Poem of the Week: 12/26/04

>From Little Acorns Grow

Aye, me mateys, they done me wrong.
Cast off me here, for a doubloon's song.
Left me to waste away, but for to die.
No part of me strong, so's I can still vie.

For this old liver, she is good as gone.
So many years of ale drunk, so strong.
Years of plunder still somehow lost.
This old body, now, bears the cost.

Me eyes grow dim, me breath grows short.
The stench of death comes up me throat.
Me beard is white and sorely unkempt.
Me mateys view me with great contempt.

So in this faraway forest I am cast.
Meager provisions that will not last.
I wander through the day and night, .
Only birds and animals hear me plight.

The days grow short, and they grow cold.
I wander lost in the deep forest's fold.
No food to eat, no teeth to chew.
I grow weak for what to do.

Bitter acorns swallowed whole,
Become the repast for me soul.
For I fear that I will soon die.
Must find a place where I can lie.

This hollow swale in the sun.
Overlooking the river's run.
A shelter from the wind's harsh blow.
Me bones hark the pending snow.

No heat have I from wrenching gut.
I beg for death from wind's sharp cut.
The snow comes to fill the sky,
To cover me warm before I die.

Warm at last, me body cast in blanket of pure white.
I see the days through crystal ice, dark and light.
This pirate past rests at last, while the Aurora glows,
Where only the wizard of the wood now knows.

Each season must pass, so winter, alas.
Gives way to spring's warmth, losing grasp,
Melting the ice that bound me lair so fair.
Exposed am I, once again, to the warm, fresh air.

Ravens come to feed their young; peck me till I'm raw.
Beetles and worms find me out and to me insides crawl.
A lonely acorn in me gut germinates with infinite trust.
That it will be strong enough to grow to light with thrust.

Through me rotting belly come.
A single leaf to reach the sun.
And from me awful stinking gore,
The baby tree feeds to reach a fore.

So when the summer wanes as planned,
Me sapling's grown and made a stand.
To face its first winter's pall,
Me give that tree me very all.

Strong it grew in that favored swale.
Nurtured by me good guts of ale.
Roots that intertwined me very bones.
Anchored against all mighty tones.

Slowly climbing to the sky,
Against all odds in me forest lie.
To reach for the canopy far above.
Graced by sun, wind, and rain's love.

Years rolled in, rolled out, rolled by.
Me tree reached up and touched the high.
Hurricanes and blizzards tore at me limbs,
But none could destroy except me sins.

Eagles nested top most and squirrels played,
Graced me branches like none before made.
Me canopy grew wide and coveted more,
As one by one, me rivals fell before.

Aye, me mateys through wind and storm,
Terrible lightning strikes that mean me harm.
Through all of these and more I cried.
Me tree stood tall and never lied.

Years turned to decades and decades to time.
Me oak by the river staid, stood sublime.
Stood guard over me bones like noble gentry.
Stood guard over me soul, ever so gently.

What's that I hear? The grunt of a boar?
Oh, no, it's louder and the ground it be tore.
And the clanking of chains, has He come, at last?
The Devil can't get me, to this tree I'm bound fast.

And what is that buzzing? So close to me ear?
A million bees chewing the trunk I hold dear?
Me anchor is shaking like in a banshee gale.
Hang on for dear life, me hearties, be hale.

A mighty quiver, shivers me bones.
As if on a precipice, me soul finely hones.
With a mighty "Crack! " like the cannonball's strike,
Me load, it is lifted and flies out of sight.

With a mighty crash, me main mast is gone.
Silence a moment, as the sun flows on down.
The banshees are cutting, with that wailing sound.
The beast in me innards is flailing around.

The clanking grows closer and the boar roars.
I fear for me life as nearer He grows.
With a great wrenching; I'm torn from me swale.
Never have I ever felt such strength so hale.

"Wait! There are bones! Stop digging now!"
There's silence so mellow that it's almost hollow.
They're tickling me now with brushes and feathers.
Don't they know that it's me bone that it bothers?

They treated me bad and took me safe place.
Me oak anchor is gone, left but a root's trace.
At least it is quiet and warm here in this space.
Methinks I have nothing left to fear or face.

"Look Daddy! His bones are wrapped in the root!
I know he's a pirate cause he had a knife in his boot!
Look at that silver sword and scabbard he wore.
Those Spanish doubloons make him a pirate for sure!"

RWH: 12/26/04

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Poem of the Week: 12/19/04

Too Many Choices

Too many choices, so much to lose.
So many choices, which will I choose?

Will I buy this?
Will I do that?
Should I take the risk?
To be where it's at?

The crossroads of life, come up so fast,
I struggle and scramble for something to last.

Will I take this,
Or will I take that?
Choose to submit,
Or go on attack?

As I search for answers, I'm drawn to the core.
Of great beliefs, long gone before.

Choose from the right,
Choose from the left.
The path to travel,
Is so finely cleft.

It can't hurt to wisely look back.
Next choice I make, when knowledge I lack.

RWH: 12/19/04

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Poem of the Week: 12/12/04

Lost Thoughts

I placed my thoughts in a box,
So carefully arranged.
A hierarchy of my own devising,
So as not to be deranged.

I placed the box upon a shelf,
To keep my thoughts from harm.
A scheme some might find surprising,
Straight were the rows I farm.

Tight were the strings that bound,
The straitlaced thoughts I bore.
For they were carefully guarded,
>From lust or fetching whore.

Gambling, drinking, greed, and vice.
The box, I felt, would bind them in.
So I could sleep with peace of mind.
Without those thoughts of sin.

In time the box grew dusty,
And my thoughts began to decay.
I looked, but could not find them.
Mind weary from the fray.

Now I fear my thoughts are gone.
Lost and blown away.
Can you please help me find them,
Before I go astray?

RWH: 12/11/04

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Poem of the Week: 12/5/04

Red, White, and Green

To celebrate solstice of winter's cold,
We turn to primary colors of olde.
Spring's promise is still so far off.
But each day will grow longer, as it oft.

So are the seasons of our lives.
Like the bees, we wait in our hives.
We celebrate our meager harvest,
Will it last or will it starve us?

The conifers and holly live on,
So vibrant richly green.
In contrast to the white of snow.
A magic winter's scene.

Holly berries, so red and full,
Help sustain the birds,
Remind us of our children's glow,
>From which new blood will flow.

We have so little cached away.
But like the birds, we hope and pray,
That with this simple celebration,
We'll prevail to see spring's day.

RWH: 12/5/04

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Poem of the Week: 11/28/04

Open Road

The open road isn't as open as it used to be.
Can't stop by the roadside and take a pee.

The quaint roadside rest areas are about gone.
Choose McDonald's or Burger King from now on.

No quaint little cabins of ill repute, neither.
Just rotels with Continental breakfast, brother.

Road kill punctuates the lines in the road.
Pets, wild critters, and the occasional toad.

Just more road kill to decorate the path.
As SUVs and pickups dispense their wrath.

Highways are freeways that merge to the right.
Sure saves eyesight in the middle of the night.

Pedal to the metal and draft as you go,
Woe to those who drive too slow.

So get out and elbow the trucks and cars.
Who, me? I'd rather drive on Mars.

RWH: 11/29/04

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Poem of the Week: 11/21/04

Turkey Shoot

Turkey went a hunting,
And he did go, to a drive-in picture show.
Lots of popcorn on the ground, ah huh.
Made that turkey gain a pound.

Turkey went a hunting,
And he did go, to a church front door.
Lots of rice on the ground, ah huh.
Made that turkey plump and proud.

Turkey went a hunting,
And he did go, to McDonald's laying low.
Lots of french fries on the ground, ah huh.
Made that turkey fat and found.

Turkey went a fishing,
And he did go, to the Sound in a boat slow.
Lots of fish bait to be found, ah huh.
Made that turkey sleek and sound.

Turkey went a hunting,
And he did go, to the woods sneaking just so.
Caught a drunken hunter hanging down, ah huh.
Pecked his eyes out, red and round.

Cranberries, Gobble, gobble. Yum-yum.

RWH: 11/21/04

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Poem of the Week: 11/14/04

War is Right

Saving the world is our mission,
Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition.
They don't understand or even like us.
Must strike them before they strike us.

God is on our side; with him we ride.
Help us find them where they hide.
We must seek them out and destroy,
They must never, ever, again deploy.

For life is precious and we must save,
Every unborn from the grave.
Send our young men out to save.
Our youngsters from the rave.

Praise the Lord and pass the ammunition,
Their body count is ten times ours.
With God, and his almighty powers,
Stoop down low and smell the flowers.

For war is our sacred right,
For God and country we must fight.
The evil empire is close at hand,
We have and are the promised land.

Save us and our wasteful, wealthy ways.
God will protect us all our days.
Send our poor girls and boys off to fight.
Pass the ammunition and see the light.

RWH: 11/13/04

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Poem of the Week: 11/7/04

Democracy and Dissent

The majority rules and it is right,
Keeps us from the indecisive fight.
But the majority isn't always right.
A minority of one may see the light.

The majority controls our wealth,
There is no need to control with stealth.
There is enough for all to share,
Greed and hoarding we need beware.

The majority holds ideas tight.
But needs are changing in our sight.
Bad old ways must be cast aside,
We cannot in the past abide.

The majority should not fear,
The cry of need that reaches ear.
Should embrace it with open arms,
Not incase it in laws that harm.

Democracy is safe with loyal dissent.
When dissent is quashed democracy is wrent.
If the majority believes its own malarkey.
Our democracy becomes an oligarchy.

What would our founding fathers think of that?

RWH: 11/6/04

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Poem of the Week: 10/31/04

Witch's Brew

Getshe gommy, getshe goo.
Have I got a tail for you.
Throw it in the witch's brew,
Getshe gommy, getshe goo.

Getshe gommy, getshe goo.
Full of snot and putrid doo.
All the better for this stew,
Getshe gommy, getshe goo.

Getshe gommy, getshe goo.
Bats' wing stolen from a zoo.
Secret ingredient, tried and true.
Getshe gommy, getshe goo.

Getshe gommy, getshe goo.
If you're good, you'll get some too.
If you're not, it's in with you.
Getshe gommy, getshe goo.

Getshe gommy, getshe goo.
It'll cure what ails you, poo,
Here, come taste my witch's brew?
Getshe gommy, getshe goo.

"Gitchi Gummi" is the Ojibwa name for Lake Superior and means, "Big Water"

RWH: 10/31/04

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Poem of the Week: 10/31/04

The Day Night Died

It started as a whisper deep in the glen.
In the dark places where nobody goes.
Deep in the caves and sodden moors.
Like the stranger that nobody knows.

Far in the distant unfathomable past.
Whispers became rumbles in the morass.
The souls lost to heaven came back at last.
Seeking their bodies like dirt under grass.

A chill came over the autumn that day.
The moonlight was filtered by clouds of gray.
The creatures' red eyes burned like coals.
In the hidden places, the land of lost souls.

A wind came up with lightning and rain.
The cold grew colder and slew the trees lain.
Stripped of all garments, gaunt in the frain.
Cold to the core, in their nakedness, slain.

Yet the heat of souls' passion could not be quenched,
The earth's core their source for all to be wrenched.
Fire and brimstone became their awful stench.
Like steam from a cauldron they rose from their trench.

Scalding the sky and burning the trees.
Scorching the color from the autumn leaves.
Consuming all creatures as they pleased.
The lost souls rose to take their ease.

The storm's fury was ended with one mighty blast.
The cold waters boiled, and life screamed its last.
The wolf howl, hooting owl, consumed in the repast,
>From that day forward, nighttime was past.

RWH: 10/31/04

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Poem of the Week: 10/24/04

Poetry Man

I ain't no flimflam man,
Don't like no poetry spam.
I am just what I am,
I am a poetry man.

I ain't no poetry police, ma'am.
Its [It's] just bad English gets my gam.
I misspell with the best of tham.
I am a poetry man.

I ain't no hip-hop slam jam.
Ain't no fight with the girlfriends--bam!
No neurotics in my plan,
I am a poetry man.

I like birds and bees and fishes that swam,
That don't make me no Hallmark man.
If they use my verses, so be it, Sam.
I am a poetry man.

I ain't no haiku man.
Don't try to imitate what they do in Japan.
Word puzzles just ain't me, Pam.
I am a poetry man.

I ain't no girlie man.
Sting like a bee and expose the sham.
Will not tiptoe like Peter Pan.
I am a poetry man.

I think. Therefore, ... I am.

RWH: 10/23/04

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Poem of the Week: 10/17/04

Superman

He leapt tall buildings in his mind,
This man of steel, so confined.

Years of struggle, years of pain.
Never showed; he never waned.

A quick change into a tuxedo,
A charming smile, a great libido.

Always talking of the cure,
Never denying it was near.

Playing well the morality game,
Research in stem cell's name.

He was my hero in the race,
A cure or death he had to face.

So when I see a bird or plane,
I'll think of him in sweet refrain.

Chris' cure will come some day,
I'll leave this chair and dance away.

RWH: 10/16/04

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Poem of the Week: 10/10/04

Nonsense in Love

Her eyes were as sharp as her words,
As she rolled in with the morning tide.
She asked me if I thought she was beautiful?
I hedged. I hawed. I lied.

The curve of her hip made me delirious.
The sun and the moon met and sighed.
She asked me if I was imperious?
I laughed. I choked. I denied .

My loins ached with angst for her thighs.
While the stars and planets opened wide.
She asked me if I was serious?
I thought. I fought. I sighed.

My lips tingled with her foment.
While comets imploded my inside.
She asked me to marry the moment.
I conceded. I defeated. I tried.

Like my orgasm she was gone in a moment.
While stars burned out like snide.
She spewed out like bad vomit.
I hesitated. I gasped. I died.

RWH: 10/10/04

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Poem of the Week: 10/3/04

Flight of Whimsey

I took a flight of whimsy,
A hundred and more kilometers high.
I reached out with my magic wand,
And touched the coal black sky.

The X Prize is within my grasp,
It will take but one more try.
Five score and one years ago,
Since the brothers Wright first fly.

Lifted us from mother earth,
To join the birds in flight.
Now, the time has come,
To bid the birds goodnight.

To take the leap of faith,
That our machines can ply.
The reaches alien to our life,
And kiss blue sky goodbye.

Where we can float free and clear,
Of gravities, but a trace.
And gaze upon our mother sphere,
With eyes of new-found grace.

A flight of whimsy so profound,
That when I've won the race.
We can ride the wings of whimsey,
To our new home in outer space.

RWH: 10/2/04

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Poem of the Week: 9/26/04

Two Swans

Two swans glided up Town Lake,
Wide was their vision; deep was their wake.

The morning sun rendered them brilliant white,
Deep sky blue water in contrasting light.

So peaceful their journey upstream this way,
Above them the rush hour interstate highway.

With the rush of migration left behind,
The peace of the waters is somehow blind.

To the hustle and bustle all around
A city in a hurry, trying to be found.

If lovers could take a moment to glide upstream,
Their lives would be peaceful like in their dream.

So if you're ever by the shore of Town Lake,
Take a moment for the swans and the depth of their wake.

RWH: 9/25/04

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Poem of the Week: 9/19/04

War's End

I dreamed the unthinkable.
I dreamed of innocence's end.
When war becomes unspeakable.
Nature and time cannot mend.

Fear's a scar that festers,
In the minds of men.
The scar of hatred pesters.
And the cycle begins again.

War was once eye-to-eye,
Bloody battle, man-to-man.
Passion could not escape the horror.
Of killing for the clan.

Something more was needed,
So hatched an evil plan.
The Art of War was melded,
To the wealth of nobleman.

So war became impersonal,
For god and country stand.
Kill for glory and honor,
Kill for the motherland.

Killing at a distance,
Became the preferred way.
Costing less each instance,
And easier to win the day.

Technology marches mindless,
While war requires its pay.
War commands a blindness,
>From a distance it will stay.

Words like "collateral damage"
Excuse war's tragic ends.
With "weapons of mass destruction,"
A new horror begins.

Only hope and knowledge,
Will stop the insanity we are in.
Before we go over the edge,
We must now begin.

To teach the world that violence,
Solves nothing--cycles again and again.
It is time to break the cycle,
A time to see war's end.

RWH: 9/18/04

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Poem of the Week: 9/11/04

Out of the Blue

Out of the blue on a clear fall day,
The friendly skies fell away.

The corner of an eye saw it coming.
Surreally slow to a tower humming.

With fresh anticipation of a busy day,
And no indication of harm's coming way.

A perfect weapon, full of fuel and grace,
Slicing it like butter from face to face.

A building's midsection in a fiery ball,
Oh--the horror--the enormity of it all!

And then, as if that was not enough,
A second plane hit and the going got rough.

When each building collapsed from its own weight,
Few remains were found to mark the innocents' fate.

We remember that day when it comes again,
And the fear we feel, not knowing where or when.

>From out of the blue, a world filled with hate,
Will visit our door again and open our gate.

We can never rest until we remove all fear and hate,
Or out of the blue will seal more innocents' fate.

RWH: 9/11/04

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Poem of the Week: 9/5/04

Greed

So when did you decide?
That you were better than me?
When did you decide?
You could keep all for thee?

Because you were deprived,
When you were young?
Or was it expected,
By those which you hung.

Was it when you cheated,
And got away clean.
Easier than working hard,
So smart and keen.

Was it when you lied,
And saw what it did.
Lying became easier,
Wanting something hid.

Or are you just better,
Or, at least you think you are.
Smarter, more articulate,
Than working stiffs, by far.

Or are you compliant,
And smoothly fit in.
Your good old boys decide.
What class you're in.

So when they take you,
Where the money flows,
You drink from the river,
But everyone knows.

You'll share not good fortune,
With those who prop you up.
Your greed is a given,
You've drunk from the cup.

Of power and corruption,
That got you there.
You'll fight to your death,
Before you share.

Survival of the fittest,
You've learned it well.
So drink from the river,
And give 'em hell.

There'll come a reckoning,
Somewhere down the line.
You'll still have privilege,
But you won't have time.

Bide it well.

RWH: 8/28/04

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Poem of the Week: 8/29/04

Deadly Routine

Wake-up. Out of bed.
Drag yourself to shower.
Stomach same old cereal,
At this ungodly hour.

Two cups of coffee,
Your head to clear.
Set out for work,
And drive your dear.

Outsourced parenting,
Was once the rage.
Now it is just,
Checked off the page.

Into the fast lane,
For a long commute.
Many stop and goes later,
We slide into the chute.

Of programmed tedium,
In our cubicled space.
A cog in the machinery,
Of corporate waste.

Take all the breaks,
That get you by.
Slip a long lunch,
Surf on the sly.

Have to leave early,
My child, you see.
Fight schoolyard traffic,
And errands for thee.

Microwave dinner,
Or fast food tonight.
Must catch the game,
Or not living right.

Pour a double,
And pay the bills.
Will they ever end?
These childhood ills?

Throw in a video,
And check the e-mail.
This life your living,
Is a private jail.

So it's off to bed.
To dream the same dream.
How to get rid of this boring life,
In your mind's endless scheme.

And then you get up,
And do it all over again.

RWH: 8/28/04

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Poem of the Week: 8/22/04

New Clothes

Spruce up, cleanup, and so it goes,
The world looks better in new clothes.

Designing and planning everyone knows,
Makes the world brighter like new prose.

Color and contrast catch the light,
Bright colored neon to light up the night.

Plan a park with fishes in a pond.
Create nature with a bulldozer wand.

Tear down the old and build up the new,
Urban renewal is something to do.

Restore and repair what you can,
And then let Mother Nature lend you a hand.

For life is worth living and everyone knows,
The world looks better in new clothes.

RWH: 8/21/04

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Poem of the Week: 8/15/04

Gift of the Greeks

Every four years, the world comes to play.
A pagan ritual on a bright summer's day.

Casting their rancor and hatred aside,
To run for the glory--stride by stride.

For most, it's not winning that brings them here.
It's a sense of belonging and the crowd's great cheer.

The Greeks gave us government, the arts, and science.
The zealots reject these gifts in their selfish defiance.

And so the world wars on, with no end in sight.
Athletes for country try with all their might.

And find a new unity to stand side by side.
Sharing their medals with infinite pride.

RWH: 8/14/04

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Poem of the Week: 8/8/04

Blank Slate

A blank slate,
Is like having,
No chalk to draw.
No shot for the cannon's maw.
No thoughts at all.

No lead in my pencil.
Nothing to draw.
No fire of passion,
To get it up at all.

Bland, nothing planned,
Staring at the wall.
There is no pattern,
No counting roses,
No texture to recall.

And so I drag my fingernails,
On the black walls of my prison.
A screeching sound reaches my ears,
And, finally, I have risen.

RWH: 8/7/04

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Poem of the Week: 8/1/04

Store Wars

~Refrain~
Are there blue light specials in Kmart heaven?
Is Martha's apron black-and-white?
Are bargain basements forever?
Or just a bad dream in the night?

Old Sam is rolling over in his grave,
While his kids fuss and fight.
Seems millions and billions ain't enough,
To divide without spite.

Sing it again, Sam.

The Mom and Pops are all gone,
To greedy Sam's delight.
They're greeting customers' for the Sam.
Social security's way too tight.

Refrain me again.

Downtown is fading fast,
Roll up the streets at night.
Gather at the circus by the freeway,
Fix your kids up right.

One more time.

So if you're looking for a,
Woolworth, Ben Franklin, five and dime.
Remember that Sam sold his out,
Sold out double time.

Let me hear it from ya.

Now Dubya's on a rampage,
Dubya's makin' time.
At the rate jobs going overseas,
A dollar's worth a dime.

Just one more time.
Before it's all gone.

RWH: 7/26/04

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Poem of the Week: 7/24/04

Chair of Life

As I sit upon the tattered chair of life,
Contemplating my umbilicals.
I choose not to throw them out.
But rather, to embrace them,
Trace them,
Race them,
Face them.
Until the light of day once again,
Casts a shadow of me and my chair,
Across the room,
My womb,
My doom,
My tomb.
The chair is not a symbol of all that's,
Old and new. But a pedestal,
For a better view,
Of truth,
Of youth,
Of you.
And so I will ride this chair,
Until all my days are through.
Thinking of what you mean to me,
And what I mean to you.

RWH: 7/18/04

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Poem of the Week: 7/18/04

Breathe

Breathe in the elixir of life,
Cast off your doubt.
In every breath there's strife.
Let it in; let it out.

Breathe in the hot breath of love,
Passion is worth the price.
Feel her breathing from above.
Love and don't think twice.

Breathe in the aroma of the wine.
And its sensuous allure.
Bouquet and body do entwine,
To satisfy the cure.

Breathe deep the air of life.
For the water's unforgiving.
Raging waters running rife,
Are not for the breathing.

Breathe in all you can,
Before your days are through.
Drawing lines in the sand,
Won't do much for you.

Just breathe.

RWH: 7/17/04

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Poem of the Week: 7/11/04

Fury

A thousand thousand lightning strikes,
Upon your gnarly peaks and pikes.
Soft snow swirling gently down,
It may take weeks and weeks.

To reach the point of crashing down,
On unsuspecting soul or town.
Or melting into a mighty torrent,
Lands below to ravage and wrent.

A mighty tempest does unfurl,
>From its clouds a whirl a whirl.
Ripping everything in its path,
With no mercy, mindless wrath.

Heavy raindrop with a thud,
Making more than just some mud.
Rising rivers rip away,
Land, the trees, souls that stay.

Rising up out of the sea,
A monster's eye one cannot see.
Lashing fury upon the land,
Flooding inland from sea to sand.

Mountains move slowly by,
Opening the Earth with a mighty pry.
Spewing fire upon the land.
Creating contours with a fiery hand.

Comets and meteors fill the sky.
If they will hit not when or why.
Such beauty when they're spent,
Each big hit an extinction event.

A long hot sun will dry and dry,
Kill and kill as months drag by.
When winter comes there is no mirth,
In the killing of half the earth.

RWH: 7/10/04

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Poem of the Week: 7/4/04

Peace

Gentle waters flowing free,
Help me wend my way to thee.
Help me find the peace I seek,
Floating on the waters deep.

Gentle winds from the south,
Let me feel your warm mouth.
Help me find the peace I'll find,
Breath of life, blow my mind.

Gentle rays of morning sun,
Shine on me till day is done.
Help me find the peace I found,
When the glorious sun goes down.

Gentle forest growing green,
Shade me from the harsh unseen.
Help me find the peace I yearn,
Lie me down in your green fern.

Gentle friends that come my way,
Help me through my every day.
Help me find the peace I hear,
When meek and mild, I hold dear.

Gentle thoughts that cross my mind,
May their pleasure gently wind.
Help me find a peace so deep,
That takes me to my final sleep.

RWH: 7/3/04

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Poem of the Week: 6/27/04

Impossible Dream

Dream the impossible dream,
Plot the impossible scheme,
Try to go where you know,
No one has ever been seen.

Succumb to her charms in the night.
Let your imagination take flight,
Fly to the moon, it's never too soon,
For her to come into the light.

Rally your courage for the fight,
Cast off disdainers with your might,
Crushed too soon, an idea will swoon.
Don't let that be her plight.

Forge on with it day-by-day,
Let not little things get in your way.
Crawl, walk, run, and then fly,
Don't let failure be your sway.

For when it's all said and done,
And all your battles have been won,
There's no time left to be shy,
The wisdom was in the fun,

Of doing the impossible dream.

RWH: 6/26/04

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Poem of the Week: 6/20/04

War Eagle

War Eagle lies languid in a bloody red sky,
Of some forgotten planet in the long gone by.
Her pock stained hull long ago gone dry.
Her engines seized while her widows cry.

Thought her glory would never end.
>From Orion's belt to Sirius' ring bend.
She plied star passages as if god send.
Fighting wars the Universe to mend.

A shining symbol of her forgotten namesake,
Those in her power would quiver and quake.
The ocean of galaxy was but her big lake.
No sorcerer's magic could make her shake.

>From her duty to seek out evil and vile.
With a physiology both cunning and wile.
That allowed her to conquer for a while.
Until, in the due course of time--denial.

And so she was off to that great scrap heap.
The echoes of war in her innards to keep.
The wonder and glory long put to sleep.
To ponder the value of war cut so deep.

So if you should wander and pass her by,
Stop for a moment in that bloody red sky.
Examine her innards and ponder the why,
War and its purpose in the long gone by?

RWH: 6/20/04

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Poem of the Week: 6/13/04

Feel It Pumping

Feel it pumping,
Oil from the ground.

Gas in the pipeline,
From town to town.

The sine wave beat,
Electricity transformed down.

Big pistons pumping,
Engines round and round.

The steady thumping,
To the tires' whining sound.

The churning rhythm,
Our world turns around.

Waves hit the shore,
Sand grind and pound.

Birds' wings a pumping,
Turning mount to mound.

A dog's leg a thumping,
Scratching to the sound.

Two dancers spinning.
As the beat goes round.

Two lovers humping,
New life coming down.

Feel my heart beating,
And so it goes round.

Can't you feel it, . . . life.

RWH: 6/12/04

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Poem of the Week: 6/6/04

Bottomed Out

Knocked down, dragged,
Bottomed out.
Springs are saggin',
Butts a draggin',
Bank account's all tapped out.
Lifes a laggin',
Times a saggin',
Slithering down the shelf.
Happiness is fadin',
Like the jadin',
Of a new-found wealth.
From the viewin',
And maintainin',
The unfound self.
Sneaks up on ya,
Like a stealth, ...
The bottom shelf.

No way else to go but up.

RWH: 6/5/04

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Poem of the Week: 5/30/04

Trapped

In a spider web,
All white and neat.
Decaying ever so slightly,
Ready to eat.

In a strait jacket,
Of my own design.
It keeps out intruders,
While I piss and whine.

In a relationship,
Convoluted and deep.
It's crushing me to death,
But I still want to keep.

In a great debt,
I can never repay.
Thinking that material things,
Are life's only way.

In this body,
I've neglected too long.
Saying, "Soon I will do it,"
Until misery came along.

In a life of misery,
That doesn't fit my skin,
An endless night of days,
Until I cash in.

RWH: 5/30/04

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Poem of the Week: 5/23/04

Wild Birds

Wild birds cross the evening sky,
Winging home for the night.
The old ones say that they are stillborn babes,
Seeking out the last light.

The sky is a painting of many hues.
A constantly changing wondrous sight.
The old ones say the sky mirrors life.
Wild birds punctuate with their flight.

I've seen them scavenge the last berry,
From a winter torn bush's snowy blight.
The old ones say it's the last feast of winter,
For those who won't see the spring rite.

Wild birds peck a carcass clean.
Their anger loud and bleak.
The old ones say that it is revenge,
For a wrongful death they seek.

So when I die don't bury me,
In the ground so deep,
Tie me in a tall tree,
My bones to pick for the meek.

RWH: 5/23/04

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Poem of the Week: 5/16/04

Sick

Syd Sick and the Disease,
Put their fevered minds to ease.
They didn't give a fuck,
Long as they didn't upchuck.

Singing Sirens in their ears,
Screeching sinister silent fears.
Delirious demons down on their luck,
Drowning diatribes they couldn't buck.

Flaming phlegm from nasty holes,
Puss filled boils like weevils' bolls.
Pop them for the sheer delight,
Drain them in a garish light.

Scratch that rash with all your might,
Tear the skin with claws of fright.
Tear it like you might die,
Infect it with a bloody sigh.

Sick Sikh Sheik Shah Singh,
Poured his heart out to the ring.
Filled a bucket full of blood.
Landed with a mighty thud.

Obese diabetes dapper Dan,
Engorged in French fries on a plan.
Beginning with a lack of control.
And ending with the dialysis dole.

Arthritic Art stressed his joints,
Steroids for the extra points.
Cancerous tumors inhabited brain,
Titanium joints that walk with a cane.

Long Dong Silver sealed his fate.
Unprotected, he came and ate.
Syphilis and Gonorrhea were the test.
His AIDS cocktail is the best.

And so I end this sad, sick tale.
Be careful how you wield your ail.
How would you like your life to end?
Sick as hell, into nevermore, my friend?

RWH: 5/16/04

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Poem of the Week: 5/9/04

Mesa Verde

Mesa Verde wasn't pretty,
It was gaunt and bleak.
Spring had not yet come,
With beauty at its peak.

The climb was steep and scary,
A challenge to the meek.
Falling rocks for the unwary,
And a tunnel for to seek.

A place fit for flying birds,
And their castle's keep.
Not for men a climbing,
Not for men the weak.

We found it uninviting,
Found it windy and cold.
Snowflakes were a flying,
Everything looked old.

Storm clouds on the horizon,
Angry rain sheets rolled.
Not fit for beast or burden,
Although the story told.

Of people strong and mighty,
Who built on these cliffs hold.
A city for the many,
In the distant days of old.

And lived there in harmony,
With nature's great unfold,
Before Cortez came to plunder,
Stories of their gold.

We left this place in wonder,
Burned forest once verde green.
A tornado run asunder,
Crossed the valley briefly seen.

And so we descended slowly,
Low geared against the rain's sheen.
Wondering how they lived here.
And left, a mystery still unseen.

RWH: 5/9/04

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Poem of the Week: 5/2/04

Desert Wind

The desert wind blows forever,
Across the barren land.

Carving mountains and valleys,
With its mighty hand.

Seasons do not matter,
The wind is never planned.

It sifts the sand to a powder,
Dusting everything bland.

Catching widespread wing tips,
Lofting birds of prey.

Coloring the evening sky,
With a sunset ending day.

Wind shapes the beauty,
Of this desolate land.

As timeless as the character,
Of the shifting sand.

RWH: 5/2/04

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Poem of the Week: 4/18/04

Wangle Dangling

Fred Trilingual wangle dangle,
Fishing for a pond.

Mona Minya stepped on a pina,
Coladaing for a cocoanut frond.

Janet Jackson caught the action,
Waving her magic wand.

Action Jackson in deep traction,
Mass destruction weapons pond.

Hairy Rising quite surprising,
Looking for his toad.

Bush Bashing donkey hashing,
He hit the road.

Bunker Buster thrust his trustor,
His seed was sowed.

Raster Rocket hit the pocket,
Lost his full load.

Temperance Tony prays a mighty,
It is he, I goad.

RWH: 4/18/04

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Poem of the Week: 4/11/04

Homecoming

No matter how far I wander,
No matter where I roam.
My mind drifts off in memories,
Memories of my home.

Thoughts of hilltop vistas,
In the morning dew.
Long walks at sunrise,
Warmed by words from you.

Picnics in the park,
Running free and true.
Days of friends and family,
Days of me and you.

Blazing beachside sunsets,
Bonfires after the sun went down.
Days of wine and roses,
My face knew not a frown.

In desolate days of lonely,
Listening to the cold rain pound.
I see my home in the distance,
And what I've lost, I've found.

So many times I've seen her,
Just around the bend.
The home of my childhood,
Where childhoods never end.

So lay me beneath the tall tree,
Beside the murmuring stream.
And I will be home at last,
The home for which I dream.

RWH: 4/11/04

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Poem of the Week: 4/4/04

Kudzu Rising

With kudzu rising it's not surprising,
That the killer bee moves north.
The sparrow sings while the bee stings,
And the black starling has no worth.

Bamboo inches, its tendrils itches,
To slowly cover earth.
Eucalyptus grows in stately rows,
Pissing acid rain like it was Perth.

Fire ant mounds, daily hounds,
The grazing brahma's berth.
Kudzu crawls up our walls,
And peeks into our mirth.

Treetop high, it shades the sky,
Creeping beneath a sea of green.
Not the first, nor the last,
To conquer our pristine scene.

Asian men walked a thin slice,
Thirty thousand years before,
Crossing over a bridge of ice,
To reach this hallowed shore.

The steeds of conquistadors,
Came and played to preen.
The Irish come from Ireland,
For the "wearin' of the green."

And now the South is wearin' it,
As the kudzu crawls on north.
"Watch out bamboo, here I come."
Another alien among us, ...
... for what it's worth!

RWH: 4/4/04

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Poem of the Week: 3/28/04

The Howler Monkey

The howler monkey howls,
For sure you're gonna die.
Dead man walking,
And doesn't know why.

Norman Mailer's writing,
About "A fire on the Moon."
It's just a metaphor,
For getting there too soon.

"Bye, bye, Miss American Pie, ..."
Don McLean's classic tune.
The howler monkey howled,
And the music died at noon.

And the tankers sailed to Jihad,
To oil the spoils of war.
To anger gods within us,
So many times before.

The howler monkey howls,
As his home is cut down.
But we do not hear him,
There's no music on the Moon.

RWH: 3/27/04

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Poem of the Week: 3/21/04

Bloody Red

See the blood flow on the page,
Variegated red's all the rage.

Words obliterated with flowing red,
The very last poem my heart has bled.

A bullet, precisely through my brain,
Feeling strange without any pain.

Sharp knife's slice of jugular vein,
Pumping blood in red refrain.

Crack of blow from baseball bat,
Bloody nose and bloody spat.

Bet you thought murder you'd find,
Just a paper cut to mess your mind.

RWH: 3/20/04

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Poem of the Week: 3/14/04

Atrocity

Sudden shock, burst of flame.
Bodies flying, bloody rain.

Wails of living and dying,
Fill the space.

Of the stun brained,
Human race.

Smoke, dust, mangled gore,
Vaguely resembles just before.

Bloody body parts still intact,
Rush to hospital, put them back.

But will they ever be the same,
After feeling the bloody rain?

Who would do such a thing?
Those who fear the despots' reign?

Only those with minds turned cold,
Would be so ignorant, so bold.

To unleash an atrocity like this,
On the innocent flock in fold.

RWH: 3/14/04

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Poem of the Week: 3/7/04

The Times, They are a Changin'

My apologies to Bob Dylan for plagiarizing his title.

Jayson Blair, young man with flair,
Became a star reporter.

He tried his best, like the rest,
But couldn't keep up the pace.

With deadlines to keep and people to meet.
Every day became a race.

Drugs and booze were what he used,
To help him to produce.

Relentless pressure day and night,
Made him give up the goose.

He made up stories left and right,
After all, what's the use?

His errors were caught, but overlooked,
Because he had some juice.

When Blair was found out, a mighty shout.
Was heard across the land.

For the Times, red faced one and all,
Changin' was at hand.

Two senior editors heads would roll,
And Jayson would be banned.

To get a $125,000 advance,
To write his story to the land.

The Times, they are a changing.
When plagiarism, widely ranging,

Gets a post at Esquire, not panned.

RWH: 3/6/04

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Poem of the Week: 2/29/04

Vanishing Point

Off in the distance, just out of sight.
Lies my destination, in the dim light.

There's fire in my loins with will in my might,
That I might get there, before the dark night.

So I press on the accelerator and hold on tight,
And lose the encumbrances that hold me back.

To outrun my rivals, on the left and the right.
I sense that they're gaining, on the attack.

But I don't see them, it's just that they lack,
The skill and the power with which I fly.

Into the vanishing point in the night sky.
But will I get there, ... before I die?

RWH: 2/28/04

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Poem of the Week: 2/22/04

Lonely Birdhouse

Red and white by the highway caught our eye.
My wife was excited: "A birdhouse! Can we buy?"

A nice touch to our new house it did make.
Mounted on the back fence for when we awake.

Alas, it was mounted on a wood 2 x 4.
High in the air but not in birdhouse lore.

Black birds would sit for a moment, then fly.
Occasional birds would momentarily stop by.

But no purple martin in its right mind,
Would nest in a house that the cats could find.

The wooden post cats could easily climb,
On baby chicks they would love to dine.

So the trees grew and the birdhouse stood alone.
We divorced and its support reflected our home.

Faded and weak, the birdhouse fell down.
Efforts to fix it were met with a frown.

Finally it got painted; not red, but silver on top.
And languished months more until it was put up.

This time on a shiny smooth pole.
Assuming its familiar, lonely old role.

It's February, and the purple martins have arrived.
To my surprise, the birdhouse is suddenly alive.

After twenty-two years of lonely waiting,
It's filled with the happiness of anticipating.

The birth of a family.

RWH: 2/22/04

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Poem of the Week: 2/18/04

Gold Member

I am a gold member and can do what I want,
The poetry pages on AuthorsDen.com I haunt.

Send pictures too large, my words in bold font.
My unabashed love for my fellow poets I flaunt.

Shout out to my friends with every post.
To hell with poetry, my friends are the most.

Shout down our enemies, they are but pests.
Can't stand vile comments, you know the rest?

Spelling, punctuation, word use be damned,
My friends will praise me throughout the land.

A birthday greeting, rant or blog,
More mileage the poetry pages will log.

And so I wrote this poem for you,
The gold member with nothing better to do.

To poets I say: "Here's to you!
May your poems ring sharp; may they ring true."

RWH: 2/15/04

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Poem of the Week: 2/8/04

Lost Words

Sometimes the words are lost,
When from a dream we awake.

Sometimes the words fade the pages,
In the bottom of the lake.

Sometimes the words burn brightly,
As the pages curl and flake.

Sometimes the words, old and musty,
The garbage man will take.

Sometimes the hard drive crashes,
Electronic characters turn to fake.

Sometimes the critic dashes,
Words to shreds we cast our stake.

Somewhere writers toil,
The words again to remake.

RWH: 2/7/04

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Poem of the Week: 1/25/04

A Buffalo Soldier's Saga

Buffalo soldier, where are you from?
Buffalo soldier, are you on the run?

"I come from a land far cross the sea,
Dagara warrior, tall, proud and free.
I come from a land with wonders to behold,
Full of creatures wild, free and bold.

A land where my brother betrayed me.
Trussed me up like a caged monkey.
Sold me to the White devils in the square,
Then piled me into a ship to nowhere.

I come from a terrible crossing of sea.
For days I could not eat or see the sky.
In pain and suffering I thought I would die,
Upon reaching this land I could but lie.

I come from a market where I was but chattel,
They paraded me out, like I was fine cattle.
'How much do you bid for this fine buck?'
My whole fate depended on 'who bought me' luck.

They hauled me off, bound to the plantation
Massa James beat, and starved me to submission.
I picked for him a fine cotton crop,
But when I ran, I couldn't stop.

I joined the Blue coats and fought Johnny Reb.
From White's Ranch, Larkinsville, and the Gap.
With bloody bare hands I fought for my ground.
This Dagara warrior ran Old Dixie down.

Now that the big war is over,
Sioux call me the 'Buffalo Soldier'.
With the 9th Cavalry I do ride,
My horse and good men by my side.

I long for my family and tribesmen who died.
Killing Indians is sad and I can't abide.
I am still running with nowhere to hide.
I'll ride till I die, with good men by my side."

Ride, Buffalo Soldier, ride! Into history, ride,
With good men by your side

RWH: 1/25/04

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Song of the Week: 1/19/04

Old Saigon

I sat in a restaurant, sipping Mekong.
In a rush of rickshaws she came along.
An exotic beauty dressed for the day.
I lost my heart when she passed my way.

I remember old Saigon
Days were bright and nights were long.

For days I sat by the Avenue wide.
But never I saw her pass by my side.
Finally, I had to quit going that way.
My heart was heavy and I couldn't stay.

I remember old Saigon
Days were bright and nights were long.

Returning to the plantation, I tended my trees.
But thoughts of her crowded my ease.
By the river I heard women laughing,
I approached, not content with just passing.

I remember old Saigon
Days were bright and nights were long.

There she was, the local chief's daughter,
Swimming freely in the murky water.
To the old chief I asked for her hand.
With disdain he waved me off with his fan.

I remember old Saigon
Days were bright and nights were long.

I tended my waters and tended my trees,
Thought of her often in the warm summer breeze.
The nights were warm, and they were long,
In the golden days of old Saigon.

RWH: 1/19/04

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Poem of the Week: 1/11/04

Time Tunnel

Time is a tunnel we all must travel alone.
Our speed is astronomical; we cannot intone.

Nestled in our Eden, we keep our own score,
Counting suns, moons, ... seasons, to the four.

And so our time is honored to even be aware.
Counted to accumulate and predict ones share.

Of the Universe's great revolving plan,
Gravity to the center while spinning out again.

We rotate with our Earth once every single day.
Twenty-five thousand mph on a windless bay.

While our home circles its Sun in airless grace.
Sol rides the Milky Way with astounding pace.

Who knows what the Milky Way sails around?
At a velocity approaching light profound.

In the womb our time tunnel has no ends.
Both ends open with the light birth sends.

Gradually aware of the time that we have,
We fill it with activity needed to live.

Some grow tunnels deep; some grow them wide.
No way to know which is right until the other side.

Relentless the rotation though we cannot abide.
Our tunnels grow to wisdom and then subside.

Until death closes our tunnels in,
While the tunnel of time continues to spin.

RWH: 1/11/04

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Poem of the Week: 1/4/04

Poem of the Weak

My head is pounding,
Stale nails, I think.
My stomach is growling,
Like tigers; I'm so weak.

I didn't celebrate New Year's Eve,
Drink too much or have to heave.
I ate right and went to bed early,
So why am I feeling so damn surly?

Didn't want to get out of bed,
Daydreams running my silly head.
Oh dread. My Poem of the week,
Slipped out-It's dead!

And so I'm penning,
This poor excuse.
So much for trying,
What's the use?

Now that I'm finished,
Can crawl back to bed.
With visions of damsels,
Not classic poems--instead.

RWH: 1/4/04

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