Ron's Poem of the Week

Poem of the Week: 3/18/17

Hurry

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 3/16/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/11/17

Spring Forward

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 3/9/17

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Poem of the Week: 3/4/17

Comes the Rain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Banish the rain and make me shine.

RWH: 3/2/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/25/17

Kumquat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Please?

RWH: 2/23/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/18/17

Hollyweird Hills

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/17/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/11/17

Smoke

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/9/17

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Poem of the Week: 2/3/17

Poltergeist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/2/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/28/17

Eden Walled

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Are you satisfied now?

RWH: 1/25/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/19/17

Edge of a Verge

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/19/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/7/17

Cold Warring

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/12/17

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Poem of the Week: 1/7/17

Smooth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/5/17

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Poem of the Week: 12/31/16

Urine or Out

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

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

Or not.

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

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

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

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

Might even scorch.

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

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

RWH: 12/29/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/24/16

Winter Sun

After the Solstice waning sun comes back again,
but it takes a long time for that day when,
the forest and fields are alive with life,
we face several moons of cold, dark strife.

Sacrifices have been placed on the sun's altar,
to make it turn around and come back, not falter.
we have been forced to hive like the bees.
Will we make it until leaves return to the trees?

Winter is long and winter is bitter and harsh.
The fish and the birds are gone from the marsh.
The deer runs from us in the barren forest.
Every animal hides, making this season poorest.

We have prayed to our sun to please come back,
with our best incantations for we know that we lack,
the preparation and will to make it to spring,
when the sun will again warm us and everything.

So now we must bundle up and watch for a sign,
that the gods of the forest will be generous and kind.
That we will suffer no death and hunger until that day,
when you come again and warm evil and death away.

We have given you the best of our harvest and our young.
Will you give us another season of growing and sun?
Will the moon and the stars align in your sight?
Will you give us the life we need to remain in the light?

RWH: 12/23/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/17/16

Arctic Express (Children)

Just in time for Christmas,
not one hour too late,
the Arctic Express,
arrived at the Lower 48.

From San Diego to Miami,
McAllen and New Orleans,
cold snapped its fingers,
and nipped the ears' lobes.

Snow was falling in Laredo,
and in Mobile, too,
hadn't seen snow like that,
in Galveston, since 1902.

The children were delighted,
bundling up while still inside,
headed for the nearest hillside,
cardboard box for to slide.

All across the US South,
fireplaces were now burning.
Leaving children everywhere,
wondering if Santa needed warning?

There were snowball fights,
and snowmen everywhere you looked.
Skating on the Bayou required only shoes,
slipping and falling just to amuse.

Cold, tired and happy,
rosy cheeked children came on in,
after warm milk and cookies,
to sleep the dreams of when.

Candy castles covered the land,
princes and princesses to delight,
filling the heads of sleepy ones,
all through the long cold night.

Awakening to find Santa,
had arrived on the scene,
bringing little boys and girls,
what they only had dreamed.

A very white Christmas,
across the entire land,
the Arctic Express was more,
much better than anything planned.

RWH: 12/14/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/10/16

The Cloud

Crying out loud, it's in the cloud!
Every little indiscretion ever allowed.
Every little selfie, sext, show off proud.
Every little nuance, negativity cow towed.
Bringing your ego down permanently bowed.

Did you ever notice that heaven is in a cloud.
That magic carpets float like a cloud.
That the gentle rain that falls comes from a cloud.
That if it weren't for ice crystals there'd be no cloud.
Then, why is it so damned important, crying out loud?

Cuz the cloud is omnipresent like God in the sky.
No need to ask where it is; or even to ask why?
The cloud is your big brother, looking after you.
Just trust in the cloud like God, and you won't be blue.
Because you lost all your passwords and your email, too.

That good old cloud will just restore them to you.

But there's no free lunch and you must pay the price.
For all of this good service to be free would be nice.
And who knows what happens to your little life slice.
That's up there in the cloud for analysts to dice.
So they know everything about you... Suffice?

The cloud has us entering a whole new age.
What once we could keep secret is now on the page.
Is this good or bad? The arguments still rage,
but the handwriting on the cloud does not age.
Handwriting on the cloud grows at every stage.

So, the cloud already has us in its wispy grip.
We can't quite grasp it, but the cloud has a whip.
That will keep us in line as we Google and dip,
into places we shouldn't go and wouldn't give lip.
The cloud, all knowing, already has our nasty clip.

So, what are you worried about? Crying out loud!
Relax, enjoy, we are all in the same family proud.
Before the cloud, most of us wouldn't even be allowed.

We are all on the same plane; just relax and refrain.

RWH: 12/7/16

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Poem of the Week: 12/3/16

Doctor Bill

Don't you just love that untimely Doctor Bill?
When he comes unexpectedly over life's up hill.

Doctor Bill comes because he has a Hippocratic oath,
to render you services, needed or not, for what it's worth.

He'll keep you alive beyond all rhyme or reason,
using tubes and probes--whatever is in season.

Doctor Bill has the latest diagnostic expensive equipment.
His clinics are posh, spotlessly awaiting the next shipment.

Of his latest pharmaceuticals with a brand name so sure,
the ones you see on television and you must, "Ask him for."

Doctor Bill is a pill popping mama of the very friendly kind.
He'll dispense you some killer stuff with no guilt on his mind.

He's now got everyone addicted to his greatest, latest cure.
Don't worry, Doctor Bill will have a new one, come next year.

Politicians are sure they can shrink Doctor Bill by insurance,
instead of shrinking big Med, big Pharm and their a/inffluence.

The bribery is good and keeps the blood money pumping,
Doctor Bill is in the loop, so his minions keep humping.

Serving the good doctor in more ways than one,
mix a little medicine with your greedy, good fun.

And when you ask for an accounting of it all, you run up against HIPPA... The most hypocritical of all.

RWH: 11/17/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/26/16

Gobble

Gobble, gobble, gobble... Is what we do.
Our economy is based on it; unfortunately, true.

Thanksgiving turkey to Christmas ham,
a cornucopia of plenty we are, we am.

Our food comes from factories, far, far away,
we think nothing of it, for cheaply we pay.

We overextend, to make it all run,
pile up that debt; we must have our fun.

A cycle of gobbling that's out of control,
we can't stop our gobbling to save our soul.

We become obese and lethargic in our ways,
reach old age too quickly and mourn for those days.

When we gobbled away our youth without care,
and now are facing the consequences to bear.

When will we learn not to gobble our future?
When will we learn to cut back without suture?

Tom turkey gobbles while his harem grows,
our dinosaur brain, like his, is all it knows.

How to pack away more, more, more for a time of need,
the handwriting is on the wall; when will we heed?

RWH: 11/24/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/19/16

Then and Now

Back then, robber barons and bankers divided up the spoils,
ran waves of immigrant workers through the wage slave grinder,
getting richer raping forests and extracting dirty coal and oils.

In Europe, the dogs of war were baying loudly,
as the serfs grew tired of groveling to the lords.
They rallied around new ideas, rioting in angry hordes.

Economic booms and busts were common in those days.
Wars were one way to increase production, wealth and loyalty,
and the lords used these ploys to claim converts in many ways.

For it was thought to be glorious to go off to a war.
To come back victorious; a hero rising above the gore.
A way to escape the groveling poor peasant life before.

And so the crash of '29, worldwide, was a harbinger of much more.
A deep depression, deepened and birthed ideologies by the score.

Some sought worker concessions, spreading the wealth around.
Some sought revenge, exacting compensation pound for pound.

With angry voices rising two different paths were wrought.
In the US, concessions were granted to those who sought,
in Germany, old hatreds and fear granted power to a dreadnought.

With an angry claim of superiority of race, loyalty was engendered,
a new order for a new age of the thousand years was rendered.

In the US, government helped the poor gain rights, work and pay.
In Germany, the new regime plundered the old, taking their rights away.

It took a second great war to determine which ideology was just.
Everyone thought that the evil of fascism had been trampled in the dust.

But now, CEOs of corporations, bankers and Wall Street divide the spoils,
and, in spite of great danger to all, increase extraction of coal, gas and oils.

In the Middle East, the dogs of war are baying again loudly,
as religious sects argue over modernization, money and morality.
Old hatreds grow and fester with atrocities unthinkable, expressed boldly.

Fear, once again, grips the West with thoughts of going to war,
with thoughts of hatred growing and of evening the score.

So many working people with concessions now disappearing from the countryside,
with so many looking for scapegoats for why they lost their money and pride.

Two views of the situation have been coming to the fore,
those that want the peoples' concessions returned and more,
and those who want the superior race to rule like before.

There is danger in both of these views, if taken way too far.
Greed creeps in, power begets power, and it all gets blamed on sin.

But we all know what is the right thing to do and won't ever give in,
to that evil anymore; we know the score, we've heard it all before.

Old ideas just won't work anymore... No more... Nevermore.

RWH: 11/17/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/12/16

Calm on the Western Front

There's a real need for calm on the Western front.
The battle is over and the anger is spent.

A time for examining what was right or wrong.
A time for healing and singing a different song.

Big problems are pressing from the land and the sky.
Largely ignored as months, years and decades go by.

While we squabble over personality, scandal, money and fame.
The world keeps turning; these problems keep yearning;
and everybody should already know... who is to blame.

We all want more and take more than we need or give.
Greed has riddled our planet until it's looking like a sieve.

When big problems appear we ignore them or lie,
nobody wants blood on their hands taking their piece of pie.

In the aftermath of the battle we have to decide,
do we feather our nest further or take the good side.

Do we demean who we think are the lesser of us?
Or do we lift them up to our level without any fuss?

The calm will not last if we continue to bicker,
while big problems get bigger, wider and thicker.

When they come down upon us even with much warning,
will we pull out our guns and shoot until we are mourning?

The choice is quite clear and the task is at hand.
It's time to roll up our sleeves and bring true calm,
to everyone, able to excel or not, in this great land.

RWH: 11/10/16

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Poem of the Week: 11/4/16

Fall Front

A fall front fell from continental high
spread cross the land of big sky.

Rattling windows ere she went,
as if some vengeance, she to vent.

They call her Mariah on the Great Plains;
a foreboding of winter; time to pull in the reins.

Time to caulk up the cracks in humble abodes.
Time to stock up on warmth before chill erodes.

For the chill wind announces the coming of death,
with the killing of food sources by its cold breath.

All must scurry and gather food fore the frost.
Bask in the brief blue sky days soon to be lost.

Indian summer with its crisp, clean air,
gurgling clean spring water for all to share.

These days of plenty so soon will be gone,
but life on the prairie still must move on.

Gird its loins for coming winter and hunker down;
still rejoice and sing by firelight with nary a frown.

When all is well and everyone snug in their homes;
more fall fronts can blow where the buffalo roams.

RWH: 11/3/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/29/16

Hallowed Wee

Whatever happened to the hallowed wee?
I used to see them, two or three.

Come by my door, come evening tide,
come by my door, by disguise to hide.

Little ghosts, goblins, princesses and more,
delightful little voices squeaking at my door.

The happiness and joy of the little ones
that were the neighbors' daughters and sons.

The doorbell would ring a joyous sound;
wee gremlins and fairies could be found.

Holding their bags with a big grin,
hoping for more candy to drop in.

I gave them fruit to even the score;
too much candy made their tummies sore.

Alas, the wee ones no longer come;
not even the teenage tricksters in fun.

Those days are gone except in some places
where sensibility still resides on kind faces.

Too much unnatural fear of what just might be,
from movies, news stories and gossip so free.

The wee ones no longer allowed to go out at night,
where they can have fun and not feel any fright.

It's a shame what we have become;
fear monsters inside affecting the little one.

RWH: 10/28/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/22/16

Killer in the Night

Night falls in the forest
and creatures adjust.
Some go to sleep
and some wake up,
go out and forage for food,
because they must.

Silently, predators emerge
in search of their prey.
Possums, raccoons, and
their like, search and smell
their quiet and eager way.

Even house cats, with hunter
instincts stealthily kicked in.
Leave the comfort of the house
to stalk rodents and their kin.

Wolves and coyotes continue
to prowl throughout the night.
Their yips and howls broadcasting
huddled creatures great fright.

Humans have a history
of a great fear of the dark,
when they were the hunted
and hid, shaking in fear.

Night sounds still scare them,
especially the hooting of owls.
There is something eerie and
haunting about those
un-birdlike territorial calls.

But small birds still flock
or bed down in their nests,
they know the night danger,
much more than the rest.

For the owl swoops in
on silent, swift wings
and snatches young birds
from their roosts and,
severing their heads,
silences their sings.

The same goes for mice,
rabbits, bats and other things.
The wise owl is a cold killer
the night always brings.

RWH: 10/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/15/16

Halloween a Changeling

Halloween, two thousand sixteen,
isn't like the good old used to be.
The oldie moldy version,
was something different, entirely.

Kiddies still dress up in their favorite look,
bought at the online costume store.
Mostly superheroes and stars,
not the old, ghostly ghouly lore.

Turbans no longer are in,
they evoke irrational horror,
like little kids with turbans on,
delivering gifts concealing a bomb.

Poor kids still use a sheet,
to go out on the street.
To cover up their gold chains,
and the Air Jordans on their feet.

Some kids don't go out at all,
there is danger in those streets.
Pedophiles and sex offenders,
looking out for tasty treats.

They're safely ensconced in parties,
where there's food and candy galore.
And Halloween is just a commodity,
so stock up at the nearby store.

For those who do venture out,
keep your cell phone close at hand.
Stay on the GPS course your mother set,
do exactly as she planned.

And all you helicopter parents,
make sure you hover near,
second guess your kids' every move,
maybe they'll grow up next year.

And all you homeowners out there,
that hate to have kiddies come.
Just grab that security pistol you have,
and blast them one by one.

For on your security camera,
they clearly were up to no good.
You can't count on the police to come,
must protect your own neighborhood.

Haunted houses are big business,
for teens bloody freaking out.
Shock and gore with slimy sleaze,
is now what it's all about.

And don't forget your Taser,
or bear spray close at play,
if you don't have that, hornet spray,
Will keep the ghosts at bay.

With all these cautions noted,
go on, get out and have some fun.
It's only two thousand sixteen,
the century's just begun.

RWH: 10/13/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/8/16

Who Knows?

Who knows? Instagram knows.
Who knows? Twitter knows.
Who knows? Facebook knows.

That's the way it goes...

Who knows? FBI knows.
Who knows? NSA knows.
Who knows? Interpol knows.

And, so it goes...

And if you don't know? Google knows.
The gaggle of viral gossip goes,
into the cloud of confusion grows,
until everyone, but no one, really knows.

But your selfie clearly shows,
and your YouTube witness glows.

HD detail shows...

Right in front of your nose...

RWH: 8/6/16

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Poem of the Week: 10/1/16

Scout's Honor

Modeled after an Indian scout,
what Boy Scouts was all about.

Doing good deeds and helping others,
having fun with your Scout brothers.

Summer camp in beautiful places,
activities galore with lots of races.

Learning woodsman skills and crafts,
survival and fitness lessons that last.

A sense of community and fellowship for all,
gather around the campfire at night's call.

Singing songs and telling stories in firelight,
sleeping under starlit warm summer night.

Wilderness trips deep into the wild,
experiencing nature like an Indian child.

Traveling waters like the voyagers of old,
learning to adapt to the rain, heat and cold.

Earning the highest honor coming-of-age,
the Order of the Arrow that turns a new page.

Life lessons learned as a Boy Scout,
continue through life both within and without.

RWH: 9/29/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/24/16

Traipsing Trapezoid

Into the void,
the inevitably buoyed,
traipse irritably annoyed,
trapped in a tyrannical trapezoid.

Going about their victuals,
as usual, with habits and rituals,
seeking the greater of pleasure.
Not the weight of the measure.

Ills come along,
strike down the strong.
They knew all along,
tight rope they were on.

Guarding their treasures,
with their insidious pleasures,
leaving the fullness of time,
to clean up worthless mime.

But the trapezoid traps,
like everything craps,
eventually, the shit,
hits the fan.

And the traipsing is over,
time to smell the sweet clover,
get down to the business at hand.

For the world turns slowly,
cares not for the lowly,
trapped in trapezoid time.

It's time to stop traipsing,
pillaging and raping,
it's time to spend that last dime.

For the inevitable comes,
and the tune that it hums,
it is not the one you hear,
in traipsing to this rhyme.

RWH: 9/22/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/17/16

Imagining

Imagining what it will be like,
in fifty years or more.

Will it be like all the dire predictions?
Or will it be mostly like today, or before.

We cannot imagine the future,
for some things remain unseen.

But we can shape the way the future is,
if we only imagine and work the dream.

The future can be bright and open to all,
or it can be a dark and dreary place.

It is in our power to make it so,
as we view it through misty glass.

But the future is never as bad or bright,
as those two imagined extremes.

The future will contain magical discoveries,
far beyond our wildest dreams.

The future comes too fast for some,
they wax nostalgic about what they've lost.

Today we all have bucket lists to explore,
in good old days, few could afford the cost.

We have the conveniences of kings,
and choices that only they could bare.

The future remains wide open,
as avenues open to those who dare.

So relax and work on being happy,
don't fret about what you think is gone.

Just think about the wonders to come,
join in and discover, that life is, and can be, fun.

RWH: 9/15/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/10/16

Cigarette Blues

Cigarette. Oh, cigarette. Why do you treat me so?
My love for you is so entwined; can't ever let you go.

As the smoke curls 'round my locks and circles 'round my ear,
you catch my unconcern across the bar; drawing you magically near.

The power of the smoke and its magic when inhaled,
an aura of nonchalance so beautifully exhaled.

Seductive is the smoker's realm; a power that draws one near,
from time to time and on and on from year to year to year.

And then, the fingers, nicotine stained and yellow teeth appear,
what once was new, a witches brew, now coughs for all to hear.

Cigarette burns form patina earns on every place laid down,
red lips on cigarette tips and glasses smeared mascara frown.

Nicotine. Oh, nicotine. Why do you do me this way?
I kicked you once, twice and thrice. But still, you stay.

Your taste is gone. Bitter tobacco caught in teeth to spat on.
Dry fiery throat. Wrinkled haggard old goat. Youth spent, gone.

The whiskey bottle, cigarette and unsteady wobble,
peering through the glass of time searching for a bauble.

Cigarette. Oh, cigarette you will be the death of me.
Cancer, just around the corner, wanting just to be.

Cough, cough and cough some more. Another cancer stick.
Cannot breathe anymore, raw and heavy, oh so sick.

RWH: 9/8/16

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Poem of the Week: 9/3/16

Illegal Immigrant?

Looked out my window,
and what did I see?
Strangest looking bird,
in my apricot tree.

I looked for the bird,
on that online guide.
Couldn't find it there,
it certainly didn't hide.

So I googled it,
and what did I see?
Was an African bird,
in my backyard tree.

Whether shaft-tailed,
or pin-tailed,
was no difference,
the What duh?
was a Whydah,
without any inference.

It seems that the male,
sports that long tail,
only for the ladies,
to flirt and prevail.

Gathering a harem,
he guards with great passion.
This little guy is feisty,
ready for action.

His queens lay their eggs,
in other birds' nests.
Letting those birds raise them,
while queens take a rest.

So, if you see a What duh?
on your back fence,
you'll know what it is,
and illegal or not,
you'll take no offense.

RWH: 9/1/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/27/16

For the Love of It

For the love of it, I greet the dawn;
For the love of it, I carry on;
For the love of it, I sing a song;
For the love of it, my day is long.

For the love of it, I write these poems;
For the love of it, I wandered far;
For the love of it, I dismiss bad omens;
For the love of it, catch a star in a jar.

For the love of it, I cherish life;
for the love of it, I heal others' strife;
for the love of it, there are no bounds;
for the love of it, strange as that sounds.

For the love of it, I will live life long;
For the love of it, my novels grow strong;
for the love of it, I'm where you belong;
for the hell of it, I'll take you along.

Hitchhike with me and you can't go wrong.

RWH: 8/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/20/16

Utopia Bound

Time to talk about what people fear,
it's coming very soon, but not next year.

Still, it is coming, and we must prepare,
for the world is changing and we are there.

The cyber revolution has just begun,
computers and software have already won.

Printers and robots are making our things,
growing our crops, creating life's blings.

Cancer and diseases will soon be gone,
genetic therapies will make life healthy and long.

Seven billion souls inhabit the planet,
exponentially out of control, time to plan it.

Survival of the fittest has made us great,
sorting the unfit has been bloody with hate.

Time to realize that we are all in the same boat,
it is sink or swim, before it's too late.

It is totally unnecessary for the few to have all,
requiring the rest to have little, suffer and fall.

We all know what is good; we know what is right,
we solve very few problems when we fuss and fight.

What we need is understanding that everyone needs a chance,
and if they don't succeed, they still need to prance.

Why should we tolerate making people suffer in pain,
when we have the power to make them whole again.

Science cannot solve all of our problems just yet,
but old hatreds need to die, if we are to get where we'll get.

We are more alike than we are different; it's not too late.
honoring those differences will make us great.

To leave this planet in its pristine glory.
Seek out the stars, writing a whole new story.

RWH: 8/18/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/13/16

Down from Olympus

They came down from Olympus,
great warrior gods of old,
they came down from Olympus,
nakedly beautiful and bold.

They cared not for riches,
they came for the game.
Representing their city states,
bringing good fortune and fame.

They played on the field,
of steadfast courage and zeal.
They played with determination,
with nerves that were steel.

The games were quite simple,
of speed, balance and strength.
Skills that required much practice,
played out on the entire field's length.

There were races of great challenge,
discus, javelin, jumping and throwing.
Fairness and honor among competitors,
left the victorious among them glowing.

But there was no shame,
for those who lost.
They gave their all,
and that's what it cost.

For winning they were awarded,
an olive laurel to grace their head.
They feasted and drank wine,
and returned home without dread.

For though they had gone to fight,
and pride may have been injured,
bloody contest was just, not right.

RWH: 8/11/16

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Poem of the Week: 8/6/16

Dogs of War

The dogs of war keep nipping at our heels,
but most have no idea how it feels.
For those that have not felt that fear,
they simply fantasize and cheer.
Their heroes always win.

Knowing that they are coming close,
and the fear creeps up your spine,
your life hangs in the balance,
and there is no magic lifeline.

To be torn from your country,
a refugee with no home.
To stay would be suicide,
when the dogs of war roam.

For there is no redeeming mercy,
when a bomb goes off in your face.
Or you are savagely beaten,
while a rifle butt takes your place.

There is nothing patriotic,
about going off to war.
We paint wonderful pictures of it,
conveniently omitting the horror.

We think of country and honor,
when we should think of lost lives.
People caught in fatal circumstance,
where the dog of war thrives.

For wars are fought for power,
wars are fought for pride.
Wars do much more harm than good,
a fact we cannot hide.

So the next time the dogs of war,
come howling at your door.
Think twice about what you wished for,
like so many gone before.

There is no glory in victory,
with so many innocent dead.
There is no leaving it behind,
for soldiers with the dogs of war,
still running wild in their head.

RWH: 8/4/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/30/16

Circus of Souls

A circus of souls rode out one day,
rode out not to work, not to play.

They rode towards the sun in their eyes,
blinding them to the truth and the lies.

Eventually, they came to the land of despair,
thought they would take refuge and linger there.

But there was no food nor water to drink,
this place called despair into to sink.

So they left despair on walking feet,
seeking out justice and not defeat.

They came to the land of milk and honey,
squandered it all for the love of money.

They eventually settled in a state of innui,
where all was bland and full of hooey.

In spite of all this, the circus carried on,
as the souls caroused from dusk to dawn.

RWH: 7/28/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/23/16

Trumpty Dumpty

Trumpty, Trumpty, Trumpty, Trump,
Trumpty, Trumpty, Trumpty, dump.

all the King's horses now over the hump.

All the people wave, and all the people cheer,
music to everyone's, insecure, insensitive ear.

Says what they want to, but cannot say,
says things they only secretly pray.

They all want a strong man to lead them on,
sheeple with agendas and opinions strong.

They know what they hate, but feel powerless to do,
they look to the Trump god to carry them through.

With simple phrases solving complex tasks,
the Trumpster dispatches worries everyone asks.

He's the Rush Limbaugh bimbo they all love,
fix this country right from a penthouse above.

Going to make other countries pay for this one's mistakes,
he's always right because he makes more than he takes.

Brash, pompous, sexist and racially ridiculously bold,
he's the living reincarnation of PT Barnum of old.

And we all know what PT Barnum said,
it's all about profit and feathering your own bed.

Trumpty, Trumpty, built a great wall,
just like Humpty Dumpty, he's in for a fall.

So if you want to make this country great again,
Trumpty, Trumpty, dump Trump because you can.

RWH: 7/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/16/16

Ride the Road

We all travel down that lonely path,
towards the future and from the past.

Taken that road to Rome,
and that long journey home.

Traveled across the scarred land,
been to places never planned.

Arrived in neighborhoods that we feared,
saw the faces of people that leered.

Yet, we venture near and far,
eventually to some, distant star.

We cannot resist riding the road,
even when it exacts a heavy load.

So, if I meet you on the trail,
be sure to smile and we'll prevail.

The road's adventure and it's fame,
not taking it, is what's to blame.

RWH: 7/14/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/8/16

Pop-ups

The other day while I was working,
my phone rang and I, knee jerking,

Answered and it was Hillary speaking.
Listening to her lurking squeaking.

She kept on glibly yapping away,
wouldn't let me get a word in edge way.

My answer to that one way pace,
was to hang up in her server's face.

And then on my computer screen,
a page pops up to ruin my dream.

Like an annoying salesman at the door,
my life is filled with pop-ups, galore.

An Emperor's widow has money to launder,
as if I had big bank accounts to squander.

I'm required to install this third-party app,
needed for this, for that, yap, yap, yap.

I turn the page to the index's direction,
an ad pops up like an invading erection.

My doorbell rings and a guy's at my door,
they are in the neighborhood--bargains galore.

A pimple pops up in the mirror to my rage,
why do I get "love bumps," at my age?

Got a unexpected present from a friend.
In my face! Will these pop-ups ever end?

RWH: 7/7/16

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Poem of the Week: 7/2/16

Mornin' 'Merica

Good morning America, a Why you.
Don'tcha know me? I'm your native Tax on.

Yes, Virginia, I know Why roaming,
from Callie fornicate yeah to Whiskey n sin.

Ida hoed her garden of Arid zone a,
and Penned Sylvania some Ill noise.

Al asked ya if you ever Road Island,
or if you ever Tended to see Mary land?

I owe a lot to Miss a sippy on a straw,
Washing a ton of wash for me Ali ban me ma.

Connect a cut and Color a do,
where in the heck has Ore gone to?

If Neb ask ya where Mich a gone,
Tell him ya think he 'scape to Ver mont.

I Knew Jersey and a Indian a tobacky a while,
but Massa chews it down South Caroline a style.

Go West, Virgin in ya to end your Misery,
I'm sure you'll find Ken's ass in your history.

Spied by South Decoder 'neath Mont Anna sky,
caught by a North Decoder Oh high oh high.

Never ask what Della wear or Knew Maxie go,
but then I Never had a feeling like Georgia, no.

You taught me not to ever pine,
where Ken tucked key of mine.

So if I missed your Okay home a bit,
Lewis, Anna and that New Hemp shire's fit.

I'll end my morning journey in a state of Main,
You taught me a New York state of pain.

Don't go Florida on me if I forgot yours,
writing this poem was the onerest of chores.

RWH: 6/30/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/25/16

Mount Holy Hoax

We all are climbing a mountain,
from our birth until we go.

And we all are climbing others,
gone before us fast or slow.

Which path we take differs,
we all wander in our own way.

But those on easy straight and narrow,
still eventually, have to pay.

For there is no top to that mountain,
just hopes and dreams piled high.

If hopes and dreams would get there,
we'd all be touching the sky.

But the trip by nature is precarious,
on every side, a very steep drop.

So if you fly on angel's wings,
don't fly too close to the top.

That light at the end of the tunnel,
is the same that catches moths at night.

All this holy this or holy that,
is just a hoax of wrong and right.

There is no mountain high enough,
to clear life's final demand.

It makes no difference, top or bottom,
who is dealt the best of life's hand.

RWH: 6/23/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/18/16

Colorblind Artist

The colorblind artist is true to his craft.
Toils in his studio summer heat, cold draft.

His is a poor and lonely occupation,
smell of his oils his only consolation.

He paints in the dull drabs of brown and gray,
his retina lacks cones; born that way.

Poor beyond poor, since his folks passed away,
in his father's old studio where he used to just play.

But now he must work feverishly for his supper,
but everything to sell is a downer, not an upper.

With hope nearly gone, stripped to the must,
he works with the light from dawn to dusk.

In the dark of night he cries in his lust,
what woman would have him, a total bust.

Then one day, a young maiden peeks in the door,
sees his sweaty arm muscles feverishly at war.

She's struck by his pale blue Iris eyes,
smitten in an instant, she helplessly cries,

"Where have you been all of my life?
What must I do to become your wife?"

The artist is shocked at the girl's boldness,
he cannot sadly deny her with any coldness.

She works so hard to make him happy,
praises his work, although a bit sappy.

In due time, a pretty little daughter comes along,
she's bright and precocious, like a song.

She comes in his studio and gets in his paint.
"No, daddy, not that one... This one is great!

Posted on the Internet, sales have been slow,
but the new paintings posted are quick to go.

A fine art critic arrives on the scene,
looks at his paintings, like a surreal dream.

With color so vibrant, striking and bold,
a reminder of Van Gogh, starving artist of old.

A gallery showing in the Big Apple is cast,
colorblind artist has recognition at last.

He sees only green coming through his door,
his wife quits her job; his daughter to adore.

RWH: 6/11/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/11/16

Sheeple Parade

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta walk the line,
see all the sheeple doing double time.

See all the sheeple in a neat row,
1984, here we come ... here we go!

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, here we go,
space cadets in uniform, don't you know.

We all have our axes that we sharply grind,
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, in our due time.

Faces in Facebook, all favorites in tow,
fads are sheeple fancy, at least for now.

Marching down to Walmart discounts,
got a get a little piece of my me, so.

Use phone time to text a line, everybody's fine.
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, it's Amazon time.

Get your special offers, discounts, get in line,
join the parade of sheeple people, double time.

Starbucks, big bucks, big box, Nike whine,
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, spend that last dime.

There's plenty of credit card where that came from,
with fees, hidden charges, to hook you on the line.

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, start buying on time.
See all the sheeple wind twisting on the line.

See all the sheeple building by the sea,
keeping up with the Jones, is where they'll be.

Along came a hurricane swept them away,
along came a tsunami took them into next day.

Calling all sheeple to get in line to trump the cause,
Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, online without a pause.

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, follow the voice,
a dictator singsong is the sheeple choice.

Rump-a-ta, Rump-a-ta, consumption R us,
we came to consume and will go without fuss.

RWH: 6/9/16

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Poem of the Week: 6/3/16

Dreary

A moodiness appears on days like this,
when darkness hangs upon the sky.

When gloom and doom roil in clouds,
as they scud angrily upon their high.

Where down below a pall hangs over,
darkening, dreary, depressing, scene.

A putrid, pallid, pitied pattern of pain,
slides in over slippery slopes unseen.

Fading landscape's melancholy faade,
coloring mind's most murky thought.

Into dark and dreary, tearful and bleary,
states of being so often overwrought.

No comforting thoughts can break the spell,
dreary's got a hold of one's mind in hell.

Alcohol burns and the fire's flame tries to quell,
those deep dark memories only time would tell.

Until the sun, once again, returns to light,
dreary will reign in the half-light of night.

Rays of its splendor will peek from the clouds.
Mind will light up and chase away dread.

Once again, lighting up hope, just ahead.

RWH: 6/2/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/28/16

One Track Mind

What genre do you write in?
What pleasure do you find?
What is your only expertise?
Do you have a one track mind?

If your answers to these questions,
all come out the same.
And you blame everyone else,
who don't want to play your game,

Then something has happened,
that has indoctrinated your mind,
through constant repetition,
thoughts hardening in kind.

Trapped in your narrow viewpoint,
can't see any other side,
gathered together with like minds,
in either fight, flight or hide.

Your brain has been programmed,
to replay the same old game.
No matter what the problem or issue,
your answer is always the same.

You must escape the cult you're in,
to lead a rich full life.
For down the path you travel,
is only stress and strife.

Constant conflict with others,
who do not share your strong belief.
With cultish promises hollow,
that never give you relief.

Only you can reprogram,
your mind to break it out.
From the constant repetition,
all it takes is a little doubt.

From that little opening to reason,
a new perspective can emerge.
Individualistic freedom to choose,
and that addiction you can purge.

RWH: 5/26/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/21/16

Saving Face

Saving face is no disgrace,
just ask a politician.

With a nom de plume,
in an obscure chat room,
put on a face of no recognition.

Save your new face,
by putting it in a safe place,
just below any cognition.

When you don't have an ace,
to put them in their place,
your only saving grace,
is a silly anonymous face?

But then, it could just be a condition.

Some save their face,
by Botox and foundation base,
the lines to erase,
the sun's evil trace.

Showing tracks of a life,
lived with much exposure.

Not to worry, a surgeon will,
give you a monied makeover.

So you can put on a new face,
and not face the disgrace,
that age brings to your persona.

You can turn the other cheek,
get cheeky with a young geek,
and hitchhike off to Arizona.

So, put a smile on that face,
that deep frown, erase,
your character is firmly,
already in the right place.

Unless you're paranoid.

RWH: 5/19/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/14/16

If I loved you,
the way you want me to.
It still somehow would not do.
But end up remaining true,
because you'd love me anyway.

If the sky was the color,
that you wanted it to be.
And the clouds matched,
your liquid eyes floating free,
on that deeply shrouded sea.

If moods were like moonbeams,
cast upon the widening gulf.
And the world was populated,
by miniature landscapes and elf.

If butterflies and fireflies,
occupied day and night.
You would still be scared,
of what may be, or just might,
with inner insecurity and fright.

If bears were all like pandas,
and wolves like puppies, too,
you'd still think snakes were serpents,
because, you are, after all, you.

If fears and frights were lollipops,
you'd have a candy store.
You love me for my lack of fear,
but still you want much more.

If I could ever fulfill your dreams,
I would do it in a lighting flash.
But your dreams are like thoughts,
that change with a flicked eyelash.

If all the ups and downs of life,
were put in your command,
I'd still be there to steady you,
and gladly take your hand.

If when this world is over,
I'll be there by your side.
Never was there a better time,
for you to be my bride.

RWH: 5/12/16

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Poem of the Week: 5/7/16

Dark Horse

Looking for a dark horse,
come riding out of the blue,
who wouldn't want a dark horse,
teach us a thing or two?

Locked in perpetual struggle,
two sides of the same coin.
No one worthy in all of politics,
except to profit and purloin.

It's all a game of connection,
that tends to favor party hacks.
Need for intelligence and wisdom,
that every candidate clearly lacks.

Money greases the skids,
of every political move.
It seems the only way to slide,
is within a party groove.

Tired of stately favorite sons,
and those by dynasty ordained.
Tired of those who buy with riches,
as though wealth, power proclaimed.

Looking for a dark horse,
with no prior political acclaim.
From the heartland of honesty,
with no axes ground to flame.

Back to the purpose of the people,
and not the skewed parties' planks.
One who will carry the torch of change,
not a platform of shady pranks.

To face each situation fairly,
not kowtowing to the party line.
Someone who will defy Congress,
when it wastes the peoples' time.

Someone humble, courteous and kind.
Not pumped up, pompous and mean,
powered by money, ego and false fame.
Listening carefully to every legitimate claim.

With built-in leadership abilities,
that can inspire all citizens' hearts,
not someone on an ego power trip,
concerned more with pop poll charts.

Looking for that dark horse,
to come riding into view.
I would vote for a dark horse,
certainly... wouldn't you?

RWH: 4/28/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/30/16

White Coral

Deep under the moonlit night dead dark sea,
a ghastly white coral graveyard came to be.

It wasn't frigid cold waters that did the coral in,
burning ancient graveyards accomplished the sin.

Though there are those who would deny,
a warming ocean bid the colors goodbye.

The bleaching took place nearly overnight,
like Earth's minerals wrenched to the mantle site.

Where their feathered filigree crystalline white,
casts lingering shadows on trophy walls' night.

But where is the care for the oceans' plight?
The kaleidoscope colors washed in sunlight?

The millions of fish that grazed in the fronds,
striking brilliant variety; no stinking fish ponds.

Just a world of wondrous beauty to behold,
gone in a heartbeat of the oceans' tale told.

What will remain when the coral is all gone?
Just ghastly leached skeleton and this song.

Just ghastly leached skeleton and this song.
Closely we'll follow, where bleached bones belong.

RWH: 4/27/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/23/16

500 Year Flood

Texas being Texas,
it's either feast or famine.
Long periods of drought,
followed by mucho mammon.

Nature built the bayou,
to make use of weather's behest.
Hold water for the drought,
absorb most, and release the rest.

Flooding was a natural way,
to replenish worn-out soil.
Stayed that way for millennia,
until Texas discovered oil.

The desire to be near water,
and the money to buy and build.
Swampy land became valuable,
the bayous ditched and filled.

But when it rains it pours,
the natural tropical way.
Streets quickly fill with water,
then, just as quickly, drain away.

Those caught in that temporary situation,
wondering whether to go or stay.
Often make a foolish choice,
flood their cars and pay.

Others, still more unfortunate,
driving into water steep.
Knowing not the waters' depth,
forfeit their lives for time to keep.

And those that build near the waters' flow,
often fear the floods that come and go.
Watching the waters rise with trepidation,
knowing that prayers will not stay the flow.

People often have to be rescued,
when the waters come creeping in.
The flood spares no one, large or small,
not the saintly nor those in sin.

Destroying belongings and life treasures,
a muddy mess by all measures.
Filled with stink and rot and goo,
that no one would wish for... would you?

But still they rebuild with insurance or not,
claim that the place is their birthright.
Flood protection and FEMA they've got.
But with the day, always comes the night.

Memories are short when they rebuild,
thinking that they've got 50 years or more,
before the flood comes again to their door,
only to find who's keeping score.

Little do they know of nature's ways or whim.
The best laid plans can either sink or swim.
It's still unwise to build on a 500 year floodplain.
It will be just your luck to get biblical rain.

RWH: 4/21/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/16/16

Metaphor

There's nothing more to abhor,
than a really, really bad, metaphor.

Meta-this and meta-that,
does a metaphor, wear a hat?

What's a meta-for anyway?
Does it ever come out to play?

Must keep our metas well contained,
or else they might need to be explained.

Met a man once on a boat,
couldn't keep conversation afloat.

Sunk in depression's sea,
sinking him and sinking me.

A meta-perspective helps a lot,
it all depends on what you've got.

Telling you now and telling you true,
still don't know what metaphor means...

Do you?

RWH: 4/14/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/9/16

Territorial

Survival of the fittest,
is the law of the land.
You'd think that surviving,
would be something grand.

One lower-priced-size-fits-all,
is what some would demand.
But the power is in diversity,
with uniqueness close at hand.

From single celled bacteria,
all life on earth has formed.
With complexity and variety,
each creature makes its stand.

The resulting richness created,
with color, contrast, and norms.
Creating ecosystem tapestries,
from plants to higher life forms.

Each life form has its niche,
where it survives the best.
That niche is very precious,
a place where struggling can rest.

But humans think that we are smarter,
with all our manifest destiny claims.
Our vanity and cunning resourcefulness,
from mountaintop to verdant plains.

To grow our life form profusely,
and spread it across the world.
Claiming others' niche after niche,
with religious eminent domain.

To think that we are superior,
to rule over sea and land,
is the fatal flaw of humankind,
as we fight to take command.

To profit from the richness,
plunder from the least,
man is a greedy user,
Earth's most vicious beast.

Constantly growing his territory,
for selfish monetary gain.
Without regard for diversity,
wanting monoculture plain.

Claiming territory beyond his reach,
with disregard and disdain.
The earth can heal itself,
but humankind may not remain.

When greed and ignorance win the day,
and the only way is, "my way."
The loss of diversity and richness,
will come to roost for its own pay.

Childhood's end is coming,
when greed and growth are banned.
And every creature will have its place,
in a rich and glorious land.

RWH: 4/7/16

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Poem of the Week: 4/2/16

Regrets

Regrets? Oh yes, I've had a few,
into every life regrets come due.

But I don't let regrets drag me down,
face life with a smile, not a frown.

Regrets can put a weight on you,
you try to hide, but they show through.

Don't let regrets hang around.
Don't let them drag you down.

Don't regret that you let them go,
they weren't for you; only for show.

Don't regret that you lied.
Everyone lies that they hide.

Don't regret that you missed the boat,
the gangplank to it disguised a moat.

So if you go through life with regrets,
thinking, What ifs? and, And yets...

Don't blame me for telling you,
that regrets are just a pile of doo.

But then, I'm me, and you are you.

RWH: 3/31/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/26/16

Time Warp

Somewhere between then and now,
the fabric of space weaves and warps.

A vision of the universe unfolds,
with the sound of a thousand harps.

Space bends in the awesome power of gravity,
warping around red giants and black holes.

It has its many hills and valleys,
steep cliffs and even gentle knolls.

But who knows where space goes,
on its winding warping, merry way.

Bending time and warping rhyme,
getting stranger and stranger every day.

Using the warp drive to cut across,
the many folds of distant time.

Looking into the ageless looking glass,
of the center of the universe's original climb.

Out of nothingness into the dark, dark night,
of billions and billions of speeding points of light.

What wonders still lie in time and space,
only time will tell, if given the guiding grace,

To overcome our fears and travel beyond,
our own fear warped minds to seek and find.

The secrets of time and its dimensions told,
new under its suns, but still, so very old.

Only time, hard work and good fortune will tell.
Everything else is just warped speculation, like hell.

RWH: 3/25/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/19/16

Time Gone

So it goes, and nobody really knows,
ticking, trickling, frittering away.
ever wonder where the time's gone?
and why it's not here to stay?

Seemed to have a lot of time,
when I was young, to play,
had lots of time for fun, still,
with so much done every day.

And then, I got to working much more,
eighty hours or more a week... Still, somehow,
with lots of time to travel and explore.

Retiring was expected to give me time,
to relax and write, learn and relate,
with others without an appointment date.

But something insidious is at work,
time wasters are there in the lurk,
I know what they're doing, luring,
but my work ethic just won't shirk.

So I deal with each and every one.
Surveys, inquiries, requests for cash,
the compliance requirements, empty cache,
brought on by safety and security balderdash.

Incessant commercials suck up,
and break up, entertainment time.
As though I would buy from them,
spending my last precious dime.

Health requirements keep growing,
with ever carnivorous advancing age.
Constant reminders of required medications,
appointments becoming the rage.

I still put in a long working day.
And find that I have little output,
to show for my nonexistent pay.

So if you're wondering,
where the time goes?
Down the black hole of Facebook,
that I haven't even joined yet.

And the greatest time waster of all,
the cell phone disaster just waiting for,
you, when you're driving, to call.

I don't own one of those either...
So, where did that time go?

RWH: 3/17/16

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Poem of the Week: 3/12/16

Wren Amid the Sparrows

There is a little sedge wren,
that's the first to come each day.
To partake of our bird feeder,
while birdie search and play.

The hungry horde of sparrows,
is a very skittish lot.
They fly off in a moment,
not wanting to get caught.

The wren is not so skittish,
he eats amid the rest.
But he's not so quick to fly off,
he knows he's our guest.

And it's sad to see the,
white winged dove,
with its broken leg.

It hobbles about and,
ruffles its feathers,
I hope it survives,
this injury it weathers.

In the warm afternoon,
the wren comes around,
working the grass,
for morsels to be found.

First,
I see his little head,
and then he pops up,
from driving down deep,
like an appointment to keep.

It makes me wonder,
if he has a mate.
but it's early spring,
and not too late.

Soon,
he will fly off,
to northern climes.
But I will remember,
his morning dines.

Now the house finch,
as arrived from further south.
Cycling the seasons,
from beak to mouth.

RWH: 3/8/16