Poem of the Week: 12/30/22

My Honey

I keep my honey close,
like in my hip pocket.
I always know where she is,
and I don't have to lock it.

My honey is my dear,
so I keep her right here,
am slow to let go of her,
but for her there's no peer.

When I need my honey,
she is always right there.
And I can count on her,
to cover me when threadbare.

She is so warm and generous,
I never have to beware.
She's there for my giving,
and for my every care.

If you haven't guessed by now,
I will give you a big clue,
my honey is my money,
thank you, and how do you do?

rwh 12/21/22

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Poem of the Week: 12/23/22

Room at the Inn

On a late December honeymoon,
driving wispy snow northward all afternoon,
snow-covered tree vistas on our winter lark.
we arrived at Bayfield just about dark.

Below the town Lake Superior loomed,
like the northern forests along the way,
the town was deep in new white snow.
Our need for shelter came into play.

We hadn't made plans to stay the night,
any old motel would've been all right.
But ahead appeared a wonderful sight,
all lit up with Christmas trimmings, bright.

It was the Old Rittenhouse Inn,
with its sidewalks shoveled clean.
I asked her, "Do you think we could stay there?"

She said, "I don't know, it's been my dream."

"It's worth a try, let's go and see,"
I told her, hoping for it to be.
We climbed the stairs to the porch,
and knocked on the door.

When the host came to the door,
I asked, "Do you have a room at the Inn?"
She answered, "Why yes, we do.
A suite if you like, please come on in."

We entered a world of Victorian charm.
All decorated for the holiday season.
Our upstairs suite had wine on the wall.
Toasted our good fortune with good reason.

Dinner was served in the dining room,
I ordered Lake Superior lake trout,
something that was always in season.
Dinner was sumptuous beyond a doubt.

Our room was cold with big bay windows,
so we had to snuggle under the covers.
We rose to bright sunlight with delight,
to the smell of the buffet breakfast, just right.

Looking out over the lake,
as we left town that day,
with its deep sky-blue waters,
Apostle Islands mushrooms of white.

I will always remember,
what serendipity brought,
a gracious room for a night,
that we wouldn't have thought.

rwh 12/21/22

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Poem of the Week: 12/16/22

Warm Hideaway

It was getting near Christmas,
after a week of college grind.
We faculty often got together,
for a drink and unwind.

Between the two Tainter Lakes,
there was this cozy little bar,
in woods not very close to town,
but again, not very far.

We arrived in new snow,
to the river bank's edge.
But it was frozen over,
a snow softened ledge.

From the chill of the night,
into the warm, beery air,
we passed the pool table,
for a drink at the bar.

A game of eight ball soon began,
we always had a little hustle on,
grabbing a grilled hamburger,
jukebox playing a favorite song.

Gazing out the picture window,
to an Xmas lit winter postcard night,
snowmobiles arriving illuminating,
snow ahead with wavering light.

But that wonderful little place,
may no longer exist.
Except in the memory,
at moments like this.

rwh 12/15/22

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Poem of the Week: 12/9/22

Just a Poem

This here is just a poem.
I thought I'd writ today.
Poetry is not my occupation,
wouldn't have it any other way.

To some, poetry is a livelihood,
but it ain't very lively to me.
Seems like more like it's dead,
more like that Dead Poets Society.

I rote a love sick poem to a girl I liked,
made her sick enough to throw up.
Now ain't that the darndest thing?
Right into her favorite loving cup!

Went to one of them poetry slams.
Everybody slamming, bang boom, bang.
I got up and screamed bloody murder,
next thing, bullets flew and shots rang.

Got so scared, nearly crapped my pants.
Now only recite to my uncles and aunts.
They turn up their noses and walk away,
have disowned me since that poetry day.

So, I writ this poem to tell you I'm gone,
no more poetry writin' from dusk till dawn.
My poetry days will soon be over.
After I kick the dog. Move over! Rover!

rwh 12/8/22

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Poem of the Week: 12/2/22

Remembering Snow

I still remember snow,
though it was long ago.
I miss it this time of year,
snow heralded good cheer.

Autumn chill had turned to cold,
leaves turned brown on the ground,
trees starkly nude as though dead,
a worrying time of deep, dark dread.

And then, the gray skies opened up,
crystal snowflakes came floating down,
in flurries of white covering the ground.
Hiding the dark dead and the frown.

Through the moonlit night snowflakes fall,
light of the stars doing magic as well.
For when the dawn brings brilliant sunlight,
our world transformed, sparkling and bright.

White warmth and softness came into view,
inviting to walk out in to enjoy the time,
when snow is beautiful and so benign.
When snowballs and angels easy on the mind.

But winter always continues to move on,
storms will come regularly until the spring.
Strong howling winds blizzards will bring.
Hard drifts and heavy shoveling our thing.

When the snow is all dark encrusted with ice.
My remembrance of snow was not so nice.
When we waited for the sun to melt it away,
we could take off our heavy clothes every day.

rwh 12/1/22

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Poem of the Week: 11/25/22

Drifters, Grifters and Shifters

They are all around us,
don'cha you know.
Swooping in fast, or,
sneaking in slow.

Drifters who come into our lives,
and then disappear from view.
No one knows where they go,
whether they are plenty or few.

Grifters are a shaky lot we know,
finding ways to live off the fat.
Shaking us down without a clue,
skimming us this way and that.

Shifters come shaped in all sizes.
They wear many hats to serve.
Wear hats too big for their heads,
only because they have the nerve.

Beware of these fellows of,
good fortune and for our behalf.
They'll take us for dupes in an instant,
as they disappear with a laugh.

rwh 11/23/22

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Poem of the Week: 11/18/22

Neighbors

We are all neighbors,
don'cha know.
Whole world over,
to and fro.

We befriend others,
our Facebook friends.
Across the world in,
ours and other lands.

There are no walls,
no flags, no creeds.
That keep us apart,
while the world bleeds.

Just our ignorance,
our fears and belief.
Keeping us from joining,
hands in great relief.

Tear down ideology walls,
those false nationalities,
those flag-waving creeds.
For better possibilities.

While the future leads.

rwh 11/15/22

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Poem of the Week: 11/11/22

Nightmare with Guts

She woke up in a pasture,
outside her protective tall walls.
Topped with razor wire,
couldn't keep out the calls.

Wolves howling in the distance,
but clearly coming her way.
She contemplated her options,
she was sure she couldn't stay.

As an Olympian jumper,
she thought about the top.
Wasn't sure she could make it,
couldn't do the Fosbury Flop.

Had cleared that height before,
but the razor wire was more,
with the cuts that it would score,
might match what wolves tore.

She planned her route carefully,
and started out with a slow trot.
Away from the wall just far enough,
to give it all that she's got.

Running with all of her might,
with the moon shining on the wall,
there was no turning back now,
she launched, giving it her all.

She didn't feel the blade rip,
cleared and prepared to land.
Her adrenaline eliminated pain,
but her death was close at hand.

From within the gut pile,
bloody little head uncovered.
A filly rose on shaky feet,
the farmer soon discovered.

rwh 11/10/22

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Poem of the Week: 11/4/22

Spasm City

Refrain

If you go down to Spasm City,
you'll find it lively; you'll find it witty.
The girls there are so pretty,
if you're looking for romance,
they all do the St. Vitus dance.

And the guys are all brawny bare,
as they shiver and shake there,
to Parkinson's they owe their quiver,
a fine muscle tone they do deliver.

The spinal alley is dark and dirty,
but the girls there are kind of flirty.
And if you get down to the nitty-gritty,
doing the polio portfolio hurdy-gurdy.

(Refrain)

Holy smoke! Can they do the stroke!
shake and slobber all day through.
Want to dance in their shoes?
Wouldn't you want to do it, too?

So welcome to Spasm City,
where you can get pal-sie with the palsy.
You can dance your entire life away,
maybe it's me, maybe it's you, ballsy.

(Refrain)

rwh 10/29/22

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Poem of the Week: 10/28/22

Whipswitch Witch

Way down in Whipswitch Hollow,
where the wild pigs disappear to wallow,
no one dared go there or follow,
the fear was too much to swallow.

Deer had been seen entering that track,
seen going in, but not coming back.
anyone that bravely tried under attack,
by spidery webs and the sound of, "hack, hack."

As if someone were chopping up wood,
but it could also be bodies, all understood.
Entering Whipswitch Hollow was forbidden,
for no one knew what there was hidden.

One night, Johnny and Mary were courting,
wandered aimlessly through the woods chatting.
The air was chill and the moon was bright,
only love was on their mind, nothing of fright.

Not paying attention where they had gone,
they wandered into the hollow following a fawn.
The moon disappeared and bats fluttered around,
they could hear an owl hoot its beckoning sound.

With spiders above and snakes below,
the brave young couple just wanted to know.
With love on their side they moved on,
hoping to find what was there by the dawn.

Came upon a clearing where the moon was bright,
its pale light casting shadows while the owl sat tight.
Where a cute little cottage shown in the pale light,
from within came an old woman into the night.

"Who goes there? Who dares to come here?Ó
The old woman spoke, with a smile and good cheer.
She was dressed in a very old grandmotherly style,
but it fit her cheery personality matching her smile.

"We are just lost lovers wandering in the night.
Just happened on your clearing. Did we give you fright,
We never knew you lived here for all of our years,
were told not to come here because of their fears.Ó

"I am the Good Witch of Whipswitch Hollow.
I restore your soil when you let it go fallow.
Bring birds and butterflies back in the spring,
give love a chance to grow and every other thing.Ó

She gave them good blessings for their life ahead,
and told them to tell the others that she was not dead.
The lovers returned to tell others to follow,
and not to fear the Good Witch of Whipswitch Hollow.

rwh 10/27/22

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Poem of the Week: 10/21/22

High Noon at the Gilded Corral

Sean was doing dishes,
in a fit of anger broke a few.
Didn't like this kind of work,
wasn't what teens like him do.

But his father had left,
just as soon as he was born.
So his mother had to work,
and leave him home alone.

With no father to guide him,
he got in scrapes at school,
finally, just had enough, and,
quit. Wasn't no school fool.

Sean's mother told him straight,
"You have to work now, son.
Gotta earn your keep here.
I can't be the only one."

Lied about his age,
and got an entry job,
at the Gilded Corral,
from a big fat slob.

With money in his pocket,
Sean bought used video games.
At a nearby local flea market,
played them along with other things.

He became a champion marksman,
and when he got Spec Ops: The Line,
Sean knew what he wanted to do,
it was just a matter of time.

Went to the Navy to become a SEAL,
the recruiter told him, "You need to,
grow up son, go back to school,
no videogame, this is the real deal."

Went to the Army to become a Ranger,
and the recruiter scoffed at him.
"Get your scrawny ass out of here.
" Sean felt like he'd taken it on the chin.

Really hated working there.
With all those fat people coming in.
Fellow workers taunting him,
pushing him further out on a limb.

When the manager yelled at Sean,
embarrassed, in front of all the crew,
he pitched a fit, broke a few more,
was fired and escorted out the door.

Couldn't tell his mother,
that he had lost that work.
He had no other prospects,
felt like a hopeless jerk.

At the flea market there was a guy,
who sold guns and ammo cheap,
he had gathered on the sly,
to anyone the secret would keep.

Sean knew what he had to do,
he had to make a big splash.
His life was just in shambles,
he could fix it with his stash.

He bought an AR 15 and some clips,
some body armor and ammunition.
In his mind he was now a commando,
man living up to his mission's ambition.

Sean felt the weight of his gun,
back in his small apartment room.
Vowed to himself to get even,
The next day, right at noon.

Hardly got any sleep at all,
planning it in his mind.
By morning he was ready,
knowing it was his time.

Taking the alleys on his way,
no one saw him coming.
The parking lot was full,
between the cars running.

Surprising those walking in,
he swiftly blew them down,
they were just fat slobs anyway,
not worth a smile or frown.

Through the door he marched,
his gun blazing rat a tat tat!
Killing those behind the counter,
and nailed that fat manager rat.

Then, to the customers cringing,
on the floor or against the wall.
He sprayed them generously,
hoping to kill them all.

Sean heard the sirens coming,
and left the bloody mess behind.
He had a new foe facing him,
of the real commando kind.

He started shooting up police cars,
and they were shooting back.
He didnÕt feel the bullets hitting him,
just heard them crack, crack, crack.

Sean was on the ground,
the sky was spinning above,
his commando days were over,
there was no heroic love.

rwh 10/17/22

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Poem of the Week: 10/14/22

Little White Lies

Those little white lies,
meant to disguise,
a truth that was,
too hurtful to bear.

To keep little ears,
safe from their fears,
as they grow up,
through the years.

Those little white lies,
grow into tight ties,
found in the mind of,
more than just a few.

It's okay to lie,
just to get by,
keeping the hurt,
of the truth at bay.

When those lies grow,
get bigger you know,
they become a part of,
life's grand game.

Where lying succeeds,
and everyone heeds,
the big lie as it emerges,
while everyone bleeds.

rwh 10/12/22

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Poem of the Week: 10/7/22

Holy Shirt!

Egad! My shirt is so holy!
It must be closer to dog.
My dog certainly loves me,
when he chews on my tog.

For while I am naked,
before him, dog cares not,
for how I look shirtless,
or what accoutrements got.

He's just interested,
in how sweet I smell,
as he makes my,
shirt holier than thou.

For I know my dog loves me,
regardless how I forsake him.
Will save me hell or high water,
whatever state I am in.

When I am in the state of ecstasy,
his nose is very sharp.
Is always there to greet me,
and never one to harp.

I will wear my holy shirt,
until the day I die.
When my dog will drag it on,
to be praised by another guy.

rwh 9/29/22

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Poem of the Week: 9/30/22

Breaking News

The news is broken,
broken all to bits.
They just told me on TV,
stressing all my wits.

Who broke it,
I'm trying to figure out?
But it must be broken,
to hear that guy shout?

Is it going to happen to me,
or in my neighborhood?
Probably very soon I see,
and that is not very good.

So I turned off my TV,
never to watch news again,
but my friends keep texting,
to go online where they've been.

There's a guy there,
with all the answers,
to all my deepest doubts.
And he's telling us the truth,
so angry that he shouts.

"The system is broken,
and we must fix it now!"
He speaks with such conviction,
even the when and the how.

All I have to do,
is to follow him and be loyal.
And he will solve all my problems,
and let the broken news boil.

So glad I have a savior,
to soothe my achy breaky head.
Our broken world is fixed again,
but, I soon will be dead.

rwh 9/24/22

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Poem of the Week: 9/23/22

Clueless News

Without a clue like mysteries do,
I write this little poem for you.
Like bobbies on bicycles, two by two,
accompanying the late, I'm late, Queen,
to her royal ending doings, do.

Mar-a-Lago is an over evaluated club,
so here is the rub, the rub a dub, dub.
If you're caught doing it, it's called fraud.
Maybe better than accused by a broad.

A hurricane is humping out Bermuda way,
after doing it to Puerto Rico the other day.
Watch out, Gulf Coast, it's coming to play,
with flood, wind and misery here to stay.

Putin is shootin' wildly from the hip,
to destroy Ukraine with more than just lip.
Jerking around with a nasty nuclear flip,
Armageddon waiting below that iceberg's tip.

rwh 9/22/22

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Poem of the Week: 9/16/22

River's Bend

Down where the Brazos wandered,
maybe, a thousand years ago,
floods cut through the meandering,
and changed the river's flow.

Creating oxbow lakes,
for all the wild to enjoy,
replenished by occasional floods,
the lakes there to employ.

Settlers came and settlers went,
they came to ranch and farm.
But when that use petered out,
they pulled up stakes and moved on.

It was late in the 20th century,
when the land came up for sale.
It was bought and granted to the state,
a park for all hardy and hale.

I wandered there in the 1980s,
when the park was still raw and new.
I went to see the animals and birds,
to walk, relax, contemplate and view.

Late in the day on a Saturday,
driving from the suburbs to the wild,
I'd pick a trail to take that day and walk,
with sun waning west and the air mild.

By lakes with migrating waterfowl,
alligators, people fishing, hawks.
An armadillo in the trail,
scratching out a living eating bugs.

There came a screeching through tall grass,
a bobcat I suppose was taking charge.
Meanwhile, a buck in full antler,
appeared in front of me very large.

Down by the river far from other people,
saw a huge sow with piglets many,
and in the same patch of brush, javelina,
enjoying the cover and wallows plenty.

One day, I heard to my left a mighty wail,
an angry boar with brown fur flying,
crossed the field behind me very fast,
saying my heart didn't skip would be lying.

One October day much cooler then,
fifty deer were gathered ruting in a meadow.
I watched bucks clashing for the does'
affection while they waited for their hero.

Walking an old farm road, I passed,
between an old and young buck vying,
paid no attention to me at all,
young doe nearby for their trying.

Those days walking alone in the park,
gone now, but their memories linger on.
Often thinking back how the wild calms,
the mind long after that life is gone.

rwh 9/15/22

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Poem of the Week: 9/9/22

Goin' Fishin'

I'm going fishing down by the old bayou,
where the bass, catfish and gar are.
Hoping that I will be able to see you,
to finally snare you near or far.

Saw you once when I was in my teens,
the night was falling, birds were calling,
to roost for the night in sweet dreams.

Gators were booming, tree frogs chirping,
doves were cooing their mournful call.
And yet, there was a stillness working,
as the heat turned to mist among it all.

An ethereal landscape of cypress knees,
ghostly, dreamy images hanging in trees.
but one was a maiden about my age,
my lonely young life turned a new page.

As real as the crawdads in my cage,
I watched her undress and take a swim.
Try as I could, I couldn't engage,
paralyzed watching her like a whim.

I wanted to swim with her ever since,
she hasn't appeared all these years,
but been goin' fishin' for her hence,
like some long-lost lover in tears.

All I'm catching is crawdads and grief,
down through the years of yearning.
When the mist comes there is no relief,
I've wasted my life I'm slowly learning.

This evening when the mist arrives,
I will join her in the murky waters of rhyme.
Where I know she hides out and thrives,
I will dive in to catch her one last time.

rwh 9/8/22

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Poem of the Week: 9/2/22

Love's Cost

Love is a many splendored thing,
but its cost can go cha-ching!

Innocent love is really so sweet,
but early pregnancy is no treat.

Aborting a baby or marrying wild,
turns a life upside down for a child.

Inhibitions work well until stimulants found,
can turn romance into nightmare come 'round.

Cost of romantic addiction is hard to fathom,
some lives lost altogether in that chasm.

But everything's perfect and the time has come,
we both have income and our time's to be one.

We'll splurge on the ceremony, reception and dance,
fly off on our honeymoon to the south of France.

Children we want plenty to raise as our own,
babysitting, preschool, private school, and a big home.

Financially strapped we argue and fuss,
a costly divorce creates a poor house for us.

Meeting kid's needs through college a boost,
only to find them coming home jobless to roost.

We worked way too long, with romance gone,
those retirement dreams just a poet's song.

Two sick and too weak, we linger, cheek to cheek,
but death stalks and the cost is not for the weak.

Widows left not knowing of her husband's finances.
Widowers left without someone's household graces.

Love touted as the cure to many of our ills,
always seems to ignore who pays the bills.

rwh 9/1/22

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Poem of the Week: 8/26/22

My Spirit

My spirit is my driving force,
an essential part of my mind.

My memory stores not trivia,
but mental processes to find.

All the essential information,
that keeps me vibrant and alive.

And doesn't clog my brain,
with memorization so blind.

Processing all my thoughts,
into action to be taken.

Resting occasionally to,
let thoughts no longer awaken.

And then, determined,
start thinking once again.

To accomplish a goal,
perhaps, flesh out a dream.

Always trying to clarify reality,
rather than the supposedly, unseen.

My spirit is always positive,
and tries not to be unkind.

I do not ponder ethereal questions,
their far out reasoning not of mind.

My spirit comes from no other source,
than what is within my reasonable find.

I do not follow shooting stars,
their light always fizzles out.

My spirit is the light of my life,
extinguished when I die.

Why I am living this life to its fullest,
in case you are wondering, Why?

rwh 8/24/22

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Poem of the Week: 8/19/22

Reaching the Top

There is something about climbing a mountain,
whether it be actually or metaphorically true.
That gives one great inner satisfaction,
when you finally get there and can view.

All that lays out before you above and below,
a better understanding of the stars above,
and of the giants you are standing on,
whose shoulders steadfast with their love.

Enable you to climb higher than you could,
higher than the original goal you set.
But there is no easy way to arrive there,
without getting very tired, cold and wet.

From the top you can see more clearly,
the beauty of the sunrise and sunset.
Cold clear air clears thoughts and mind,
allowing some of your best creations yet.

Keep on climbing that path that you are on,
whether it takes you days, months or years,
to achieve through blood, sweat and tears,
beauty is in getting there, not becoming seers.

rwh 8/18/22

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Poem of the Week: 8/12/22

The Truth

"I promise to tell the truth, the whole truth,
and nothing but the truth. With my hand,
on this book of myth and moral stories,
of a time long ago, its sorrows and glories."

"And then, tell it like it is, my story,
one so cleverly concocted,
from my own personal gory glory."

Science is rapidly unveiling the truth,
its methods are precise, repeatable and clear.
It generates new theories continually to test,
but throws out old theories, some held so dear.

Like those held close by religious cults,
simple explanations for all of life's doubts.
Repeated from birth and passed on down,
until brains rigidly accept lies and shouts.

Down any opposing theory or thought.
Conniving cult masters know this fatal flaw,
and easily find followers in the masses maw.
As old as the ice ages but never to thaw.

Followers who like sheep love to be in the herd.
With their ears to the ground of the leader's, word.
Who will die rather than deny the leader's lies,
so strong is their loyalty and strength of ties.

But science has a way of removing all doubt,
discovering history carefully hidden and shaped.
Not the story that is believed and so often aped.
Science revealing real history actually raped.

Hold your horses, ye stallions of conspiratorial lies!
Cold hard truth is right in front of your emotional eyes.
The sooner you take your ancient blinders off, like styes,
the sooner the truth will help you join realistic lives.

rwh 8/11/22

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Poem of the Week: 8/5/22

Web of Life

It has been, perhaps, only 2 billion years,
of our Earth's 4.5 billion year long life.
That bacterial sized growth took hold,
in hot niches facing great, terrible strife.

But with each great extinction,
caused from turmoil without,
or turmoil within, life continued,
to grow, mutate and sprout.

Its forms growing more complex,
with each millennium survived,
each one dependent upon the other,
in a fragile web form that arrived.

Into myriad variations from bacteria,
insects, plants and animals thrived.
But as the Earth turned and changed,
some thrived, but most, eventually died.

Through good fortune our species,
finally arrived about 200,000 years ago.
Ignorant and fearful at first, we hung on,
only civilization's discovery made us glow.

We created religions to quell our fears,
leaving the whispering of nature for other ears.
Declaring our dominance over all things,
so that we could gather wealth our work brings.

But our success has become too much to bear,
while we quibble over details the answer is in the air.
If we don't do something quickly we will be in great peril,
the air will not help us when we've gone too far.

The web of life is unraveling at a rapid rate,
while we are still killing with our lifestyles of late.
Unless we all get very interested in nature's plight,
underpinnings beneath us will give us hell's night.

The web of life will start over and reassemble the strands,
but we will not be there to manipulate with our grand plans.

rwh 8/4/22

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Poem of the Week: 7/29/22

How Elections Are Bought

You must be a billionaire with an ax to grind,
because the government is taxing you blind.

It's a free country and you don't feel very free,
so you are going to fix it, even though you could flee.

First, pick the election districts who favor your cause,
and look for the weakest candidate without any pause.

Shower them with more money in their campaign chest,
than all of the three dollar contributions combined from the rest.

Get them elected with more TV, face time and lies,
so the ignorant public finds them a hero of little guys.

But while in office have bargained with the devil's cash,
are required to follow their benefactor's ways, however rash.

A simple threat of withdrawal of annual massive campaign funds,
will guarantee a puppet like the Energizer Bunny, runs and runs.

So the wealthy get wealthier with laws written in their favor,
while the people, we the people, get lower wages to savor.

rwh 7/28/22

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Poem of the Week: 7/22/22

Sunset Beach

On the far west of the continent's reach,
you will find that where there's sand,
there will be a wonderful sunset beach.

Where the continent is slowly sliding,
into the ocean's constant wild surf,
where the waves are for surf gliding.

Where no longer the cliffs meet the sea,
a strip of sandy beach forms for thee,
where the hardy come year-round with glee.

For the current offshore down from the north,
brings with it Arctic temperatures come forth,
and the wind coming off the sea bracing be.

With insulated scuba suit on the water is fine,
surfers find the big waves as sweet as fine wine,
as they wait for days for huge waves and pine.

While the cliffs slowly crumble into the sea,
make new sand for the beaches to be,
perpetual change that only time can see.

Days when the hot breath of land hits the cold,
creating a mist covering the coastline to unfold,
only seals venture and the brave and bold.

But best of all when the evening comes along,
lovers are walking out on the cliffs or beach,
while the sunset displays grandeur and song.

Won't you come and watch the sunset with me?
Where the beach bonfire burns for us to warm?
Or in each other's arms cliffside high we'll be?

rwh 7/21/22

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Poem of the Week: 7/15/22

Growth

We all want to grow richer, of course,
so we can buy more stuff to feed,
our rising expectations by force,
of our ever-growing greed.

For we were designed for survival,
to fight our way mindless ahead,
idea that more and bigger is better,
to our slowly swelling head.

But there are limits to growth,
that are easily proved and read,
the old checks and balances,
are quickly among the dead.

But a reckoning is coming,
we must downsize like yore,
or we will join the minions,
of those gone extinct before.

And growth will start over,
like it always has before.

Just of a different kind.

rwh 7/14/22

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Poem of the Week: 7/8/22

Honey Do

Honey, do you love me?
Do you love me true?
That's what I'll say to you,
when we say our wedding vows,
if only that diamond you'll give me,
by the stream, under pine boughs.

Honey, do you think that our wedding,
should be the grandest in the land?
That we spend more than anyone,
so that I will feel special, not bland?

Honey, do you think we should,
honeymoon in Monaco,
where all the royalty go?
Or Mustique to party,
with those in the know?

Honey, do buy me a mansion,
in the latest style and taste.
If you don't do that for me,
you'll find me forever chaste.

Honey, do get that job I told you about,
we need the money or go bankrupt.
Or you could go into politics,
and be just a little corrupt.

Honey, do get me that divorce,
you can't pay any of our bills.
Hide out in your man cave if you want,
but you can't escape by those thrills.

Honey, do the things you used to do.
Do the things you did so well.
Do the things I wanted you to,
that made me feel so swell.

rwh 7/7/22

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Poem of the Week: 7/1/22

Seven Year Itch

Have you ever had an itch,
that you couldn't scratch?
One that was as annoying,
as sleeping on a bed of thatch?

That tickle like a feather,
that magically disappears,
thinking it might be a ghost,
because it always reappears?

That rash like a gash,
that rips you to shreds.
Putting all your nerves on edge,
and evil thoughts in our heads?

How about the pesky mosquito,
that hovers over your bod.
Giving you the dreaded itchies,
without even drawing any blood?

When you itch to meander,
escape about seven years in,
and the bitch, turned witch,
sues you mightily for your sin?

rwh 6/30/22

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Poem of the Week: 6/24/22

My Gun, Too

You can't take my gun away,
it is my unalienable right.
God put this gun in my hand,
to protect me day and night.

Bad guys everywhere are at my door,
but when they come to break in.
I'll be ready with my trusty gun,
to make sure they'll never do it again.

I know how to handle myself,
I know I'm an expert marksman.
Both at the shooting range,
and in Mortal Kombat, man.

Don't mess with me or my house,
don't bother my kids or my spouse,
or I will blow you away with one shot,
you don't know what I have got.

Haven't you all heard the news?
The world is soon falling apart.
Each and every one of us with guns,
must rise up and do our part.

I wear my gun openly in the street,
all bad guys my eyes steely meet.
Any injustice that I might see,
I'll pull my gun with liberty.

For without me and others like me,
anarchy will rule in the streets.
I am the last bastion of free will,
and tired of wimpy retreats.

So, everyone join me in my quest,
when you get cut off on the road,
shoot that guy between the eyes,
to tell him that he's a driving toad.

When your wife doesn't treat you right,
pistol whip her in the night,
and when she asks for a divorce,
shoot her, the kids, yourself, of course.

rwh 6/23/22

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Poem of the Week: 6/17/22

Hospice

Oh, give me a hospice where the buffalo roam,
and the big sky is ore me all day.
Where angels on mustangs ride beside me,
and take good care of me in every way.

Oh, give me a hospice on a Caribbean Isle,
where tropical breezes lift me up all day.
Where angels dressed in bright colors,
bring me margaritas and favors my way.

Oh, give me a hospice in a castle in Spain,
where the wine is sweet and never a rain.
Where angels dressed as sirens reign,
sing my evenings away with soft refrain.

Oh, give me a hospice in the heart of Africa,
where elephants, lions and impala play.
Where angels in khaki carrying me forth,
on a litter while on wild safari all day.

Oh, give me a hospice 'neath Himalayan peaks,
where life is rapture and the eagle above shrieks,
where angels in saris swat my flies away,
while squatting in wadis as if to pray.

Or, I could just stay quietly at home,
nevermore, this world to roam. Nah,
I'm getting out of this place soon as I can,
never to return to this shithole again!

rwh 6/16/22

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Poem of the Week: 6/10/22

Road Rash

Did you know you can get burned,
while sliding on ice? Probably not,
but the thought isn't very nice.

On the other hand,
sliding on a smooth,
basketball floor,
can give you a burn,
painful like never before.

And for those few of you,
who have wrestled on a mat,
know that a mat burn,
can be where itÕs at.

Waterskiing without any skis,
with your butt or your feet,
sliding on water with ease,
Would probably burn your feet,
if the water wasn't so cold,
to cool condition any defeat.

But worst of all, if you would fall,
skateboarding, bicycling or,
at high speed on your motorcycle,
To hot blacktop or concrete below,
while riders wear leathers or pads,
to ease the blow or the slide.
Prevent broken bones, nasty scabs.

Moral:

Do not rub your partner,
the wrong way in word, deed or song.
Impression that you make,
May burn in memory very long.

rwh 6/9/22

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Poem of the Week: 6/3/22

Stress Marks

Do you have a lot of stress, Bub?
Does it show in the lines on your face?
Those lines that you're paying to erase?

Well, relax, have I got a cure for you.
Make sure that you always wear blue.
For those lines don't like that hue,
at least for the way you feel about you.

It's all a matter of what's in your head,
unless you are already dead.
And then, it don't matter at all, cuz,
undertaker makes you look good in bed.

Do you look in the mirror and snarl?
Do you feel you didn't go the extra mile?
Have I got a cure for you, Bub, tomorrow.

It wasn't that pregnancy you had,
it was all that good eating went bad.
When you realized that you were getting fat,
took that crash diet, just the latest fad.

But I guess it's just part of your nature,
you wear stress inside your genes.
So you might as well wear it outside,
on your stressed brand-new blue jeans.

rwh 6/2/22

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Poem of the Week: 5/27/22

Pickle

Cutie cucumber was in a pickle,
until a kindly bartender opened the jar,
and freed Cutie to come out.

But Cutie was one sour pickle,
when the bartender charged,
a customer only a nickel,
giving Cutie a sour, salty pout.

rwh 5/26/22

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Poem of the Week: 5/20/22

Walk in My Shoes

Every once in a while,
I get new news,
someone I know,
has walked in my shoes.

While it is hard for me to discern,
your path very well,
to assume you know mine,
may lead you to hell.

Outward appearance,
may be all that you know,
to make a distinction,
of what I have to show.

But you don't know me,
when your bluff I call,
you don't know me,
no, not at all, at all.

For, unless you walk in my shoes,
know the glory and pain of my muse,
you don't know me nearly enough,
to be of any real use.

rwh 5/19/22

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Poem of the Week: 5/13/22

Red Rubber Ball

Bouncing, bouncing down the street,
chasing a red rubber ball,
is such a wonderful treat,
for children ages all.

To catch a dog's instinct eye,
its movement irresistibly game,
as it passes, bouncing by,
caught with effortless perfect aim.

Sometimes confined to a simple board,
with a rubber band or elastic cord.
To bounce out into the wild blue,
only to return the same path, too.

Who hasn't followed the bouncing ball?
When it landed on words' simple call.
For everyone to sing along the tune,
bouncing red ball's melody filled the room.

As a bouncing red ball enters space,
it moves out of sight without leaving a trace,
never to bounce back, ever again,
for gravity it needs, its where or when.

rwh 5/10/22

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Poem of the Week: 5/6/22

Equality

We all are born unequal, a simple fact.
No matter how you slice it or use any tact.
Some were born to wealth and privilege,
others shouldn't have to suffer that act.

There are gainers and there are losers,
in this unfair crapshoot of our birth.
While some have all of the influence,
most just consume the earth.

There are always those exceptions,
the ones who rise above their birth,
but they are but ten in a hundred,
that show us what they are worth.

Equal opportunity is a heartfelt wish,
but lost to so many who just barely exist.
It takes a lot of compassion,
to break this insidious evil twist.

Where those in power manipulate,
inequality to their personal gain,
while touting fairness to everyone,
but granting only flattering disdain.

rwh 5/5/22

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Poem of the Week: 4/29/22

Had Only Known

Refrain

Through all this time, if I had only known,
you were the one, the only one for me.
I would've done things much differently.
Done things so much differently.

Remember the time when we first met?
At that freshman dance under the stars?
You melted into me as if we were mated.
Though you were from Venus and I from Mars.

(Refrain)

Lost in each other, those were the days,
when we were as free as the skies above,
never saw any error in our carefree ways.
When we wasted our education for love.

(Refrain)

But the seeds of our love were planted.
Soon, we were faced with a grim choice:
leave school and raise our child,
or let him go without hearing his voice.

(Refrain)

We married and had more children,
but there was always that regret.
It led to our marriage dissolving,
a time I will never, ever, forget.

Through the years there were other loves,
some memorable and some not.
But I always thought of you, my dear,
through all that time, I never forgot.

(Refrain)

Rwh 4/28/22

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Poem of the Week: 4/21/22

American Freedom

When Europeans first crossed the mighty, dangerous seas,
exploring the Americas seeking wealth and lifestyle ease,
they encountered strange "savages" and were pleased.

With vast lands to conquer with resources galore,
explorers claimed the land for their kingdoms' more,
in a competition for new discoveries with greed at the core.

Settlements were necessary to manage resource harvest,
needing people to do the hard work of civilizing the rest.
Needing to make the land and its people become their best.

So many in Europe suffered from religious driven pain,
they saw the New World, as a way to escape and gain,
a way to worship and to live as they wanted without blame.

But these people did not come without arrogance of their own,
seeking out a place of comfort far away from eyes of scorn.
The kind of cults from which new religions are often born.

Taking the lands westward and driving savages into flight.
European immigrants drove their lessors into a long night.
Looked down upon and treated like scum with no right.

The declaration of freedom gave the downtrodden no hope.
Taking a great civil war and proclamation to untie that rope.
Around so my necks with false blame and evil trope.

Spreading freedom's idea around the world one way,
while denying freedom to all minorities to this very day.
Means that cowboy freedom comes with continual fray.

Spoiling the wonder of freedom for all to have and hold.
With rich evil men in control and still falsely so bold,
to think that even women are theirs, bought and sold.

False kind of freedom that is not really freedom for all.
Everyone growing up to that thinking and heed the call.
Bearing false freedom, childish thinking brings our fall.

rwh 4/20/22

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Poem of the Week: 4/15/22

Once in a Lifetime

Once in a lifetime, she comes along,
full of energy, life and angelic song.
A delight to be with all day long,
share the night with, right or wrong.

Struck by her beauty, her strength and love,
as strong and regal as a devoted dove.
She's not afraid of intimacy beyond the pale,
but fears time and trial to our love, derail.

Twice in a lifetime, she signals romance,
full of obligation, she releases with dance.
Strong beyond reason facing her regrets,
she lets the music move her in pirouettes.

Thrice in a lifetime, romance is a gift,
she comes with great loss, but is not bereft.
She comes with understanding, a tight match,
but she is homesick, a divorce to hatch.

Fourth in a lifetime, devoted and sharp,
she fears intimacy coming in the dark.
Only to discover it's just a masquerade,
for another lover waiting in the shade.

Fifth in a lifetime, experienced and free,
from a pious and dutiful lifetime to ecstasy,
reveals her secret side with willing intimacy,
opening her fondest moments bare to see.

If once in a lifetime is all that one learns,
then you are missing out on your yearns.
to let rigid rules define your ultimate fate,
time to get free from that before it's too late.

rwh 4/14/22

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Poem of the Week: 4//8/22

Bird on a Wire

Refrain

Blackbird clings to a near vertical wire,
too close to the sun' s pyre,
cries out mournfully, " pants on fire!"
"Liar, liar, pants on fire!"

Have you ever played the lyre?
Flew like a very high flyer?
Balanced on a high wire?
Tried over again like a trier?

Played to the very edge?
Saving grace with a hedge?
Inserting just the right wedge?
To reach just a little bit higher?

(Refrain)

Get what you want regardless of cost?
Manipulate to gain more than lost?
Leave life to the dice when tossed?
Continue through life being a liar?

Count the Angels on the tip of a pin?
Move mood to mood whatever you're in?
Swim underwater like a fish without a fin?
Willy-nilly your way like an Internet crier?

(Refrain)

rwh 4/7/22 print this poem here.

Poem of the Week: 4/1/22

What Love Is

Refrain

Do we really know what love is?
Or do we really want to know?
Love is what we make of it,
as our life and times come and go.

At seven love is a warm, full belly,
with a mummy and daddy close by.
As they teach us right from wrong,
shelter us from all harm we try.

At seventeen love is in the beholder,
looking for a face and body dream.
Someone to have a baby with,
as acquaintances by us stream.

(Refrain)

At twenty-seven struggling to be happy,
fulfilling spouse and children's need.
Getting through the tough times together,
foregoing dreams of individual greed.

At thirty-seven the wanderlust arrives,
with unfulfilled dreams on the mind.
Wanting to get out of all obligations,
breaking ties for new love to find.

(Refrain)

At forty-seven, almost heaven,
wanderlust becomes one's prime.
Bucket list of love once missed,
is attempted one more time.

At fifty-seven retirement haven,
is taken seriously for the first time.
True love wants to nestle there,
while there still is reason to rhyme.

(Refrain)

At sixty-seven with health waning,
love becomes one of patience.
Nurturing the grandchildren all,
viewing transgression with penance.

At eighty-seven love no longer heaven,
but a search for the ultimate ideal.
Retracing old loves lost in time,
for the lessons that they reveal.

(Refrain)

rwh 3/31/22

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Poem of the Week: 3/25/22

Sky Falling

I looked up at the sky,
saw that it was not falling.
Was blue with patches of white,
I could hear the birds calling.

Somewhere in the world,
death and destruction yawn.
Although I see it in the news,
life around me picks up at dawn.

People rush off to school or work,
birds and bees busily eating, mating.
Life is not harsh or deadly,
only people online are hating.

I can become addicted to vices like,
opioids, food, gambling, cults or sex.
But I am my own worst enemy,
if I blame others for my own hex.

If I get out in the morning and walk every day,
I will find my neighborhood friendly and nice.
As I wave at my neighbors or chat a while,
finding that they are full of advice.

Some of it good,
and some of it bad.
But I am my own person,
and don't like to be had.

The sky may be falling,
for some on this earth.
It does not matter,
your origin of birth.

If you are a good person,
you can escape it all.
By just enjoying what's around you,
rather than believing the fall.

rwh 3/24/22

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Poem of the Week: 3/18/22

Far Away (No Longer Out of Mind)

There was a place far away,
out of sight and out of mind.
Where crops grew, cattle grazed.
People were hard-working and kind.

A place to be ignored, even bored,
when pounced upon by the unkind.
A tyrant so brash and blind, he,
expected the world not to mind.

Expected this place of tranquility,
to be an easy target of his might.
Enhancing his sociopathic ability,
expecting other countries not to fight.

But the global village was awakened,
to the horror of an insane bully acting up.
Still action against him must take caution,
before we all drink from the nuclear cup.

But a sleeping country has come alive,
the world knows of its plight to survive.
The tyrant has nailed his coffin shut,
as long as world resistance thrives.

Long before he sees his own demise,
narcissistic bully will feel increasing pain.
Forcing him to leave his grand mission,
with nothing but loss and no gain.

rwh 3/10/22

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Poem of the Week: 3/11/22

Stand Firm

Refrain

Alex, oh Alex, come my son!
Grab your rifle, your gear, we must run.
Over yon hill and dale,
before the tanks come.

Tell Olena to take your son and flee.
For the West border and wait beyond for thee.
That you will join her when this is over.
Don't promise her too much.
By cell phone keep in touch.

Our crops may go unattended,
our cattle may die,
when summer comes upon us,
with blood in our eye.

But we must persevere,
no matter the pain.
We must hold them back,
not one inch to gain.

(Refrain)

Always remember what we have here,
what we have built together,
and hold so dear.

We cannot let tyranny,
take that from us anymore.

This land has been bloodied,
time and again--no more!

When in due time, they grow tired and leave.
We can return to our land and breathe.
The fresh air of freedom once again.

(Refrain)

Olena will return with your son so grown.
Sunshine and happiness will reign over morn,
once again on our happy, happy home.

rwh 3/10/22

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Poem of the Week: 3/4/22

Fighting Pronouns

I am not me, never would be,
my ego never matched my id.
His was never hers or theirs,
neither was worth a quid.

They are not us,
so what is all the fuss
Don't they know that them,
with us, is a plus.

She is not he, never will be,
except in the case of a trans.
Both may reside, deep inside,
confusing family, friends and fans.

We are not you, except from the view,
from far-off exo-it looking down.
Discovering who we are from afar,
finding us fighting with a frown

Yours is not mine, so do not whine,
when you find out it's theirs instead.
Looked high and low for ours,
found only an ache in the head

rwh 3/3/22

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Poem of the Week: 2/25/22

Time Burglar

The time burglar comes when nobody knows,
wears not a mask, nor nondescript clothes.

Comes any time of the day or into the night,
moves so discreetly there isn't any sight.

Not even seen on surveillance cams,
steps captured with the silence of lambs.

It could be that argument with your spouse,
or that chasing of an errant little mouse.

A perplexing problem swirling in your head,
threatening to bring you much closer to dead.

A habit you have that you hide unseen,
that can jump out and bite you unclean.

A tragedy that befell you, you know not why,
while you struggle to recover, praying to the sky.

A nasty disease that has you down and out,
hoping for relief that would remove that pout.

Wherever the time burglar gets under the skin,
you can fight all you want, but will never win.

rwh 2/22/22

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Poem of the Week: 2/19/22

Taxing Behind

My behind became quite taxing,
even impressions were faxing.
Got a surgeon to fix it, he licked it,
no longer waning and waxing.

Trump gave away the treasury,
so taxes were only mercenary.
Measures big bouncing back,
with roaring attack like a hack.

Anything getting done is taxing,
not that anyone's leisurely relaxing.
Safety and security,
rule the day,
telephone tag becomes vexing.

No representation without taxing,
but paying the piper not relaxing,
behind on the Fed return again,
finding that it may require vaxing.

rwh 2/18/22

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Poem of the Week: 2/10/22

Angry Cardinal

There is an angry bird,
at my window,
tap, tapping away.

He doesn't appear,
to be wanting to get in,
but attacking in the light,
of midday.

I can tell he is a male,
by his bright red plume.
He is a cardinal,
and seems to be angry,
at something in my room.

Gradually, it dawned on me,
what was going on.
He was fighting his reflection,
on the glass and beyond.

He and his mate,
have a nest nearby.
He's just protecting his territory,
and that is why.

So, if you hear a loud bump,
on your windows someday,
birds of a feather flock together,
or even think their reflection is prey.

You builders of high-rises,
with lots of reflective glass.
Are not doing birds any favor,
when their brains meet their ass.

rwh 2/9/22

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Poem of the Week: 2/5/22

Sides

It makes no difference,
whether heads or tails.
It's legal tender, that prevails.

When choosing sides,
to play a game.
Who chooses the old,
and the lame?

When I order,
a side of beef,
to be drawn and quartered,
might bring relief.

No matter which side,
you choose to join.
You'll be blamed for joining,
kicked in the groin.

For football is,
another name for life.
The Super Bowl isn't reached,
without sacrifice and strife.

So whatever side you are on,
I don't care at all,
I'm on your side,
Until the fall.

And then, I'm betting on,
the other side to win.

rwh 2/3/22

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Poem of the Week: 1/28/22

Opposites

When it rains, it snows,
when the wind blows, it's calm.
When the skin burns,
it's softened by word balm.

Earth's air is clear, but it's blue.
Clear sea reflects, blue sky too.
When it is gray, clouds have their way,
and block out bright colors, true.

Black is actually shades of brown/pink.
White is actually shades of pink/brown.
Why would anyone see these shades,
and view the other with a frown?

Women are like roses, soft and sweet.
Men are like steel, tough clad.
Why is anything in between,
considered by anyone, bad?

Up is down and down is up.
Conflicting information in a rut.
Until suspicion of others retreats,
odds will be against heart's beats

Human creates cultural precision,
nature creates amazing clutter.
Human cannot recycle its waste,
nature does with wings aflutter.

Progressive seeks a future never to be,
recessive harkens back to what never was.
For now, I'll retreat, pardon the pun.
Hopefully, to something sweet and fun.

rwh 1/27/22

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Poem of the Week: 1/21/22

Coronal Confusion

A pandemic is alien our lifestyles,
standing in line, spaced in the aisles.
Impinging on our, God-given freedom,
to go when and where we please.

Haven't experienced anything,
like this in over 103 years.
So, why all the concern,
isolating and social fears?

And the death rate is so low,
when we get it, you know,
we get over it so easily, quick,
we'll be immune then in a nick.

First, "don't wear masks,"
and then, "mandatory masks."
Vaccines that magically appear,
"too soon to be tested?" We ask.

Rumors and denials abound fired by,
side effect anecdotal accounts,
that defy all scientific reason,
usually determining what counts.

With new variants emerging,
and constantly changing rules,
it's easy for blaming to start,
from simple minded fools.

It's time to stop avoiding,
and it's time to stop blaming.
It's time to do your very best,
protect yourself, family, the rest.

When we stop spreading the virus,
by not following simple rules,
it will be over very quickly,
not suffer any more dead fools.

rwh 1/19/22

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Poem of the Week: select 1/14/22

Trash.

Not to be rash,
but throw out the trash.
Clean up for the new year,
especially, what you fear.

Clutter we accumulate,
mostly really second rate,
don't need most of it at all,
may be Earth's downfall.

We all want to update,
upscale and so on.
But do we really need,
a chemically perfect lawn?

For some things,
we view as beautiful,
to show off to others,
are not Earth's druthers.

Our minds are a clutter,
with fears that are not real.
It's time that we cleaned house,
throw out the bad spiel.

Downsize in everything,
and you will save the world.
Tomorrow will look much better,
with natural splendor unfurled.

rwh 1/13/22

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Poem of the Week: 1/9/22

Time Trap

Retirement gives us time to relax.
Or at least it's supposed to.
But change is relentlessly upon us.
We must keep up to continue.

New timesavers appear every day.
We ignore most, but some require play.
We jump in and use them anyway.
Only to find out they take our time away.

Telephone AI answerers are the worst.
They misunderstand a simple request.
They waste our time with trivial info.
Their menus run us around without rest.

When we finally get a real person on line,
we find that they politely cannot find,
any answer to our simple request,
forward our request to their very best.

Unfortunately, sent to the wrong pew,
waiting on line might take a day or two.
You wait and wait and wait some more,
listening to muzak without keeping score.

But the expert hired last week doesn't know,
so, they refer your question up the line,
which basically means waiting more.
you're lucky if solved in due time.

You look up from the phone, you missed,
what you planned to do that day.
So, retirement is not a place to relax,
unless you refuse technology to play.

rwh 1/8/22

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Poem of the Week: 12/31/21

Astronomer

He greeted the new sun every day,
for he was getting old and gray.
And it was the morning sun warm,
vanquished bare skin cold's harm.

You might say he worshiped it,
like fire warmed him at night.
But this time of year when it was cold,
he relished when sun's rays took hold.

He began to mark each spot,
where the sun shown or not.
With a stick driven in the ground,
until there were 365 and he found.

The sun returned to that first stick,
and in another year it was no trick.
He could predict the time of year,
also when the moon phases appear.

He replaced the sticks with stone,
from it a temple to the sun grown.
More elaborate with each year,
as if to honor sun's warm cheer.

Others in the clan relied on him,
to tell them when it was time to hunt.
Time to harvest wild fruit ripe,
time to prepare for winter's bite.

The sun became so important,
to his daily life and time.
It became his God of gods,
to interpret this all the odds.

To say that he worshiped the sun,
would be right, in its yearly run.
Clan looked up to his advice,
his word became God's vice.

He conjured up all points of view,
garnered visions for the few.
His word would always come true,
astrology's pictures he drew.

But the underlying science,
was brand-new, and hence,
religion and astrology's fortune,
became a regular occupation, too.

rwh 12/30/21

print this poem here.