Denatured

Instant gratification,
we cannot wait.
Our spendthrift ways,
are hard to sate.

Convenience we treasure,
at the cost of our health.
It slowly sneaks up on us,
with incredible stealth.

We must have the latest,
no matter the cost.
While the old's still serviceable,
the lesson is lost.

While form follows function,
style becomes the rage.
When style becomes senseless,
it still is declared, new age.

Wanton destruction,
is par for the course.
We must destroy the very best,
for better or worse.

For today's new attraction,
is tomorrow's trash.
Where to put the leftovers?
A question repeatedly asked.

Nature perfectly recycles,
everything in its due time.
We create unimaginable junk,
without reason or rhyme.

RWH: 12/28/18

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Poem of the Week: 12/22/18

Give and Take

Give all you can to those in need,
not to takers whose voices you heed.
Give not to further your lust or greed.
Karma will cut you deep; you'll bleed.

Give to the lowly in the street a welcome treat.
Give to the food bank so that the hungry can eat.
Give to charities who do real good in the street.
Give not to fake charities who do nothing but bleat.

Take from the experience a feeling of love.
Let your humility shine and rise above.
Take from your giving the peace of a dove.
Cast off your ego and replace it with love.

Take in the vista of what you have given.
Take in the warmth when from poverty driven.
Take not from the plate of wealth, risen,
but take goodwill from the poor, honestly given.

Give and take, give and take.
When you awake, will you give or take?
Give and take, good relationships make.

RWH: 12/20/18

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Poem of the Week: 12/15/18

Falling in Love

Like the water, on the edge,
of the precipice about to fall,
I'm teetering and tipping,
about to go head over heels,
and give you my absolute all.

Like the sun breaks through,
the angry clouds and blinding rain,
when tears and fears no longer fall,
I await the waters' burgeoning,
stream, swelling with love for all.

I'm swept up in the flood of life,
flowing downstream to you.
About to reach the precipice,
of falling in love, it's true.

And then, it is as if I, weightless,
my burdens shed in the blue,
I'm falling, falling, falling in love,
falling in love with you.

RWH: 12/13/18

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Poem of the Week: 12/8/18

Word Police.

Whatever happened to the middle name?
Most websites have shunned it from the game.
When I try to type my middle initial in,
my entry is rejected for the period (.) sin.

And since when has the hyphen (-),
been replaced by the dash (--)?
They have different uses,
and I'm not just slinging hash.

And Microsoft has created,
the greatest of sins.
Misusing the apostrophe ('),
with more out's [wrong!] than ins.

The MS dictionary has banned many,
commonly used great words.
Where I used to take a shit,
I'm advised to take a ship,
by the supersensitive code nerds.

And since when can't I,
use a god's word in vain?
Doesn't the computer know,
that all gods are not the same?

My Dragon dictation is very smart,
but fails to listen to some of my words.
It has the spelling of many rare places,
but refuses to let me describe my turds.

Like movies and video games,
with no end to violence and gore,
sex is being banned from the write place,
as some pariah, like never before.

We must rebel, good writers all!
Claim our right to free speech back,
from all the self-righteous coders,
restricting our freedom like a hack.

The machines must never mimic,
the worst of collective mind.
Big brother may be with us,
but he should be broad-minded and kind.

RWH: 12/6/18

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Poem of the Week: 12/1/18

Brightly Forward

At the end of the tunnel,
there is always a bright light.
The future is like that,
revealing the hidden from sight.

The natural progression,
evolution of life on this earth,
has always been forward,
more diversification and worth.

The same is true of humankind,
struggling to find our real worth,
through eons of fighting and ignorance,
gradually bringing peace on earth.

The statistics are clear,
life is better each year.
As we conquer our doubts,
change looking ins into outs.

What good is all the fighting?
What good is all the pain?
Love is the answer to that,
the benevolence of soft rain.

When we conquer our fears,
we can leave them behind.
After all, most of our fears,
are only of the mind.

There are very grave dangers,
that we are just learning about.
We must deal with them now,
we must stop having doubt.

For we shape our future forward,
not the other way, around.
Accepting change and its promises,
a brighter world will be found.

RWH: 11/29/18

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Poem of the Week: 11/22/18

Madness

It's that time of year,
when people of good cheer,
seem to lose their minds.

When accumulated junk,
grows in the trunk,
and credit card debt,
grows out of bounds.

Clued in by deals,
door buster steals,
the masses hanker,
for more and more.

With discounts galore,
shoppers mob the store,
break down the door,
starved like the poor.

Their patience now spent,
in long lines without rent,
they fight for their right,
to the spoils through the night.

To the corporation's delight,
watching maniacs fight,
for obsolete, unsold stuff.

For some it becomes war,
as they try to get more,
gladiators getting rough.

Home they come happy,
gloating like fools sappy.
Although they're not wary,
the bill arrives in January.

Shouldn't be to anybody's surprise.
Just a word to the already wise.

RWH: 11/22/18

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Poem of the Week: 11/17/18

Old School

The good old boys are back in school,
no time yet to practice the golden rule,
do it on to them, before they do it on to you,
that's the good old boys, back in school.

Time for football and mixer dances.
When the office takes up its betting pool.
Which team will win in the gladiator games?
Who will take the others to school in the pool?

Fraternities are pledging their new recruits,
with all that tradition and deep, down roots.
Self-flagellation is all part of the game,
helps with the bonding so that all are the same.

Fraternities have gathered all the old tests.
And they tutor their recruits with all the rest.
Must keep that overall grade point average high,
so that all of the members can score some pie.

For it is well known, to be connected is best.
Brothers in the business will take care of the rest.
Once you're connected to the brotherhood for real,
it's as though you had a license to steal.

So when autumn comes to Old Ivy school,
there's a new game in town for the golden rule.
Power and privilege go to the very best,
trickle-down economics for all the rest.

Harvard, Princeton, Brown, Dartmouth or Yale,
if you want to be president, from here you must hail.
And fraternity brothers are certainly a must,
because those in high places know who to trust.

Old school is dying slowly on the vine.
Like good wine turned sour, down the line.
The vices of avarice are being revealed,
and the secrets of privilege slowly repealed.

RWH: 11/15/18

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Poem of the Week: 11/10/18

Strange Taboo

Let's face it, we are attracted to the strange.
We can't seem to get enough of it,
our minds to refresh and rearrange.

Strange gets us in all kinds of trouble,
in the secret places that we go.
Can't seem to stop looking for strange,
even when we know they know.

Why so many say they need their privacy,
and don't want anyone to find out.
Their lily white reputations,
suddenly thrown into doubt.

It is our natural curiosity,
that gets us in so deep.
We go where we shouldn't go,
excited, we take the leap.

We can even become addicted,
to the very things we say we hate.
Outwardly bigoted towards them,
inwardly, an insatiable appetite to sate.

If we only understood that instinct,
was only meant to improve,
we wouldn't get hung up on ideology,
stuck in the narrowminded groove.

RWH: 11/6/18

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Poem of the Week: 11/3/18

Vigilante

He's a loner, not a lover,
has very few associates or friends.
So he goes along unnoticed,
free to a life of his own ends.

He's a loser, not a winner,
when it comes to life's rewards.
He's been always left out,
so he starts leaning towards.

Conspiracy theories that he finds of worth,
bolstered by Internet friends around the earth.
Something to latch on to in his lackluster life,
something within him begins to take birth.

How he can change things if he wants,
to make a great statement for all to see.
So he secretly schemes and plans,
for his great statement to come to be.

He will make them pay,
for what they have done.
All his life he's been mistreated,
it is time that he won.

He gathers up ammunition,
to carry out his plan.
His freedom and his right,
take up arms because he can.

He carefully puts his plan into motion.
No one knows he's doing it,
clandestinely in his place.
He doesn't leave a trace.

He openly buys all that he needs.
Shopkeepers are eager to please.
Builds an arsenal on his own,
dreams and schemes with ease.

At the appointed time,
he arrived at the place.
Armed to the teeth,
thinking evil to erase.

He begins killing,
in a methodical way.
No one is innocent,
in his gunsight that day.

Though he wears body armor,
he cares not for his life.
He craves media coverage,
always focused on strife.

For he has made his statement,
and is famous for a day.
He has no remorse or guilt,
finally getting own his way.

RWH: 10/31/18

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Poem of the Week: 10/27/18

Cold Hands, Warm Heart

It was a cold, blustery Halloween night,
brittle branches rattled windows,
dead leaves slid down rooftops,
drafts infiltrated from out of sight.

She had to work the whole night long.
Fate of being among the low ranks,
patrolling streets in their small town,
preventing teenagers from nasty pranks.

I had the duty of greeting the kids.
Came in costume bundled against the chill,
shadows of the full moon clawing the ground,
frightenedly took their candy bags to fill.

It was over early, when the snow began.
I turned off the lights and decided to turn in.
A roaring fire in the fireplace to stave off the drafts.
Settled in my armchair with a blanket and gin.

I turned on an after-hours horror TV channel.
An old movie playing was far from banal.
With my stiff drink in hand, I begin to watch,
while the wind howled outside to match.

The plot was thick and the scenes were scary,
I drifted between excitement and great worry.
How was she faring on this miserable night?
When even monster creatures would shelter in fright.

Suspense was mounting, the climax had come,
the old hag was approaching him from behind
I gripped the arms of my chair so tight when,
I felt a cold bony hand on my necck and screamed!

And then, warm lips brushed my ear.
Warm hugs and kisses followed near.
Relieved, my honey was home at last.
Still, "Why so early?" I asked.

"Chief sent us home. The snow was so deep,
we couldn't patrol. I forgot my gloves. Anyway,
Vandals had all scurried off to their holes."

I poured her a drink and we settled in,
so warm and cuddly, holding each other tight.
But I still worry about that old hag's hands,
each cold, windy late autumn night.

RWH: 10/25/18

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Poem of the Week: 10/20/18

Nature Untrammeled

Out upon the dust strewn plain,
of the great divide of infinite life.
We struggle through dry throat bile,
on the cusp of some great strife.

Following the drought, comes the rain,
flooding the lifeless, thirsty plain.
Washing all the collected dust away,
leaving only gravel in its sway.

Continents move exorably slow,
imperceptible except to those in the know.
Pushing up mountains in their wake,
creating environments that we take.

Mining for riches, we use up the land,
terraform its purpose for what is at hand,
Natural beauty becomes something planned.
Nature cries at the loss of time's sand.

In the end, when all becomes clear,
nature knows best, but the time is near,
when all we thought we knew was wrong,
predicted by a forgotten folksong.

When the wealth of nations,
would make us plenty,
following the footsteps of,
the rhyme of J. Paul Getty.

We fell for the fallacy of,
greedy short-term gain.
An economic policy,
that was mostly in vain.

So nature took back what it had lost,
all that short-term gain, too great a cost.
We learned our lesson a very hard way,
while nature recovers what we led astray.

RWH: 10/18/18

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Poem of the Week: 10/13/18

Tangled Trees

The eye of the storm,
was calm and quiet,
a respite from terror,
raging through the night.

But the terror wasn't over,
when a new round began,
the wind returned howling,
with soul ripping sound.

We huddled in horror,
our house made of sticks.
As pieces of our home,
ripped away brick by brick.

Rain came sideways,
drilling through cracks,
soaking everything we had,
making us cold and sick.

When all was still again,
no power in the house,
we ventured out carefully,
to see what we lost.

Our world was shambles,
a tangle of trees,
unrecognizable landscape,
filled with debris.

We started picking up,
the only thing we could do,
for if there was a future,
we would have to renew.

We will never forget,
what we endured that night,
and how we became trapped,
in broken, tangled trees fright.

RWH: 10/11/18

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Poem of the Week: 10/13/18

Tangled Trees

The eye of the storm,
was calm and quiet,
a respite from terror,
raging through the night.

But the terror wasn't over,
when a new round began,
the wind returned howling,
with soul ripping sound.

We huddled in horror,
our house made of sticks.
As pieces of our home,
ripped away brick by brick.

Rain came sideways,
drilling through cracks,
soaking everything we had,
making us cold and sick.

When all was still again,
no power in the house,
we ventured out carefully,
to see what we lost.

Our world was shambles,
a tangle of trees,
unrecognizable landscape,
filled with debris.

We started picking up,
the only thing we could do,
for if there was a future,
we would have to renew.

We will never forget,
what we endured that night,
and how we became trapped,
in broken, tangled trees fright.

RWH: 10/11/18

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Poem of the Week: 10/6/18

Apple

The Devil tempted Eve,
with this forbidden fruit,
only grows in temperate zones,
not in Eden's tepid heat.

Placed upon the head,
of his beloved son Walter,
William Tell shot his crossbow bolt,
to save their lives, did not falter.

The New World had little fruit,
so Johnny Appleseed walked his route.
Traveled near and far across the land,
placing apple seeds in farmers' hand.

The Beatles needed a new brand,
for their production company at hand.
They chose Apple because it was sweet,
built an Apple Corps empire from the street.

Steve Jobs liked the simple treat,
started Apple Computer to keep the beat.
Apple Corps sued him multiple times,
Jobs just paid them off, kept his mimes.

Apple crossed the trillion dollar mark,
they ruled the world with their stock.
Their computer embedded in a phone,
allowed computers to chat and roam.

Constant upgrades are a real headache,
scams and security flaws to boot,
Apple's customer service is very friendly,
but their solutions aren't worth a hoot.

According to the laws of Parkinson,
have risen to their level of incompetence,
and join good old near dead Microsoft,
with their trying to do everything petulance.

Google, new kid on the block.
Now chasing Apple madly.
Who next will rock? You know?
Buy their stock.

RWH: 10/4/18

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Poem of the Week: 9/29/18

Punctuating Poetry

To punctuate the positive,
is the goal of many I know.
But poets wallow in negative,
as fortunes come and go.

Poets leave their legacy,
with words that guide us so,
words replace required marks,
for those in the know.

The many forms of poetry,
are like so many games.
Figuring out intricate trajectory,
I guess is their primary aim.

I place my marks,
here very carefully,
to aid in, simply, my,
cyber composition quest.

I have no doubt,
that the syntax clout,
will insidiously call me out,
at my inquisition arrest.

For while I may be,
punctuation savvy,
I doubt if any critic,
will find my punctuation,
poetically worthy.

RWH: 9/26/18

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Poem of the Week: 9/22/18

Fake Pews

Fakirs are in the marketplace,
fakers are hidden in the pews.

For there is no differentiated magic,
for those who spread the good news.

Moslems do away with pews altogether,
so their knees can be abused.

Bowing down is universally required,
Self-flagellating humility is used.

But then, Moslems are all about abuse,
honor killing walking in Mohammed's shoes.

Priests are called "father" for good reason,
with selective celibate controlling views.

Men create books like the Mormon,
conveniently putting their women to use.

But it's all about power and money,
that Rome wants to control and use.

Theological schism over Jesus's views,
creating twisting scripture used.

Evangelical pulpit pounders proclaim,
restrictions upon the views of blues.

Politicizing religion for government's use,
controlling the masses conveniently amused.

Turning ideology inside out with,
protectionist policy simpleton news.

RWH: 9/18/18

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Poem of the Week: 9/15/18

Fake Blues

Huey, have you heard the news?
Everybody's out there, fakin' the blues.

Down-home hurtin' got to yuse?
Rap ain't got nothin' on the blues.

Some be usin' it, spread their views,
some be usin' it, bilk their muse.

Sign up for disability, jobs no one dos,
sit on my ass and drink da booze.

Set up a go fund me page of views,
collect a fortune spoutin' fake blues.

Become a masochist to get abused,
nothin' like humility to fake the blues.

Spread ya misery on Facebook views,
befriend many like yuse with fake blues.

If ya down and dreary with don'ts and dos,
spread a little more darkness with fake blues.

RWH: 9/13/18

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Poem of the Week: 9/8/18

Fake News

No matter what your political views,
yellow journalism is now called,
mainstream media real fake news.

Scandal sheets were printed,
on Ben Franklin's presses,
along with pictures of men,
lifting up ladies' dresses.

Political cartoons became the rage,
there was no end to spoofing,
when it came to outrage.

Corruption, conspiracy, innuendo,
backbiting dirty tricks and gossip.
Tools of political maneuvering,
with no way to stop it.

Tabloids lie in grocery store aisle,
portraying the famous in fake style.
We are attracted by prurient interest,
publishers take our money with a smile.

If it's printed we must believe that it is true,
fake or not, news is what we call it.
Pass it on through social media,
until it is viral in the mind market.

So what is real and what is fake?
if it is outrageous, what actually,
is at stake?

Tools of science are quite unique,
revealing the truth that we seek.
It's easy to photoshop or cgi reality,
discerning truth is no technicality.

Eyewitness account is often wrong.
Attitude affects opinion and opinion,
can be bought for a song.

A shame we have to believe it,
unfortunately, just to get along.

RWH: 9/6/18

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Poem of the Week: 9/1/18

On the Rise

It seems that disaster,
is on the rise...
Hurricanes, tornadoes, lightning, lies.

Shark bites, rattlesnakes, alligators,
crickets, ticks, mosquitoes,
deadly French fries.

All leading to our, eventual, demise.
Is it the result of fake news that,
we are faced with all these tries?

The source is very clear,
as close as gossip's ear,
drone, security cam, cell phone, spam,
the source is what you and I am.

Whenever we spot something unusual,
my dearÉ We immediately capture it,
snap and chat it for all to see/hear.

We all are reporters without restraint.
Report what we witness, not what we ain't.

The end isn't immediately near, my dear.
Just that we all have a keener eye and ear.

Our crap detectors need to be tuned,
or our fears make our minds marooned.

RWH: 8/24/18

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Poem of the Week: 8/25/18

Breakthrough

I was waiting in the darkness,
when light came breaking through.
Like a laser beam of lightness,
opened my heart to you.

The sun shown on the waters,
facets mirrored on wavelets blue,
reflecting myriad brightness,
in dazzling Impressionist hue.

The glimmer of the brightness,
like the sparkle of mourning dew,
filled my vision with likeness,
and thoughts of breakthrough you.

Sorrow cannot harm me,
nor hardship make me blue,
for you are always on my mind,
to help me see it through.

The shimmer of shimmering lightness,
dancing upon rhythm's cue,
sighs with your sensuous reflection,
holding me to what is true.

So that I can go on forever,
in the glory of your light's view.
Basking in the reflection,
of an immortal breakthrough.

RWH: 8/23/18

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Poem of the Week: 8/18/18

Doggies Do

To Randy Jackson, we all be dawgs,
in a homey, friendly sort of way.
Just an expression of kinship,
when difficult judgment comes in play.

When we call someone,
a son of a bitch,
we are referring to his mother,
and not to a witch.

She is much kinder,
when nursing her pups,
but some get the hind tit,
while getting their sups.

When it comes to higher-[mon]archy,
in appointed succession,
it's always nose to tail,
a subserviency lesson.

Step out of line,
bite the hand that feeds ya,
you will be banished from the pack,
face full frontal attack.

It's a dog eat dog world,
in the "free" enterprise game,
so don't piss on his mark,
Or you'll be to blame.

RWH: 8/16/18

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Poem of the Week: 8/11/18

Fever Again

A wave of heat spreads,
across the parched land.
Perspiration beads,
from brow to head band.

When she comes into view,
almost as though planned,
with a fire that's ignited,
and continents spanned.

Once it reaches the kindling point,
bridging the gap between day and night,
fever engages our very soul,
brushstrokes of fire seeking a goal.

A welding of hearts and minds,
destined, so it seemsÉ
A burning desire bursting,
searing at the seams.

Consuming all that is in its path,
without any judgment of good,
bad, or even, wrath.

For fever knows no bounds,
in its quest to consume.
Once it gets started,
it can't be marooned,
to a single world or room.

So the fever rages,
fiery, on and on,
we fiddle and fiddle,
like fawns in the dawn.

There will come a day,
when fire's at the door.
How will we handle it?
Will we settle the score?

RWH: 8/9/18

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Poem of the Week: 8/4/18

Fire and Rain

It's becoming an all too familiar refrain.
Long periods of drought followed by,
sudden bursts of flooding rain.

Fire in the parched tree mountains,
fire in the dry grassy plain,
flood in the low lands,
brutal storms lash the main.

The climate is changing,
right before our eyes,
scientists are discovering,
new records in the skies.

It's an atmospheric change,
that human senses can't detect.
That heats up the air slowly,
stable climate to gradually wreck.

Millions of life forms,
live in very narrow climate niches.
Destroying their diverse lifestyles,
are short-term profit-seeking bitches.

Greedy consumers who always seek,
more every year for less, they think.
fueling an economy of human want,
out of mind and damn the heat sink.

An economy based on cheap stuff,
is making us weak and sick.
We have to change our ways,
all our bad habits to kick.

So, wake up convenient world,
and address the real problem.
"Right to life" for all creatures,
not just rote verbal pablum.

Time is running out,
on a planetary scale.
Life as we know it,
is beginning to pale.

Wise up, business world!

Get with the program.
Let science, not politics, solve,
the dilemma of our doldrum.

RWH: 8/2/18

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Poem of the Week: 7/28/18

Poet Tree

Dead poet went down,
to the ancient poet tree,
to see if he could summon up,
a regal rhyme or three.

Ancient one by the stream,
near wild flower meadow free,
where a poet could think,
"To be or not to be."

Longfellow was short,
but rather long of verse,
he dreamed of Evangeline,
from his horse-drawn hearse.

The Ancient Mariner,
took its timbers out to sea,
cursed by the albatross,
hung for all to see.

Edgar Allan Poe at,
his garden gate swore,
he heard a raven tell him,
"Nevermore, no, nevermore."

Down in the Greenwich center,
if you were a night owl,
you could join the beats there,
listening to Allen Ginsberg howl.

Back under that tree again,
near Sleepy Hollow Road,
you can still hear old Ichabod ride,
headless eyes bugged out like a toad.

RWH: 7/26/18

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Poem of the Week: 7/21/18

Hope

Don't be a dope,
and rely on hope,
when things don't go your way.

And, please don't just cope,
with dope or the Pope,
work for a brighter day.

Bury that hatchet,
and the money to match it,
it's way beneath you.

A disease when you catch it,
why let hope fetch it,
when sunny skies are blue.

So get out of the dump,
turn around that slump,
you're better than you hope.

Hope is a speed bump,
get over that hump,
never again have to cope.

Clinging to the frayed rope,
of diminishing hope.

RWH: 7/19/18

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Poem of the Week: 7/14/18

Man Plan

The man with the plan,
came across the land,
to exploit it to its extent.

For the land to the man,
was part of the plan,
he felt was heaven sent.

He cut and he carved,
shaped to his design.
Took all he wanted,
all that he could find.

But what he left was barren,
and leached a foul path.
The man with the plan,
didn't account what he hath.

Took those millions made,
to build castles in the sky.
Riches upon riches meant,
yielding power by-and-by.

There was no plan,
to rejuvenate the land.
The man with the plan,
was no longer at hand.

Be careful what you wish for,
if you're lucky and you win.
Taking more than you can stomach,
may do us all in.

RWH: 7/12/18

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Poem of the Week: 7/7/18

Somniac

Good sleep, I do not lack,
for I am surely, a somniac.

I fall asleep while studying,
I fall asleep while reading,
I fall asleep while driving,
I fall asleep while watching TV,
I fall asleep while talking,
I fall asleep while having sex,
I fall asleep while thinking,
and,
I even fall asleep while,
daydreaming.

At nighttime I wake up,
to make things just right,
fall back to sleep and dreams,
throughout the whole damn night.

I don't sleep much every day,
just four or five hours.
I just can't wake up very much,
face the day and smell the flowers.

Insomnia is not for me,
I sleep far too much,
so I must be just a somniac,
with a Sandman's touch.

Come sleep with me,
and you will see,
a world of wondrous dreams.

Where all is soft and comfortable,
like clouds of petals fragrant,
bursting with love at the seams.

I ain't no maniac, no no no!
Just a somniac at heart,
let me sing her praises,
but don't make me start.

RWH: 7/2/18

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Poem of the Week: 6/30/18

Tranquility

Rowed the tranquil waters,
of a star reflected lake.
Skied soft white powder,
down from a mountain?s,
highest breathless peak.

Swam the blue-green waters,
amid flashing fish of speed.
Coral waving feeding tendrils,
single Breath's all one needs.

Surfed the white-hot atmosphere,
returning from outer space.
View from there so incredible,
never find a more fragile place.

Stopped in an ancient glen,
of dusty drying decaying leaves,
Listened to the rustling foragers,
bringing in their sheaves.

On the bank of quiet pond,
frog and dragonfly replete.
Noisy redwinged blackbird,
drives intruders to retreat.

Searching sad tears silent,
on a rainy dull, dreary day.
Soldiering against melancholy,
keeping the blues at bay.

Seeking the distant horizon,
over the zenith's infinite bend.
Searching for future tranquility,
one that will never end.

RWH: 6/28/18

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Poem of the Week: 6/23/18

Addiction

We easily succumb to,
a kind of affliction,
can only be defined,
as addiction.

Humans are naturally,
social creatures,
we flock together,
listen to preachers.

We can't get enough,
of any good thing,
our feast or famine beginnings,
bells began to ring.

If we have enough,
we always want more.
We repeat the path,
to increase the score.

Dopamine floods,
to our brains,
we don't know when,
to pull in the reins.

Before we notice,
we aren't the same ones,
who initially accepted,
gifts of candy to guns.

Our brains conditioned,
to an addicted way of life,
so pleasantly enhanced,
'till turned into strife.

Fear is an addiction,
across all the lands,
that prevents reaching out,
lending helping hands.

Leave the cult of complacency,
break all those bonds.
See life differently,
across the shrinking ponds.

RWH: 6/21/18

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Poem of the Week: 6/16/18

Fleeting

When you look back upon.
all those times gone by.
compressed now, fleeting.
a flicker of light in the eye.

All the good times, all the bad.
full of anguish, wet and dry.
are now but moments past.
as time passes bye and by.

Velvet horns seen so briefly.
as a buck eluded sight.
silently through the brush.
as day turned into night.

Love that could have lasted.
a lifetime for what it's worth.
became mistaken moments.
passion never birthed.

Mighty swirl of water.
big fish on the hook.
when line broke suddenly.
didn't even get a look.

Graduations so many.
overcoming phases rife.
anticipation and anxiety.
entering new phases of life.

Grasp those moments tightly.
savor them while they last.
they will be gone quite quickly.
become a part of your past.

RWH: 6/14/18

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Poem of the Week: 6/9/18

Puttin with Putin

It is a very long drive,
that never really gets there.

There's no rushing to Russia,
in the middle of nowhere.

Courses are all frozen,
for over half a year.

Fur hats are necessary,
Mercedes a must.

Cut the bureaucracy,
in money we trust.

Better to go bare chested,
in Siberia for a while.

But golfing at Mara Lago,
has come into style.

More politics gets done,
while on the course.

Forget the people,
have no remorse.

With gold plated clubs,
and our towers in the sky.

People all love us,
or we fire themÉ
Bye-bye.

RWH: 6/7/18

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Poem of the Week: 6/2/18

Choices

Cash or check?
Bitcoin or heck,
just transfer it to ya.

Gas or electric?
Diesel or hybrid?
Compressed air or a flywheel,
will still get you there.

Driver or chauffeur?
Carpool or not?
Moto or bicycle?
Driverless debacle?

Smart phone or pad?
Desktop or screen?
Computing is now lost,
and apps are supreme.

Fly, drive or rail?
Read, text or sleep?
Forget all the landscape,
boredom runs deep.

Eat out or cook in?
Just heat up your din.
Fast food or slow,
shows the hurry we're in.

Paper or plastic?
Fabric bag or plant?
One is for convenience,
the other one? I can't.

Processed or fresh?
Veggies or flesh?
Freeze it or nuke it?
Juice it to blend.

Letter, email or text?
Twitter it, Snapchat,
Skype it, or snail.
Telegram or wire it still,
Many ways to message mail.

Right or left?
or down the middle?
Voting is our right,
that we must not piddle.

Our choices grow,
by leaps and bounds,
the latest fad comes around,
like a pack of wild hounds.

We always can choose,
to hang out in the past.
Or jump on the latest fad,
for as long as it lasts.

RWH: 5/31/18

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Poem of the Week: 5/28/18

Conundrum

Why is it, the more that I earn,
the less I have that's mine?

Why is it the more important I get,
the less my reason makes rhyme?

Why is it that the busier I get,
the less I get things done on time?

And why is it that the more I ring the bell,
the less I hear my own chime?

Why is a world of reason and good sense,
replaced with enlightened self interest?

Why is it that the more technology we have,
the harder it is to get things done?

Money is the only thing that talks,
everything else, private jet rideless, walks.

Common sense says go with the flow,
when everything I know, says, "No!"

Nothing is surer then death and taxes,
so just weather it all, while it wanes and waxes.

RWH: 5/26/18

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Poem of the Week: 5/19/18

Irate Sam.

My name is Uncle Sam.
Irate I am. I really am.
You want to make me great again?

Make my military next to none.
Put up walls to stop the Hun.
Have no empathy,
for the poor and weak.
They can go to hell,
with their own kind.
Equality? Go hug a geek.

Must remain white and pure,
Jesus's God is on our side.
Other religions are false,
Filled with egotistic pride.

Our country is so rich and great,
can rule the world easily,
just by being obnoxious and irate.

Money is our power.
What we can earn in the next hour,
is our shining heavenly tower.

The world is our playground,
Run roughshod over rules,
Know cooperation is for fools.

Damn right, I'm irate!
Arrogant, conceited, narcissistic, bigoted, too.
I don't negotiate, I deal.
I play with a rigged roulette wheel.

Machiavelli, Spencer and Ayn Rand,
are sources worth their salt.
Government granted scientific studies,
are to blame; it's all their fault.

Reporters chase a pack of lies,
fill heads with foolish fake reports.
Savvy to their staged views,
conspiracies galore for our news.

Damn right, I'm irate. I am Uncle Sam.
And I'm fighting hard to,
make America great again.

Because richer was better. Right?
Look at me and what I am.

Epitome of Uncle Sam.
Ugly American abroad in the land.
Pry the gun from my cold, dead hand.

RWH: 5/18/18

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Poem of the Week: 5/12/18

Bugged

There's a fly in my coffee,
and a roach in my soup.
I am so bugged,
I can't recoup.

There are lice on my nice,
and nits on my knacks.
With bug balms delivered,
by condescending quacks.

The couch is agog,
with fleas from the dog.
makes my skin crawl,
when they come to call.

Ants have gone bananas,
while sharing my lunch.
At least they're not fiery,
that awful stinging bunch.

With bees in the breeze,
and wasps in the air,
it's dangerous territory,
outside to beware.

Bloodsucking mosquitoes,
vampires of the night.
Repellents attract them,
to sneak a bloody bite.

Spiders scamper about,
in my closeted room.
weaving new webs,
catch a fly soon.

Dust mites inhabit,
the sheets of my bed.
Throw out that mattress,
a trillion mites dead.

Atomic microscopic shows,
what my itchy bod knows,
inhabited with trillions,
that comes and goes.

RWH: 5/10/18

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Poem of the Week: 5/5/18

Just in Time Again

You came along just in time.
There was no reason.
There was no rhyme.

With five cent solutions,
you saved the day,
made my life livable,
continuing to work or play.

It was all about survival,
and moving on in life.
Accomplishing greater things,
rather than mired pain and strife.

Just-in-time technology,
made what was lost return.
Robustly better than before,
available at every turn.

A metal splint to hold a pen,
a lease on life to write again.
An electric typewriter's easy keys,
made one finger typing a breeze.

Power steering and power brakes,
made driving possible again.
Drove for hours upon hours on end,
wherever I wanted, and when.

When driving became too hard to bear,
zero pressure controls were in the air.
Learning to drive a whole new way,
opening vistas for me, a brighter day.

Unable to control urine anymore,
an external catheter settled the score.
When walking became too difficult to bear,
I moved effortlessly into an electric chair.

When typing became too onerous to do,
the personal computer came into view.
As voice recognition gathered generations,
these poems became mere verbal notions.

Working and writing in a whole new tone,
going to the movies without leaving home,
everything I need at my beck and call,
just in time, you came with it all.

Fulfilled me in ways before unknown,
just in time help has also shown,
made my life very full and happy.
Far away from down, sad and sappy.

There are still things that I still, cannot do,
but you are always there carrying me through.
There certainly isn't any reason for me.
But, unlike Hamlet, I still choose, to be.

RWH: 5/2/18

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Poem of the Week: 4/28/18

Wishful Thinking

I wish I had a million dollars,
so I would no longer be in arrears.
A lifestyle lasting about seven years?

I wish I had a brand-new car,
so I could drive without any fears.
Knowing it to be obsolete in three years?

I wish that I was a corporate CEO,
I'd work my staff to tears.
Surely indicted within three years?

I wish I had a dozen kids,
so I could relax and let them work.
Grow up to be like their old man, the jerk?

I wish I had a new house,
I'm tired of cleaning and fixing.
New taxes and repairs so vexing?

I wish I owned a farm,
lead a life of freedom and ease.
After crop failure and disease?

I wish I was single again,
free from the heckling old hen.
Online love's from where, when?

RWH: 4/26/18

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Poem of the Week: 4/21/18

Snowy Spring

It snowed again the other day,
when spring will come, I cannot say.
Weather sure seems out of whack.
Like the courage of conviction I lack.

I long to see spring flowers grow,
robins' return, their red breasts show.
Daffodils and crocus in bloom,
scent of lilac fills the room.

With a cold sharp wind and drifting snow,
so many in a hurry with no place to go.
The Arctic vortex continues to show.
When it comes to the weather; you never know.

We know the cause but do not act,
stuck in our ways and filled with tact.
We do not question the status quo,
just go about our business, as if we know.

We are much smarter than the facts.
Convenience determines all our acts.
Cheaper is better in a throw away world,
use it or lose it is our mantra told.

So, if the summer is way too hot and dry,
we'll just order more air conditioning on the fly.
For we have no time to see what we are doing,
got a fad to catch on the way to our undoing.

RWH: 4/18/18

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Poem of the Week: 4/14/18

Once a Week

For some, a poem a day,
keeps their doctor away.

Fresh fruit of the day,
is all I need or seek.

And to do a poem,
just once a week.

There is no catharsis,
for me in what I write.

Just a subject here, or there,
bouncing around like a sprite.

Finding a new word or two,
to make you happy, or blue.

If I can twist a word or tale,
then my check is in the mail.

So, if a poem is what you seek,
just check on me, once a week.

RWH: 4/11/18

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Poem of the Week: 4/7/18

Love Birds

This time of year, birds leave the flocks of winter,
spread out and return to old haunts of hinter.

To carve out a territory of summer near,
a place to mate, procreate, chicks to rear.

Birds arrive at a fence, wire, branch, or rooftop high,
sing their sweet songs as insects fill the sky.

They search the moist ground of new growth for seeds,
finding a worm or two here or there to meet their needs.

Ever watchful as they search, for danger's nearby,
and in an instant, birds have to leap and then, fly.

Males, wearing their bright colorful plumage bold,
brag of their prowness to females in dances old.

When she is ready, let's him know who is the one,
allowed, only then, to mate and strut from his fun.

When bonded, the two love birds set off to make a nest.
It must be in a very safe place and better than all the rest.

She settles in to lay her eggs; he feeds if she begs.
When the laying is over, she twitters softly over eggs.

She becomes very hungry and must leave the nest.
He steps in to take her place, give her time to rest.

Couples both keep the eggs warm, turned and dry,
through all kinds of wind, rain and hot sun fry.

Soon, the chicks break through their shells and hatch,
both mother and father have children by the batch.

Couples both must work together, to feed,
all the gaping mouths of their feather.

Very soon, it's time to kick the chicks from the nest,
and make them learn to fly and all the rest.

And, if tragedy befell nest, eggs or chicks,
lay new eggs and start all over, taking hard licks.

Birds live long and have many offspring,
parents have to teach them everything.

For many hazards stand in each young bird's way,
to live a full long life while easily becoming instant prey.

Still, birds show such signs of love,
often seen together two by two.

"Until death do us part." Seems to be the golden rule.

RWH: 4/4/18

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Poem of the Week: 3/31/18

Maiden of Muse

Fare thee well,
sweet maiden of muse.
May your passion's fire,
words that I can use.

May your shapely figure,
spur my mind on.
With visions of splendor,
from eve till dawn.

May your sweet scent,
color the rarefied air,
tempting remembrance,
of youthful faire.

May your flowing locks,
arrest the clocks,
so that time stands still,
to all mortal will.

So, fare thee well,
me lovely muse.
Float off like the butterfly,
and leave me to choose.

RWH: 3/29/18

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Poem of the Week: 3/24/18

Slow Speed Chase

Brown threatens wife with gun in Baytown.
She calls 911 to track Brown down.

Brown flees in gray Ford SUV,
as police move close in to see.

That he gets up on I-10 heading west,
the race begins; who is the best?

Brown gets all the way to Houston,
on an unseen thrilling a high-speed run.

On 610 Loop, he heads south, then east,
ABC 13 helicopter picks him up at 7:50 am,
charging traffic like a beast.

In and out of cars, weaving as he feels,
a parade of police vehicles gathers at his heels.

Like vultures gathering for the feast on a beast,
but the wayward culprit slips through like grease.

Passing NRG Stadium without stopping to see,
the Rodeo is over, but his rodeo is free on TV.

Traffic backs up. Brown is sure to be stopped;
but he takes the South Post Oak exit south.
Free to run again, all bets are dropped.

Does the loop de loop on South Post Oak,
by taking U-turns--never stops--doesn't choke.

But his left rear tire goes low, smokes, and dies.
He's back up on 610 again, police on him like flies.

He's now in a very, very slow speed chase.
Going 10 mph, then stopping, to consider?
No, only starting again to pick up the pace.

No intention of getting out, he moseys along,
talking on his cell phone and snapping the police.

Six times he stops, then takes off again.
Stymieing the police. Will he stop? When?

Taking the exit to 288 N, under construction.
A great place for his final disruption.

After escaping being trapped so many times,
our hero is surrounded; his last bell chimes.

Miraculously, he drives off again like a deaf clown:
"Get out of the car! Hands out and up first! Lie down!"

Finally, after being afraid of his pistol or public outcry,
police get tired and box him in for one more try.

They swarm on all sides and break the passenger window in.
Grab the driver's door, pull it open, pull Brown out on his chin.

A two-hour chase is over with hundreds involved,
rush-hour traffic snarled, and millions spentÑsolved?

All because the guy abuses his girlfriend or wife.
Takes off on a slow speed losers' run of his life.

RWH: 3/22/18

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Poem of the Week: 3/17/18

Genocide

Demonize your enemy,
give them no place to hide.
Speak of them in epithets,
with god on your side.

They haven't a right,
to occupy this earth.
They're nothing but scum,
that way from birth.

They occupy our land,
without a birthright,
we must eradicate them,
give them no light.

Make their days nightmare,
they are not like us.
Make their nights fearful,
they've no right to fuss.

Our weapons are lethal,
our weapons are clean.
We kill them with precision,
let them know we are mean.

Poison them in public.
Gas them in the street.
Spray them with bullets.
Give them nothing to eat.

We are the chosen ones.
We have the might.
This land is our land.
For you, it's good night.

RWH: 3/15/18

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Poem of the Week: 3/10/18

Free Rollin'

Wheels are greased,
I'm rollin' free,
going to where,
I thought I'd be.

Engine's revved,
the sky is blue.
Road's wide open,
when I'm with you.

Highway we're on,
is hell-bent for lust.
If I can't count on you,
who else can I trust?

Know when we get there,
when we arrive at last.
New vistas will open,
the die will be cast.

So, come with me;
give it a whirl.
A whole new world,
is about to unfurl.

RWH: 3/8/18

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Poem of the Week: 3/1/18

Fight for Life

From the ooze of the sludge,
life takes tenuous hold,
spreads likeness generously,
heat from out of the cold.

Single celled creatures,
of variety so greatly bold.
Simply splitting to multiply,
yearning to take hold.

When cells gather together,
in mutual symbiotic state,
they form plants and animals,
making their lifespans, great.

Only to be gobbled up,
by the bottom feeders,
the voracious and clever,
the breathers and bleeders.

They claim territory,
alien to all but the host..
Thriving in their niche,
the rest become ghost.

Eating one another,
in the great food chain.
Almost countless variety,
new territory to claim.

Who are we to kill beautiful life?
We are enough already--too much,
constantly locked in great strife,
poisoning everything we touch.

Our numbers are growing,
at an untenable rate.
Destroying diversity wantonly,
until it is almost, too late.

For us to survive,
in the urban cesspool,
we are determined,
to create and retool.

Meanwhile, those little cells,
will continue to divide.
No need for them to hide,
just prosper and abide.

RWH: 3/1/18

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Poem of the Week: 2/24/18

Fear

Fear creeps in like a sneaky cold draft.
When was the last time you laughed?

Fear creeps in and steals your resolve,
takes over your mind as thoughts revolve.
Knows not good reason, but only hate.
Throw up walls and lock the gate.

Fear the poor, ugly, weak and unwashed,
leave them struggling to their fate.
Don't let them into our country,
our intelligence to denigrate.

Gird yourself for the apocalypse,
it's coming--sooner or late.
It's been prophesied for so long now,
it's time to open heaven's gate.

Fear the latest disease reported near,
for you are sure to be the one to get it,
if not this one, then the one next year.
Immunizations cause it, it's very clear.

Fear your next infirmity, coming down the pike.
You lived your life like it was boundless,
abusing your body with whatever you like.
Pain is now coming; a driven home spike.

Fear all the conspiracies and rumors.
They certainly will come true for you.
As sure as the moon is made of cheese,
and Bigfoot is coming after you, too.

Most of all, you fear your soon coming death,
because it spiritually is so damned confusing.
Grasping for straws of hope somehow beyond,
a hope that you can't win for trying, but losing.

Ask yourself. Do I react irrationally to fear?

RWH: 2/22/18

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Poem of the Week: 2/17/18

Killing Machine Gene

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/16/18

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Poem of the Week: 2/10/18

Carrot or Stick?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/8/18

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Poem of the Week: 2/3/18

What the Heck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 2/1/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/27/18

Blank

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/25/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/20/18

Ice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How about you?

RWH: 1/18/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/13/18

Blah

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

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

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

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

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

How about you?

RWH: 1/11/18

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Poem of the Week: 1/6/18

Resolutions

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

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

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

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

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

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

RWH: 1/4/18

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