To claim their territory in the night.

Their lonely calls help them get along.
To guide the hunt and warn the throng.

That they will separate the strong from the weak.
With a manner not mean, mild or meek.

But bloody, as is their trade.
Into the fight they fear not to wade.

Then, lovingly share with the pack the kill,
Strength in numbers, individually no will.

For lonely is the lone wolf.
And howl as he might.

Without companions,
He will die in the night, alone.

RWH: 7/15/01

Poem of the Week: 7/8/01

A Science Fantasy

"If man were meant to fly, he would have grown wings!"
I'd rather side with Da Vinci, and dream of many things.

Like understanding the source of a star's power,
And why it doesn't burn out.

Like knowing the origin of species.
Even when there are those who still cast doubt.

And walking on the Moon too soon.
Such a mighty summit to mount.

To planting new organs in us working.
Once again, to dance and shout.

With fearful delight, we must take flight,
Into the future, with or without.

We cannot stop our fateful journey.
Until the fire of the idea, burns out.

RWH: 7/7/01

Poem of the Week: 7/1/01

Never

Never has a way of coming at an increasing rate.
So hurry up and do it now, before it's too late.

Don't say, "I'll never ...," unless you're prepared to wait.
Behind all those "Who never ...." at the pearley gate.

Never isn't infinite, it's just a long, long time.
The difference between infinity and the time to write this line.

I prefer the twelfth of never, to a long, long time.
It has a poet's ring of truth to it, that comes with the rhyme.

So if you plan to get busy, and never is on your mind.
Just close your mind forever, and never, you will find.

RWH: 6/30/01

Poem of the Week: 6/24/01

Butterfly Tree

Come with me, to the butterfly tree,
And flitter flutter round and round.

Come with me, like the bee to honey.
Like the ant returns to its mound.

So full of color in the evening light.
In variety and number they abound.

Where cats watching wait in stalk below.
A tasty treat to pound upon the ground.

I watch and wait while the sun goes down.
As they swirl and swoop without a sound.

They mate and until late they wait.
To land on limbs to lay their eggs down.

The succulent leaves their larvae need.
To grow and spin their womb around.

To be reborn again, grow and fly.
To seek their own tree to be found.

RWH: 6/24/01

Poem of the Week: 6/17/01

Life Goes On

Just as after a night of terror, comes the dawn.
We gather around our wagons, and life goes on.

When a tragic accident befalls us, in the prime of life.
Care and time will mend us, guiding our course through strife.

If war should come upon us, and bring us to our knees.
The sun will still shine upon us, and put us at our ease.

When disease and pestilence surround us, we shelter from the pain.
Those stricken among us may die, but tomorrow comes the rain.

When starvation overcomes us, no matter how we try.
We sing our song in silence, and life passes by.

When the Earth erupts in madness, and we do not know why.
In time the dust will clear, and once again, the sky.

When Armageddon's at the door, and we will soon be gone.
We must remember the little bird and why she sings her song.

Like the baby bird nest blown away, while mother sings her song.
She picks up the pieces, rebuilds the nest, lays eggs, and life goes on.

RWH: 6/17/01