Sickology

Old Sigmund attributed it to sex,
and for most sex is a hex,
you're damned if you do,
and damned if you don't.
I'd like to get into it,
but I won't... no I won't.

There are those that like to play little games,
mess with our heads with praises and blames.

It's wise to avoid those that psychologize,
for to manipulate is their only prize.
They are all charlatans in sharper eyes.

And if you are crazy don't let it show,
crazy contributes nothing to know,
crazy takes up way too much time,
crazy will cost you your last dime.

And if you are genius don't let it show either,
genius is heinous in common folks' minds,
genius changes the way that we live,
common folks fear change's take and give.

So all you sickies, and you know who you are,
don't blame me when you raise your bar,
I won't follow the path that you want me to take,
your silly psychologizing leaves a wide wake.

And so I leave this ridiculous rant,
hopefully saner saying I can, not I can't.

It's a wonderful science dancing in your head,
it's a yawn for me, so I'm going to bed,
and won't think about it when I'm dead.

It's not my ego, it's your id.

RWH: 12/25/14

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Poem of the Week: 12/20/14

Information Nation

We live in a time of change,
but it's always been that way.
That change is accelerating,
we can't deny today.

I sense a sense of fear,
from those both near and far.
And that sense of fear,
is raised to a new high bar.

I wonder why this is so,
when the world is better each year?
What's happening, "out there."
Affects us like it's, "here."

The Internet and cell phones,
capture events worldwide.
And transmit them to us,
in a nano second ride.

The world is at our fingertips,
and constantly barging in.
What we once never knew about,
becomes a constant din.

Some have totally turned it off,
while some have tried to join in.
So many fear from what they hear,
and think the world is falling into sin.

Nothing could be further from the truth,
those things have always existed.
With all the information now available,
the distant becomes personal, twisted.

So, relax and embrace the newfound truth,
do not rely on memory's innocent past.
For the good old days were really bad,
they just kept it from you until the last.

Learn how to detect misinformation,
because it's out there in scads for you.
Be thankful for the good information,
let your mind work to find the true.

And remember, things are getting better,
not worse, all the time.
Fear makes us do stupid things,
without reason, without rhyme.

RWH: 12/18/14

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Poem of the Week: 12/13/14

Quandary

Dedicated to Dr. Seuss,
wherever you are...

Wandering through my laundry,
I came upon a quandary.

It looked a bit like blarney,
but I knew it warn't.

As puzzling as could be,
it danced upon my knee.

Singing a stupid song,
that I knew all along,
learnt it all by heart.

Right then I knew I had to part,
with this puzzling piece of art.

I was completely perplexed,
and may have been hexed,
didn't know what was next,
on my rotisserie... lucky me.

So if you feel quite hexed,
and haven't yet been sexed.

Perhaps it is a quandary,
hiding in your dirty laundry,
that you need to excise.

Wouldn't that be wise?

RWH: 12/11/14

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Poem of the Week: 12/6/14

Popularity

It seems I've become very popular,
this time of the year.

Get a lot of emails from Gloria,
wanting to be near.

I don't know who Gloria is,
But she sure sounds like a dear.

I get a lot of calls with offers,
for old folks that I don't know.

I'd like to get them something,
but they're always on the go.

Getting all those wonderful pick me ups,
that all the commercials show.

All the wonderful charities,
think that I am rich.

I gave them all three dollars like they asked,
I'm a man, but now they think I'm a bitch.

Gave me psoriasis so bad,
I don't know where to itch.

With the heartbreak of psoriasis,
I guess I'll just have to die.

But I hear they've got a pill for that,
that you have to go to Canada to buy.

And all the big politicos,
think that I'm on their side.

Support their causes to the hilt,
and take me for a ride.

With friends like that, who needs friends at all,
I'll just hang up, when they call.

And all those offers on email?
I'll mark them junk, and turn their tail.

And as for all that snail mail that comes,
makes a nice fire to warm my buns.

Happy holidays to all my friends,
to all you wannabes, our friendship ends.

RWH: 12/4/14

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Poem of the Week: 11/29/14

Turnkey Day

I didn't have a turnkey day,
the turkey exploded on the way.

It must've been the stuffing,
had too much natural gas.

For when it blew up,
put me on my ass.

My guests were coming soon,
my mind was in disarray.

I had little to be thankful for,
on this Thanksgiving Day.

I asked Siri for some help,
and she answered right away.

Put me online with cleanup crews,
and they were on the way.

As for turkey with all the trimmings,
she got me that at a discount, too.

She threw in some T-day decorations,
and a complete Xmas display.

Everything arrived like clockwork,
my guests never had a clue.

They all remarked how nice it was,
even the Christmas trimmings, too.

Everyone left tipsy and happy as could be,
another turkey day over leaving just me.

If it hadn't been for turnkey services,
my day would've been a mess.

But thanks to turnkey services,
I made it over that awful hill.

No shopping frantically for Christmas,
Black Friday brought the turnkey bill!!!

RWH: 11/27/14

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Poem of the Week: 11/22/14

Tail Chasing

It seemed straightforward from the start,
a simple request from my anxious heart.

If I had known the trouble it would become,
I never would have attempted what I'd done.

It came with a message my domain had expired,
so contacted my host to see what was required.

A simple transfer, was all that I asked.
I paid the money, for them to do the task.

I was told to wait 3 to 5 days for the change,
it seemed like an eon in our computer age.

The days went by and nothing transpired,
called them back, authorization was required.

Called the reseller and got an authorization code,
called them back, was now in authorization mode.

Waited and waited, a few more days,
called back anxious, why the delays?

An email had been sent to a defunct mail account,
all I had to do was respond for it to count.

Resetting the password resulted in Catch-22,
finally had to call, to get it to manually come through.

Found many old messages requiring renewal,
and my authorization had expired... damn, you fool.

Called down under to get it straightened out,
told me not to worry, it was nobody's fault.

Called my host and told them to proceed,
when I called back, the key I would need.

Called back down under to get me unlocked,
key and authorization code were now clocked.

Called my host with key in hand,
everything would go as planned.

Days went by and nothing still had transpired,
seems they sent the order to my mail, expired.

I asked them to forward the order to me,
when I finally saw the message, I cried with glee.

RWH: 11/20/14

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Poem of the Week: 11/15/14

Quadrafeelya

With all four senses I feel your pain,
without any feeling, there is no gain.

My nose picks up your musky scent.
My ears perk to your lament.
My eyes behold your heaven sent.
To feel your curves is where I'm bent.

I know you're hurt deep inside,
there is no place where you can hide.

So let it out, and let it flee,
come to me baby, come to me.

Let my kisses dry your tears,
let my words erase the years.

Let my fingers thrill of your senses,
let my fingers tear down your fences.

For comfort lies within your girth,
to heat you up, for all I'm worth.

There is no pleasure like one that's warm,
let me baby, I mean no harm.

With all my fingers, and all my toes,
to rub you gently, with my nose.

Feel the pain flow away,
feel the glow to brighten the day.

Nothing feels better than the human touch,
I love you baby, love you so much.

RWH: 11/13/14

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Poem of the Week: 11/8/14

Uncounted

On the path to anonymous,
the uncounted go their way.
Live each day in their routine,
not counting as they play.

For them this life is follow,
to do what others say.
Afraid they will not "fit in,"
unless they join in and pray.

That they have done the "right thing,"
by their friends and family.
That they have guarded tradition,
and maintained the powers that sway.

They go through life in passages,
obeying every required and prescribed link:

Baptism
Catechism/Confirmation/Bat Mitzvah
Graduation/College/Training/Military
Job/Business/Career
Marriage/Divorce
Children/Family
Holidays (Holy Days)
Keeping up with the Joneses
The American Dream (A New Home)
Clubs/Affiliations/Parties/Certifications
Public Service/Charities/Volunteering
Games/Pastimes/Hobbies
Chasing the Dream/Losing/Failure
Job Loss/Bankruptcy/Foreclosure
Illness/Infirmity/Hospitalization/Dependency
Funeral/Legacy

As if on a mindless treadmill,
touching every goal post,
and not even having to think.

Powerless to make any difference,
just one more cog in the wheel.
Consuming and babymaking along the way,
going through motions without feel.

There's always been power in numbers,
and the uncounted play their part.
Whether it be fodder for the war machine,
or their unwavering support of clout.

There is no use in complaining,
if you are among the uncounted masses,
it's time to start thinking realistically,
and get up off your asses.

RWH: 11/6/14

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Poem of the Week: 11/1/14

Lava

You can't stop the fire below,
it yearns and burns and wants to grow.

Insatiable desire that we all know,
but keep to ourselves for fear.

The churning starts deep within,
a heat that grows like unnatural sin.

It can't be denied for it has no kin,
in the lexicon of urges with no peer.

It works its way to the top,
it has to grow and cannot stop.

When it bursts forth with force and might,
some view it with glee and others with fright.

For there is no stopping its mighty flow.
The fire above like the fire below.

Burns everything it touches in its path,
nothing can escape its fiery wrath.

So if you wish to play with fire,
beware the lava of your desire.

Channel it for a good to replenish the earth,
and give destruction a very wide berth.

RWH: 10/30/14

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Poem of the Week: 10/4/14

Late

Lately, I've been late,
hard to get to every important date...
missed some on my plate.
Must be my gait.

Thought retirement would give me time,
to do the things that make me rhyme.
But I find those things have to wait,
postponed for some other slate.

It's not that I 'm slowing down,
although my help has grown a frown.
It's just there's so much to do,
and a lot of time wasters, too.

So, the hurrieder I go,
the behinder I get.
But I'm changing up fast,
and might get there yet.

On the other hand,
(and I do have one...;-)),
maybe I'll just slow down early,
and make that a good bet.

At the end of my toiling,
will give up on all of it anyway,
drink a toast to the god of late,
and coast on through the fall.

Damn! I think I missed Halloween!

RWH: 10/18/14

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Poem of the Week: 10/4/14

Have You Seen Ur-Anus?

Have you seen Ur-Anus?
I certainly haven't seen mine,
except perhaps by mirrors,
and I haven't got the inclination,
or the time.

But I have seen Uranus,
thanks to a friend of mine,
through his 16 inch telescope,
a view that's quite sublime.

Before Galileo, Uranus was unknown,
a deep dark secret place,
even on the throne.

But thanks to the telescope,
we know Ur-Anus exists.
I saw it the other night,
when you bent over to kiss.

High-powered cameras exist everywhere,
so guard Ur-Anus well,
you never know when on YouTube,
it will be part of show and tell.

Well, maybe a moon or two.

RWH: 10/18/14

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Poem of the Week: 10/4/14

Gone

This is not a sad piece about me. Just
a fact of nature that I find intriguing.

All the dreams of childhood,
have somehow up and gone.
Like the ugly black duckling,
that turned into a swan.

Those secret places we met,
for a tryst we did not regret.
Are now just a city subdivision,
like memories gone, and yet.

We dream of them like yesterday,
though they have been long gone.
If we could bring them back today,
we'd pay a pipers' sum.

Like sweethearts so alluring,
with promises of love long,
and a life like a love song,
suddenly fickle and gone.

Like the earnings in a pocket,
much more than needed to live on.
That suddenly disappeared from the,
saved account, spent and gone.

The skills we learned so eagerly,
practiced and the honed lifelong.
Suddenly outsourced overseas,
obsolete and forever gone.

And if we got those riches,
through hook or by crook, hard won.
Would we be happy and healthy,
or wish all the complications gone.

Would we wish for that simple life,
with home and hearth and family 'round.
For when some things are finally gone,
that's when happiness can be found.

RWH: 10/2/14

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Poem of the Week: 9/27/14

Turn of the Worm

The world yearned,
and the worm turned,
but everything stayed,
pretty much the same.

The fires within burned,
while the worm exquisitely turned,
with lovers everywhere spurned,
as they looked to find a new game.

The skies melted and mourned,
while the worm slowly turned,
and the clouds angrily churned,
looking for the balm of rain.

In a world full of sweat,
we haven't learned yet,
that you can't win a bet,
on the turn of the worm.

For deep is the ground,
where the worm is found,
what goes comes around,
in a world filled with deep regret.

If your apple is pure,
and the worm is demure,
there is no true cure,
if it's rotten at the core.

When all is said and done,
when we have, or have not, won,
the beginning of the end of our fun,
comes when the worm turns once more.

RWH: 9/25/14

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Poem of the Week: 9/20/14

Land of the Living

In the land of the living,
there is life to be had.
Where babies are born,
more good than are bad.

For life goes on living,
in the face of pending death.
For death is inevitable,
so we live every breath.

There are many twists and turns,
along every life.
The choices we make,
bring both happiness,
sadness and strife.

The future is bright,
with many challenges to meet.
There is no known limit,
to either conquer or defeat.

Everyone desires to have,
a better life to live.
And life gets better every year,
as some take, and some give.

For all of our fears,
overcome through the years,
through much laughter and tears,
most of life cheers.

In the land of the living,
there's life we are given.
No sense worrying about it,
so get out and start living.

RWH: 9/18/14

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Poem of the Week: 9/13/14

Starlight

Starlight, starbright, don't shine for me tonight,
but provide for me, the morning light,
the warmth of day, and sky of blue,
you are my star, my star so true.

With you the seasons come and go,
you're always there, come rain or snow.
Sometimes I don't see you for days,
that's when I miss you in so many ways.

You're taken for granted, I am told,
but you were worshiped in days of old.
We have forgotten how important you are,
our one and only, very personal star.

We can imitate your light very well at night,
but we need your power to make it bright.
With your power we've turned night into day,
without you, there would be no other way.

It's cold out there, and so alone,
but you are near, and you have shown,
your starlight for over 4 billion years,
to this fragile planet filled with tears.

For death is normal to create new life,
filled with drama, and filled with strife.
But you are, and have always been,
the driving force that comes from within.

You are not the center of this huge universe,
you play a small part in this dance you rehearse.
But you are our only source of life,
Occam's razor cuts from your knife.

So thank you starlight, for your blinding brilliant light,
we'll luxuriate in your warmth and wait for you each night.
For we love you and everything you do to make things right,
our one and only star, our starlight.

RWH: 9/11/14

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Poem of the Week: 9/6/14

Cup of Tea

You may live in fantasyland,
where you escape to be free,
I much prefer wonderful raw reality,
fantasy is not my cup of tea.

You may think that a designer drug,
will make you fly like an angel or bee,
and sing like a songbird's sweet melody.
Our bodies were not designed for drugs;
you're fooling you, but you're not fooling me.

You may indulge your favorite food,
and then lament you're out of shape.
You must exercise, my friend,
your mind and body to that end,
and not succumb to feed your fate.

Whatever your addiction, I don't want to hear,
how you've tried and tried, but never got clear.
I'm not the cause of your selfish affliction,
only you can stop a stupid compulsion.

You may blame others for their misdeeds,
while you live your life the same.
While you over spend your capital endlessly,
not living the life you claim.

Ignorance is bliss and you always enlist,
because it's what everyone else does.
Act without thinking because it's, "right."
It helps you get through each long lonely night.

But in the end, we all must face the truth,
the life we live is all that we have.
Looking to save it somewhere else,
is simply ludicrous, my friend.

So if you savor a choice of fine wines,
a connoisseur of coffees and fine white lines,
that's not my cup of tea, my friend,
we're not fooling anyone in the end.

RWH: 9/4/14

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Poem of the Week: 8/30/14

Creativity

If creativity is your proclivity,
then why dawdle about?

Get your foot out of your rear,
and stop playing down and out.

Daylight is burning in the midday sun,
and you haven't figured out how to have fun?

Don't walk... get out and run!

For life's a box of chocolate cherries,
and we can cherry pick what we want.

We don't have to hand write well anymore,
just pick out a beautiful font.

We can color it myriad to make glorious art,
we just have to pick from a rainbow chart.

Draw with your finger, draw with your tongue,
a glance of your eye, or a thought on the run.

A new world of creation is at your command,
app yourself up, and create a new land.

Where you can be happy, and fear no more,
cast out the ghosts, breathe like never before.

The world is your oyster, don't get stuck on the shoals,
get yourself going and establish some goals.

"We are all creative," a fine poet once wrote,
so wake up and get up, cross over that moat.

"Those who aren't busy living, are busy dying."
The poet of the 20th century sang.

Ring in the new century with your bell rang.

RWH: 8/28/14

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Poem of the Week: 8/23/14

Bumblebee Down

What is that buzzing I hear coming 'round?
Is it my inner ear manufacturing a sound?

Is it the coming of some mighty peril?
The buzz saw of death anointed with oil?

It is only a bumblebee, the last of his kind.
Flying above me, with what's on his mind.

I fear his sting as he swoops down so very low,
but he only comes in close and comes in very slow.

Looks at me with mournful compound eyes,
I've never seen a bee of his massive size.

He seems to be pleading for me to do,
the right thing, now that he is nearly through.

Makes me regret those times in my stupid youth,
when I did what I thought was good, but really uncouth.

I shot his ancestors down with my BB gun,
I did it for sport and I did it for fun.

To me they were pests under my back door steps,
but now I regret what I did to our neighbors, our guests.

For the red clover needs the long tongue of the bumblebee,
to pollinate its sweet fragrant flower we so often see.

Covering wild fields and farmers' hay crops,
for the sweet smelling hay that cows think is tops.

So I waved goodbye to that last bumblebee,
regretting that we didn't learn from using DDT.

Like the old Indian who stood with a tear in his eye,
I hung my head low and started to cry.

For what have we done to our land, our water and sky,
who are we to determine what is to live and what is to die?

All I know is that I see the bumblebee down,
and I face the future without a smile, but a frown.

RWH: 8/21/14

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Poem of the Week: 8/16/14

I Sing

I sing because I'm happy.
I sing when I am blue,
I sing because I want to,
and I'm singing this one for you.

There is a song in my heart,
that escapes whenever I see you.
There are no words to describe,
so a song will have to do.

I serenade you in your morning,
at lunch when the sun is high at noon,
as we walk hand-in-hand in the sunset,
and by the light of the magic moon.

(Refrain)

A melody escaped me,
when you first came into view.
I'll never forget that day, but then,
every day with you is brand-new.

And when our days are over,
and when our days are through,
our songs will always linger,
in the hearts of other lovers, too.

So, one more time,
let me sing this one for you.

(Refrain)

One more time, one more time,
just for you, just for you...

RWH: 8/14/14

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Poem of the Week: 8/9/14

Dark of the Moon

The old wolf howled at the dark of the moon,
that seemed very strange since it was half past noon.

My time was up and the wolf was at the door,
I even thought I heard the raven caw, "Nevermore."

The clouds were closing in on me,
and I could hear their silent, stifling roar.

I conjured up a rage not seen this age,
an unwelcome feeling never felt before.

But I felt with my fingers the sword of almighty fate,
and brandished it with words that evened the score.

The dark of the moon had come way, way too soon,
but I slashed through the night to daylight once more.

And the old wolf shrank in fear, tail 'tween its legs,
and the dark moon shone brightly like never before.

RWH: 8/7/14

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Poem of the Week: 8/2/14

The Mind

The mind is a river of ever flowing thoughts,
it crosses as many do nots as oughts.

And ideas, the mind has, a plenty,
certainly when it comes to making money.

There is no "heart" in the heart, only mind,
but for some, rest assured, it's in the behind.

For the heart is a necessary pump,
providing oxygen to the mindful rump.

There is no "soul" in the body--only mind,
and when the spark of life is gone,
no soul is ever left behind to find.

The mind spends its idle time,
sorting out its input streams,
the sorting becomes most vivid,
when encountering dreams.

So many put their minds to waste,
in trivial pursuits, or in their haste,
for easy solutions to complex thoughts,
following others' ideas to their taste.

The mind can solve complex tasks,
to questions that nearly no one asks.

The mind can be molded to certain beliefs,
by deviant people with thoughts of thieves.

The mind is "a terrible thing to waste."
It must be exercised and not remain chaste.

For ignorance is the unused mind,
where so many are left behind.

We have only so much time left to think,
so use your mind now because it's gone in a blink.

RWH: 7/31/14

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Poem of the Week: 7/26/14

Out of the Blue

You came into view,
out of the blue,
and I was smitten.

The sky was so blue,
your eyes were too,
a color never written.

Your eyes met mine,
our thoughts entwined,
going beyond forbidden.

We joined hand-in-hand,
the world was our land,
the lion became a kitten.

Down to the seashore,
we strolled like before,
a thousand times in our dreams.

We frolicked and played,
planned and displayed,
our love through all of our schemes.

But the day grew late,
and so did our fate,
as those things always do.

The sun set sublime,
we kissed one last time,
and lingered in the fading hue.

Our time came to part,
you left me cold in the dark,
totally out of the blue.

RWH: 7/24/14

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Poem of the Week: 7/19/14

Beauty in the Night

When dark clouds gather,
and things don't turn out right.
I linger with the sunset,
waiting for beauty in the night.

When the bright of moon travels,
'cross clouds scudding in its bright.
I linger in the cloaking darkness,
savoring beauty in the night.

When the whippoorwill calls,
and the nighthawk takes to flight.
The owl hoots its timeless warning,
to those sleeping beauty in the night.

When troubles all surround me,
and I see no end in sight.
When sleepless, I lie awake,
longing for beauty in the night.

When I feel a sense of wander,
'neath shadows with all my might,
I sense the world primeval,
searching for beauty in the night.

When the warmth of summer comes,
and the fog drifts in just right,
you stand backlit in your window,
silhouetting your beauty in the night.

When my wandering is over,
and I return from my sojourn's rite.
My bed waits softly inviting,
with your beauty in the night.

RWH: 7/17/14

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Poem of the Week: 7/12/14

Computtering

Where have all the Crack Berrys gone?
Their addictions sold but for a song.

IPhoneys now rule the rage,
but will they ever selfie their age?

The LGable Gee3 is also on the stage,
Will your little finger turn the page?

That Androidian on your ear,
is such a wonderful surprise.

Sam Sung a song of sixpence,
and spread a packet full of lies.

Spread them throughout the Galaxy,
the ICloud in your cloud never dies.

IPad with fingers gently,
on keyboards long gone.

Can draw without a pencil,
and even compose a song.

On the Surface they're all the same,
trying to keep up in the OS game.

You can Kindle your Fire,
but can't contain your ire.

And Googling your Nexus,
won't improve your solar plexus.

Down in the Dell Venue you can't see,
the forest for the pixels in the trees.

But the As(s) in us MeMOs with ease,
bringing the highfalutin to their knees.

Len ovo yer Yoga if yuse please,
will only barrie it to shoot the breeze.

I am through with puttering for today,
got to get back to my 'puter and play.

RWH: 7/10/14

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Poem of the Week: 7/5/14

July

Picnic in the park,
until way after dark,
the smell of smoke in the air,
campfire laughter to the last spark.

Afloat on the water,
sun dancing off waves,
soaking in sunshine,
on these warmest of days.

Girls in bikinis,
a sight for sore eyes,
boys playing games,
showing off being guys.

Too much fun in the sun,
skin turning bright red.
can't sleep all night,
nightmares of hot dread.

A line in the water,
waiting for a nibble.
To catch a nice fish,
for the dinner table.

The corn is knee-high,
and the tomatoes near ripe,
berries are for picking,
green apples if you like.

In the middle of one of those,
hottest of the muggy days,
a storm will suddenly appear,
in the west, lightning displays.

A wall of white clouds,
followed by solid black,
the storm front rolls in,
like a freight train on track.

Everyone scrambles for cover,
with the wind on our back.
Heavy rain soon follows,
under shelter or shack.

The downpour turns to dribbles,
there is a cool tang in the air,
a rainbow appears in the east,
announcing the all clear.

RWH: 7/4/14

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Poem of the Week: 6/28/14

Myth

Deep in the lost mists of time,
when humankind first became aware,
something was missing in the struggle,
the need to humanly share.

For there were lessons,
forged deep in the wood.
And those that survived them,
could pass on the good.

For the children were weak,
and alone could not survive,
without the knowledge of elders,
teachings of prosper and thrive.

Spirits arose from evil smells,
and strange unknowns to the sight,
some appeared in the day,
and some in the night.

Some were good with signs of plenty,
some were very bad with signs of death.
Interpreting these signs were weighty,
only sages could define their breadth.

Some appeared in dreams,
some appeared in stupor.
All of these signs were passed down,
as surely right and proper.

From generation to generation,
the stories were passed,
with metaphor and fable,
so young memories would be cast.

In the ideology of the family, tribe and nation,
everything in order, everyone with a station.
For there was evil lurking out there,
that would take away life, and didn't care.

The fear was primal, and never went away,
with good spirits for guidance, fear was held at bay.
In time, the stories, were carved in stone.
Still pondered by scholars to this very day.

Written into words for each generation to own.
Published in books, and edited to be proper,
to meet the king's standards, and not the pauper.

While our primal fears continue,
like the bogeyman under the bed.
The myth has been hammered,
through repetition and dread into head.

Until myth has become a lifestyle for some,
who let myth do all of their thinking.
The flock that is sacrificed so easily,
because they don't have an inkling.

So wars rage on over whose myth,
is right and whose myth is wrong.
Bolstered by tales of their exploits,
through revelations and song.

The myths of the ancients,
no longer hold true.
Science has debunked many,
that so many hang onto.

We are all one people on this earth,
and have to rely on knowledge,
and not spirits for our worth.

There are very real dangers to fear,
for we have created threats severe.
it's time we stop reveling in myth,
for the danger is present and clear.

Time to debunk all the fallacies,
that keep holding us back in our fear.
So that a brighter future for everyone,
will finally, after so much struggle,

Appear.

RWH: 6/27/14

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Poem of the Week: 6/21/14

Giant Swallowtail

A giant swallowtail came to visit,
if only for a short, short while.
It's scenes like this that make me glad,
that make me break out in smile.

All yellow and black with fluttering attack,
the giant swallowtail draws its nectar sweet.
After a moment it is off on a new tack,
its flight so erratic and fleet.

She saw an ugly many eyed worm,
in the leaves of the naval orange tree.
Wanted to kill it right then and there,
wanted the fruit tree bug free.

I told her to stop and think for a moment,
about what she was going to do.
By killing all bugs and worms,
much beauty would disappear from view.

Ladybugs are best, for removing pests,
and hardy, bug resistant native plants.
Pesticides are great, but of late,
they are slowly killing us in kind.

Bugs killed out of sight, out of mind.
No more birds, no butterflies to find.

She saw an ugly cocoon on the fence,
wanted to clean it off with her hose.
Wanted her garden perfectly beautiful,
so the neighbors wouldn't turn up their nose.

I told her the cocoon was beauty in disguise,
waiting for metamorphosis to occur.
She asked me what metamorphosis was,
I told her to wait and see for sure.

One morning I saw it happening,
and she came to her surprise,
the ugly worm had turned,
into a giant swallowtail beauty,
right before her eyes!

RWH: 6/19/14

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Poem of the Week: 6/14/14

Cursive

I swear I hate cursive,
though I write it all the time.

Try not to use those words in vain,
when they pop into my mind.

The handwriting is on the stall,
In sleazy restrooms all the time.

When number two I do,
sometimes in perfect rhyme.

I epithet under my breath,
to make a silent point.

If they knew what I really said,
they'd throw me out of the joint.

So what's a poet to do,
when these words pop into view?

I just grin and bear it,
and let it all hang out for you.

A little alliteration always helps,
to shed light on the scenes.

Peter Piper picked his pecker,
in Poughkeepsie, soiled his jeans.

I try not to use God's words too much,
only when they come with ease.

"Judas's Priest!" I often shout,
so much better than saying, "Geez!"

You say that cursive is just handwriting?
And not writing bad words to make a rhyme?

Nevermind.

RWH: 6/12/14

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Poem of the Week: 6/7/14

Quanks

For a bit of fun, I decided to
make up a word and write a poem
about it. To my surprise, the word
was already in use! So here goes...

Quanks are everywhere,
don'cha know...
some move fast,
and some move slow.

I seen em in Wal-Mart,
and at the picture show.
They may be from Area 51,
don'cha know.

Then I heard they started,
in Africa or one of those,
countries like that over there.
A new kind of diseases,
spread from having sex with monkeys,
like they always do over there.

With airplanes and stuff,
it's easy for them to escape.
Some even smuggled in,
on a sailboat at the Cape.

Landed at the yacht club,
or so I heer'd tell,
hobnobbed with the nouveau riche,
fit in just like hell.

And now they have infected,
the whole damn corn tree side.
I's suspect they be everywhere,
something I just can't abide.

For this is my corn tree,
and I'll be damned if they invade!
Got my 357 Magnum registered,
and hung by my blade.

So watch out all you Quanks,
and you knows who you is.
I will eradicate you sons of bitches,
and make it my biz.

Got me a reality show,
and I'm gonnna search youse out.
And when I get real close,
a commercial will pop up and shout.

I'll make you sweat the conclusion,
while I make some big bucks.
Ya'all suckers for them special offerors,
super sizing, specials and stuffs.

So next time you go downtown,
or to your favorite spot to pee,
keep an eye over your shoulder,
for Quanks in your vicinity.

Ya'all cain't be too careful,
when them Quanks is around,
the best way to detect em,
is by smell or that farting sound.

Their designer perfume,
is Corral No. 5,
their designer clothes,
are by Piercing and Tattoos Live.

So if you are a Quank,
or know one by innuendo,
don't selfie on the Internet,
or I've got your Nintendo.

Track you down and spam you,
until the bitter end.
It's youse or me's in this deal,
and I'm a gonna win.

Ain't I?

RWH: 6/5/14

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Poem of the Week: 5/31/14

Simalaya

There are no mountain peaks,
only turned up ocean beds,
pushed up into the sky,
when the ocean leaks.

Into the molten core,
making volcanoes roar,
and magma soar,
to new found heights.

Only to implode,
and release its load,
of pent-up gas,
and rocky ash.

While life clings on,
to sing its song,
and the tides roll in,
so it goes, on and on.

There are no black holes,
we cannot see,
only gravity so great,
light cannot flee.

How would we conquer,
gravity so great?
We can't even fathom,
we can't even relate.

How many universes,
are side-by-side?
Are we dreaming a universe,
we can't abide?

Pixel by pixel the image is formed,
a monster or angel is transformed,
into something the artist desires,
and our hearts yearn for,
with the playing of lyres.

Four dimension images magically appear,
our greatest aspirations,
our greatest fear.

When we have reached the mountaintop,
there's still much more to see,
the universe is our oyster,
the universe is free.

Use it.

RWH: 5/29/14

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Poem of the Week: 5/24/14

Craving

I must admit I had some trepidation
about writing this and revealing my
weaknesses, but it is no more than
many other poets have done.

We all have our craving,
we won't admit,
because craving is verboten,
it just doesn't fit.

With a balanced lifestyle,
that everyone wants,
but craving sneaks in,
one of our hidden faults.

I crave good food,
and marvel at its taste.
But I know when to stop eating,
my only good grace.

I crave true life stories,
and heroic feats.
I'm not lost in fantasy,
fact always defeats.

I crave knowing more,
about this world and its people.
Dispelling the myths,
and wondering about its sheeple.

I crave communicating,
and not holding in.
Not a private confessional,
or the bullshit of sin.

I crave sleep,
for I don't get enough.
Sleep is my refuge,
the source of my stuff.

And I crave intimacy,
with the opposite sex.
For it is only normal,
and not some damned hex.

Whatever you're craving,
let it come out.
You'll feel all the better,
and cast out all doubt.
RWH: 5/22/14

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Poem of the Week: 5/17/14

Surviving History

It's a miracle that any progress is made
in society when history has been conveniently
altered to make it palatable for young minds
who are told lies from an early age and
indoctrinated into believing myth rather than reality.

Remember when Injuns were wild,
and the Cowboys always won.
Nobody wanted to play an Injun,
getting killed wasn't any fun.

Great chiefs were noble philosophers,
and Africans were naked and mean.
East Indians were loyal servants,
and Arabians lived in deserts clean.

Darkies were always so happy,
and sang songs while they worked.
Always helped out their bosses,
even when their bosses were jerks.

Yellow men were inscrutable,
and a bit suspicious to boot.
made great sidekicks in intrigue,
and anything involving loot.

George Washington could do no wrong,
and never, ever told a lie.
Chopped down that cherry tree,
and threw that dollar high.

The Calvary always came to the rescue,
and the Calvary always won.
Except for poor George Custer,
fought until he was the very last one.

We idolized thieves and cutthroats,
like that rowdy Alamo bunch.
And outlaws like Billy the Kid,
who would kill just for lunch.

We called our enemies their right names,
like Gooks, Japs, Jerrys, and the like,
much easier to dehumanize them,
by calling them a Wop or Kike.

That was the world we were told of,
and that's the way most of us perceived.
It's a wonder that we all survived.
What legacy will we leave?

RWH: 5/15/14

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Poem of the Week: 5/10/14

Road to Fruition

It's a long road to intuition,
that many have traveled far.
Lacking any ignition,
and not even any car.

Keep your sights on the horizon,
as it fades into the mirage.
At the rate that you're getting there,
might as well not left the garage.

Many mysteries await,
just around the bend.

Except the bend keeps bending,
as though it will never end.

It's on the road to derision,
that we tend to get off track.
Like sailing our boat into a fog,
because we didn't know how to tack.

And tact is not the answer,
as we travel down this road.
To be brutally honest,
and brazenly bold.

While racing for the sunset,
the sunset never ends.
The speed of light is bending,
with the message that it sends.

For we're headed for dissolution,
when we set our sights too high.
We have no fear of flying,
but we cannot touch the sky.

The road is rough and rambling,
like a multitasking mind,
to make it straight and narrow,
takes thinking of a different kind.

So when you reach fruition,
all wrapped up in love entwined,
the road will come down softly,
at the bottom of a slight incline.

RWH: 5/9/14

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Poem of the Week: 5/5/14

Revolving Door

Through the luck of the draw,
we are not all born the same.
We have different starting points,
when it comes to the game.

Beauty and linage,
counts the most.
Luck trumps hard work,
when joining the host.

Born in a ghetto,
wrong color of skin.
Father is absent,
schools are a sin.

Civil service leads,
to patronage for the King,
rise through the system,
to reach the brass ring.

Join a gang for protection,
wear their symbols well,
try to keep clean,
in a place dirty as hell.

As a favor from your father,
land an influential job,
where you can rub elbows,
with the elite... hobnob.

Get caught in a misdemeanor,
with some of your pals.
Get sent off to be reformed,
by a new set of survivor rules.

Influence begets money,
and money begets power.
Caught up in the process,
greed begins to flower.

No education and experience,
and a record to boot.
A desperate young man,
didn't mean to shoot.

Kingpins play favor,
to the government stooge,
once in their pocket,
they cannot lose.

With time served faithfully,
and a pledge to go straight,
the seasoned, self educated man,
walks freely out the prison gate.

Like father, like son,
the inheritance passes down.
The son has done nothing,
to earn such a crown.

With nowhere to live,
and no job to be found.
Six months of freedom,
comes crashing down.

Finally the pinnacle,
of success is reached,
to be named, the CEO,
the road to riches breached.

Closed off from society,
by fear and distrust,
the only thing left,
is to do what he must.

Success is rewarded,
by a Cabinet post,
sucking tit the hardest,
has led to the most.

Caught in a caper,
as sure as can be,
a hardened criminal,
they threw away the key.

Both have gone through the revolving door,
some to high places, some to the poor.

What can we learn from the revolving door?

I don't know. You're the ones keeping score.

RWH: 4/30/14

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Poem of the Week: 4/26/14

Centering Around

See if you can find the misused
words in this little bit of
nonsense. The winner will be
announced in primetime after
the Internet results.

"All has lost its focus,"
said the piper to the pawn.
The cock is in the crocus,
like dead before the dawn.

Centering around the issue,
failing to get to the point.
Squandering an existence,
lighting up another joint.

Boiling over with hyperbole,
and an idol idiom or two,
metaphorically doing a tiptoe,
on a good old-fashioned boo-hoo.

Irregardless of the circumstance,
of what the pinions pined,
the gates were left so guard less,
regardless who had signed.

Queen was in the counting house,
as gay as she could be.
Loose the belt, let it hang out,
to lose what he could she.

Pompous poet pissed on prose,
but wrote it all the same.
Coloring words in higher tones,
hiding under pseudo-name.

Ying and Yang of then and than,
is often much cornfused.
Along with its and it's,
to keep us all amused.

Punny pundit prophesied,
the coming of the son.
Come mourning, sure as hell,
here comes the sun.

Are we having any fun?

Done.

RWH: 4/23/14

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Poem of the Week: 4/19/14

You

You are the heat that warms my soul.
You are the radiance that fills my whole.
You warm me in the dead of the night.
You warm me until the morn's first light.

You are the light that fills my days.
You shine upon me in so many ways.
You have brilliance surpassing the sun.
You light up my life until the day is done.

You are the days, the days of my life.
You are the months, both happy and rife.
You are the years of tinker and try.
You are the decades that I live by.

You are the one that fills me with joy.
You are the one like a brand-new toy.
You are the toy of my greatest desire.
You are the spark that lights my fire.

You are the inspiration for this poem.
You are an inspiration without decorum.
You sneak into my thoughts daily.
You peek into my soul so gaily.

You are my love and all I live for.
You make me laugh and open the door.
You freely open your arms to me.
You give me your best for all to see.

Without you, I am nothing.

RWH: 4/17/14

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Poem of the Week: 4/12/14

Only the Young

When we were young,
and we were free,
the world was all,
we wanted it to be.

We loved and laughed,
tried, cried and lied,
and when someone left us,
we almost died.

For life was immediate,
and the emotions were real,
they played on our senses,
and made our minds reel.

We were invincible,
for life was a steal,
we danced with the devil,
and knew how to feel.

We explored the limits,
of the world we knew,
to the dismay of our elders,
our naivety showed through.

And the world we shaped,
became what we were,
a new world of wonder,
and an old world of fear.

For many of the lessons,
we learned were not new.
They were just the same,
that the elders had done too.

So the cycle continues,
like each season brand-new,
each generation has to learn,
the false from the true.

Only the young can do it,
not me and you.

RWH: 4/10/14

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Poem of the Week: 4/5/14

Bluebonnet Spring

Washington on the Brazos,
springtime come around.
Hear the old coyote call,
carrion to be found.

Here where the birth of Texas,
a republic carved by a men.
From wilderness to ranches,
and back to the wild again.

Vultures on the carcass,
of an armadillo gone wrong.
Yellow mustard fills the distance,
while the mockingbird sings its song.

Paints on the fence line,
galloping just for fun.
Enjoying the springtime feast,
as mustangs have always done.

Indian paintbrush on the hillsides,
an orange blanket to behold.
Coloring the landscape artistry,
natural brushstrokes Van Gogh bold.

Primroses peeking here and there,
as if lesser than the rest.
But primroses have a secret,
they can out survive the best.

Around the bend at Chapel Hill,
the long sought-after blue is found.
Bluebonnets cover the distance,
in a sea without a sound.

A pleasant breeze is wafting,
o're the magnificent, peaceful scene.
There's hardly any place on earth,
like a bluebonnet spring.

RWH: 4/3/14

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Poem of the Week: 3/29/14

Sue

Sue was a mother, wife, and lover,
a unique individual quite like no other.

A friend to many, a helper to all,
we all miss her so, after her fall.

Sue had seen hardship, in her early days,
but managed quite well, in many ways.

A super marketer of office supplies,
she touched many business owners' lives.

Sue recognized good health at an early age,
She dedicated her life to being a health sage.

Her family around her, Sue defied the years,
into a happy retirement of service and cheers.

Life of the party, Sue's laughter could be heard,
and when she spoke, ears perked for every word.

A hostess of grace and with great fineness,
her home was her palace decorated the best.

Sue loved the outdoors and taking long walks,
now she's walking forever in her friends' talks.

Though Sue is no longer with us, she's with us still,
we can still hear her footsteps, over the hill.

RWH: 3/27/14

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Poem of the Week: 3/22/14

Paradox

A paradox flew right over my head,
I knew it was a paradox but not where they led.

For I had my ducks in line,
and I was certainly on time,
but didn't know blue from red.

The paradox conferred in quiet tones,
so that they would not be overheard.

The quackery involved surely revolved,
about how much greenbacks,
from me could be procured.

From an old Errol Flynn joke,
they had me by the yoke.

A proctologist's delight,
they strung me up tight,
and I was a sight, for sore eyes.

I ran for the door,
but hit the floor,
as I reached the end of my rope.

The docs began to laugh,
certainly not on my behalf,
but in a certain ironic incline.

One flew over the cuckoo's nest,
but that duck wasn't certainly mine.
Even though it affected my bottom line.

I cut the rope free, and began to flee,
but the paradox continued with glee.

I reached for the phone,
but I was in the wrong zone,
and the docs went,
"quack quack quack..."
all the way home.

RWH: 3/20/14

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Poem of the Week: 3/15/14

Savage

From archaeological studies it appears
that early man was a hunter and gatherer
for perhaps, several hundred thousand years
before reaching the state of agriculture
and villages, the onset of civilization.
Before that, it was all about survival
in the most primitive of ways, in small groups,
families or tribes, some still with us today.

We live in a savage land,
where life and death,
are close at hand.

We trust our elders,
who have lived so long.
We trust our elders,
through word and song.

We must go out,
many a day.
To hunt for food,
and kill our prey.

If the hunt is successful,
we sacrifice to the gods.
For they grant us life,
against all the odds.

The women must gather,
much food from the forest,
for the winter comes quickly,
and the hard times upon us.

When it is so cold,
we can't leave the fire.
And the wolves circle us,
to eat from our pyre.

Many die from the magic of birth,
we celebrate each life for its great worth.
Tattoos protect us from evil spirits,
but evil still circles our narrowing girth.

At night we huddle around the fire,
we sing for good fortune from nature's ire.
We huddle in fear when the storm marches in,
the wrath of the gods upon us once again.

We long for the springtime and carefree days,
when we were young and full of life.
But those days are few if we are to live,
this savage land with so much strife.

Oh gods, protect us from the great bear.
Protect us from the wolves come into our lair.
Protect us from the wild boar and horn of the stag.
Protect us from the evil man we smell in the air.

Protect us, oh gods, for we fear,
in this savage land we hold so dear.

RWH: 3/13/14

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Poem of the Week: 3/8/14

Sounds of the Seasons

Beh asked me to write a poem about
the sound of time. When I asked her
what she meant by time, she told me
that the world sounded different at
different times of the year.

Spring is upon us, can't you hear,
the trickle of melting snow,
birds chirping so clear?

Buds bursting forth in a chorus of color.
Bees buzzing busily in the warm sun.
Children laughing in the distance in fun.
A muddy reminder that winter is done.

Crying sounds of new life from den and nest,
caring for families is put to the test.
Soon they will be venturing out in the sun,
a sure sign that summer has now begun.

Crackle of thunder from a late afternoon storm,
the smell of mowed hay drying in the sun.
Crickets and katydids rule in the warm,
pouring rain pitter patters the roof on the run.

Cool wind sighs as it wends through the pines.
Rustles the leaves that fall all around.
A respite from the wind is a calm warm day,
cascading colors so loud without sound.

Snow comes silently with big flakes like down,
little ones scurry to their dens underground.
Sharp crack of guns firing in the forest resound,
harvesting the wealth of autumn found.

Loud crack of exploding wood in the forest,
overcomes the silence of a bitter cold night.
Until the wrath of winter wind howls in,
leaving a wind whipped landscaped sight.

So we listen in the anticipation of each new year,
to hear the sounds of the seasons loud and clear.

RWH: 3/6/14

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Poem of the Week: 3/1/14

Diamonds in the Rust

I've been watching too many flippin'
car restoration shows...

To drive down automobile row,
where grease monkeys thrive,
and life goes by both fast and slow.

Or visit junkyard relics of the past,
recalling memories of romancing,
adventuring and going way too fast.

Finding a dust covered jewel in a barn,
a target of pigeons looking forlorn,
while listening to another old yarn.

One that's been trapped in a garage,
good intentions but neglected instead,
hopes of restoration only a mirage.

Out in the fields or deep in the wood,
dragged there long ago and left for good,
rusting and wishing if only they could.

In a stable of some hoarder's desire,
abandoned like a puppy in an old bin,
only to raise some neighbor's ire.

To be rediscovered and dragged on out,
a discoverer's delight, a scream and shout.

Off to the shop to be torn down and cleaned,
every part savored, refinished and preened.

Dents pounded out and surfaces smoothed,
the finest of finishes new or improved.

Engines overhauled to run like new,
running gear improved or restored to queue.

Electrics all working better than spec,
nothing escapes a thorough safety check.

Interiors restored to their former glory,
new finishes and bright colors tell the story.

Crank her up for a quick ride,
wave at the neighbors with pride.

There is something beautiful,
about restoring the past.
It's a part of our history,
we should make it last.

There is no downside,
to projects like these.
If they don't make money,
they put the mind at ease.

A little bit of history,
one can drive and enjoy.
A once neglected throwaway,
it is now a new toy.

RWH: 2/27/14

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Poem of the Week: 2/22/14

Hierarchy

Like the honeycomb of the bee,
we build our matrix strong.
And rush to protect our queen,
in the threat of something wrong.

Like ants on a instinctual mission,
we scatter and scurry about.
In mindless efficient inefficiency,
wasting half our lives in doubt.

Like the web of the spinning spider,
we wired the entire realm.
A better trap for to find her,
for those who man the helm.

Like the pride of the lion queen,
she controls behind the scene,
chooses strong and brutal mates,
still more stupid than they seem.

Like the fly on the wall,
our drones can see everything.
And like the mosquito in the night,
strike at will with savage sting.

There is safety in our numbers,
so like lemmings we procreate.
Our crowding makes us angry,
and closer to our Heaven's Gate.
There is no sin in Eden,
we had to make it up.
By controlling all the sinners,
we fill our coffers' cup.

Parasites on the planet,
our superiority is endowed.
Squash all the inferior beings,
for we are the only ones allowed.

But when the hierarchy crumbles,
and superiority no longer rules.
Which ride will you be on,
your own, or the ship of fools?

RWH: 2/20/14

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Poem of the Week: 2/15/14

Rain

I'm a happy camper. Just had this dream
of a poem I just had to write down and it
happened to be raining today.

There is rain on the pane,
of the window to my soul.
It streaks down my senses,
and blurs my every goal.

Rain chills my composure,
and steals my resolve.
A hypothermic measure,
as my thoughts revolve.

Rain cascades down,
and soaks my existence,
stealing my patience,
and lowering my resistance.

Those tears from heaven,
leave nothing but sad,
And torture me endless,
with the loss that I've had.

Will the rain ever stop falling,
on this lifetime of grief?
Or wash up waterlogged flotsam,
on some far distant reef?

In time, I know the rain will cease,
the sun will peek out to warm the heart,
replenish the land with a fertile ease,
and I'll begin to make a new start.

RWH: 2/11/14

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Poem of the Week: 2/8/14

Forget Me Not

Dedicated to all the unsung writers of the past
whose works are being digitized and revealed,
some for the very first time.

When I am lain 'neath the new mown lawn,
smell the sweet cut clover and,
know that I'm not gone.

For as ashes are to ashes and dust is to dust,
I am forever in memory,
of those who trust.

And for those who do not, but know of my fame,
may the rains come softly,
and rust not my name.

For it rests on the pages of weathered old books,
on dusty old bookshelves,
and cherished nooks.

Forever in waiting for the sharp reader's eye,
to blow off the dust,
open up and spy.

The wondrous words from so long ago,
'til now still unread,
but about to show.

The wisdom of the eons so long misunderstood,
suddenly to be revealed,
as I knew that they would.

Scanned and digitized my words are revealed,
for all the world to read,
and never to be repealed.

For all that I suffered and so little that I got,
I died young a poor man,
but you forgot me not.

RWH: 2/6/14

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Poem of the Week: 2/1/14

Goin' to Hell

Not to worry. I'm not going anywhere
anytime soon. This is just a poem
that I thought might make an
interesting country or blues song.

I'm goin' to hell and I,
ain't comin' back.

On the road to redemption,
I took the wrong track.

Not because of what I have,
or because of what I lack.

But because it's where I'm goin',
and I ain't comin' back.

No, I ain't comin' back.

I'm going to where,
the sun always shines
Where skies are blue,
no howl in the pines.

Where it never snows,
and the breeze is so light,
caressing the days,
and cooling the nights.

I ain't comin' back,
no, never again,
so you might as well,
get used to it,
my dear friend.

'Cuz where I'm goin',
there's no comin' back,
and, I like it like that.
Yes, I like it like that.

There is a place called Hell
on Grand Cayman Island.

RWH: 1/28/14

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Poem of the Week: 1/25/14

Time Went

Time went and did it again,
ran out on me like,
I don't know when.

Like I don't know when,
I'll have that time again.

Time is a river,
that flows by my door,
my time lapse camera,
is keeping its score.

I see time fly by,
when I speed up the scenes,
until it becomes a blur,
like some of my dreams.

In the fullness of time,
bursting at the seams,
memories like time travel,
ride on moonbeams.

So time went and wasted,
most of my youth.
Time is a thief,
if you want to know the truth.

While time rolls on,
like an old wagon wheel,
dishing out roulette promises,
as part of its deal.

Have just enough time,
to finish this piece.
Without just enough time,
I'd have no peace.

For time waits for no one,
and certainly not for me.
That time I lost yesterday?
It's up, went, and gone.
so I'll have to start over,
come the dawn.

It's up, went, and start over,
come the dawn.

RWH: 1/23/14

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Poem of the Week: 1/18/14

Ocean of Emotion

While I have the same emotions as everyone,
I'm not very emotional. However, I do find that
there are emotional people all around me and
that actors in good dramas are very good at
displaying emotion. Here is my take on that...

Overflowing like a volcano,
wondering where the anger came,
with regrets hanging in the aftermath,
the tragic results remain the same.

It's crying time again,
but there isn't any rain.
Crying just comes natural,
even without any pain.

Smiling like there was sunshine,
shining on the fruited plain,
but there was only disruption function,
through the window of the rain.

The future is bright and sunny,
the shirking sad and gray.
Everything outside is growing,
while the inside is fading away.

The whirlwind of romance,
has created a wonderful trance.
Until reality comes crashing down,
ending the devotional dance.

Anguish has no answers,
and hatred has no bounds,
the turmoil we create ourselves,
calls out the baying hounds.

Emotion is a potion,
both weak and strong combined,
boils over in our devotion,
to benign and tortured mind.

RWH: 1/16/14

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Poem of the Week: 1/11/14

Below Zero

I'm fine. I just think that the weather
is a great metaphor for the situation
many wage earners find themselves
in today with the rapid redistribution
of wealth from the middle class to the
wealthy, creating over half of the
working population with no net worth--
the unemployed and working poor.

The sun is shining bright,
but it's cold in this room.
I should be smiling from it,
but I'm under a gray gloom.

I've tried so hard,
these last few years.
But haven't succeeded,
except my worst fears.

I got that pink slip,
to my great surprise.
I thought I was their best worker,
but it was all a pack of lies.

I went on unemployment,
and it helped for a while,
but my wife left me and took the kids,
so it's hard for me to smile.

I applied and applied for many a job,
went online and tried to hobnob,
turned down by too many to remember,
finally got work in late September.

Its sales on commission,
and I'm not selling much.
Spending more time on contacts,
trying to keep in touch.

It's cold in this room,
and they've cut off the heat.
It won't be very long,
and I'll be on the street.

They say it's below zero,
but will be better next week.
I've been below zero so long,
I feel tired and so weak.

If I make it to spring,
maybe I'll feel better,
but I can't count on anything,
in this kind of weather.

RWH: 1/9/14

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Poem of the Week: 1/4/14

Wit's End

Did you ever have one of those days,
weeks, months, or years,
when every thing you did turned sour,
resulting in your greatest fears?

Have you ever worked so hard it hurt,
straining your brain for a solution;
Only to find through all your trials,
that all your effort was a delusion?

Have you ever reached for the stars,
getting stuck halfway to Mars?
Your mighty rocket falling short,
trapped in an orbit, a jail without bars?

Well, friend, we've all been there.
When our best efforts aren't enough.
When we have to either give up,
or stick it out and really get tough.

Giving up will ease our mind,
lower our blood pressure a bit,
and a sense of peace we'll find,
with a gnawing sense of failure on it.

Getting tough may hit a brick wall,
the harder you try the greater you fall.
Or, you may just finally break through,
with a sense of satisfaction in it all.

If it weren't for your last wit,
you wouldn't have any wit at all.
It is better to have struggled,
then to have never taken a fall.

And so, my friend, give it your all,
you never know when you'll break through,
and you'll be able to stand very tall.

RWH: 1/2/14

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