The New Year

Who knows what the new year brings?
The life of man is held by strings.
That connect him to his universe,
his purse, his nurse, his verse.

Will the robin sing in the spring?
The life of man is by his things.
That connect him to his worth,
his earth, his girth, his mirth.

Will the corn grow high or die?
The life of man is by his wings.
That connect him to his flight,
his fight, his right, his light.

Will the autumn sky turn gray?
The life of man sees its day.
That connects into his spirit,
his love, his hate, his fear it.

Will the snow topped trees sing?
The life of man is still king.
That connects sunshine,
his white wine, his woman fine.

As they sit down to dine,
will it be the last time?

RWH: 12/29/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/23/07

The Turn of the Shrew

With the turn of the shrew,
old becomes new,
and the world sees a better time

So get your shrew driver,
your just-in-time arriver,
and start righting some rhyme

When dinosaurs came due,
it was the lowly shrew,
that lived for years underground

Jump started the pace,
of the mammalian race,
and our time to come around

But time has its sway,
and there comes a day,
when the world turns on its axis

Events come into play,
when the old has seen its day,
that were meant to tax us

But rhyme is not enough,
when times get tough,
and the shrew warns of our fate

Are we the right stuff,
do we have enough,
to put aside our hate?

Before it is too late,
and the turn of the shrew,
comes around again

RWH: 12/22/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/16/07

She Comes Around

She comes around,
and my heart starts to pound,
with a heat of the sun in the morning.

She comes around,
and we soar to the sound,
of the early bird's call of warning.

We soar through the day,
like children at play,
never heeding our inner yearning.

We fly through the fray,
our dragons to slay,
and the world keeps on turning.

Turning, turning, turning.
Soaring, yearning, burning.
Never heeding the warning,
in the sunlit morning.

For the day burns,
and the world turns,
into the evening,
jaws yawning.

The soar of the day,
turns into fray,
and she suddenly leaves,
without warning.

Never to come around again.
In the morning... Forlorning.

RWH: 12/14/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/9/07

Epitaph

Somewhere in time,
on a distant, desolate planet,
scrawled in a strange hand,
on rock thousands of years old,
an epitaph was found.

"I am the last one left," it said.
"Soon, I too, will be dead.

I come from a noble race,
over 10 billion strong.

The victims of our success,
we couldn't get along.

We called our land, Eden,
for it was a lush and green.

Teaming with beautiful creatures,
bursting at the seam.

Each one surviving,
in its own, unique, way.

A balance we called nature,
held all things in its sway.

Many species died trying,
if their niche had slipped away.

Somehow, we were different,
somehow we were strong.

Not in strength or numbers,
but how we were right in wrong.

We conquered all in our path,
destruction was our song.

Relying on our leaders,
an idiotic throng.

Our science was superior,
and pointed the right way.

But fear and superstition ruled us,
to our eventual dismay.

We said we believed in 'Life,'
to save our own kind.

We let all the others die,
putting us in a terrible bind.

For nature had tricked us,
and we could not see.

That the gene for our survival,
our biggest threat would be.

Since we could sense the future,
we gathered for the storm.

Some gathered more than others,
and our thirst for greed was born.

When something got to be rare,
we drove up its price.

Our moral compass wavered,
and we wound up like the mice.

Scavenging the planet,
for the last grain of rice.

I was the strongest of them all,
the smartest they are dead.

So I am scratching on this rock,
these words run through my head.

The last rain was a week ago,
when I last quenched my thirst.

The hunger gnaws inside of me,
deep within my girth.

For I know that I will die today,
the last man on the planet Ear..."

RWH: 12/8/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/2/07

Viva La Difference

By chance of fate, he came late,
traveling light, and spread upon,
the glowing land.

But a great drought, forced her out,
of Eden's wondrous glow.

His thought was bright, he saw the light,
and knew that he must go.

To hunt and gather what she could,
so her family would thrive and grow.

His trials, they were many,
His losses, they were great.

But she learned how to survive,
she learned how to relate.

For nature changed where ere he went,
and he must have learned or die.

As her tribe grew, many split to few,
and went their separate ways.

There were those who doubted or grew old,
and decided not to follow.

There were those who sought new fortune,
and left on their own.

The constant search for a new horizon,
reached to all the lands.

The arrivals had acquired different traits,
to aid in their survival.

But they were all the same thinking man,
in all his glorious measure.

The world was now her oyster,
and all its things to treasure.

Out of it she carved a life,
to become his culture.

Wandering now led to war,
because all the lands were taken.

Some cultures were strong and fierce,
some were just forsaken.

The conquering culture flourished,
creating the idea of a nation.

Forgetting that in the beginning,
we all held the same station.

Each culture has its gifts,
to cast upon the world.

The beauty of communication,
is to see these gifts unfurled.

See survival in free hopes and wishes,
not in the ideologies propaganda dishes.

For we are all the same,
there is no one to blame,
but ourselves for not seeing it.

RWH: 12/1/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/25/07

Tis the Season

"Tis the season without reason,"
said the leopard to the frog.

"I am lounging in this tree,
and you are sitting on that log."

"Some guy in China wants my penis,
so he can be a man."

"Produce more children in his name,
as part of some personal glorious plan."

"My brotheren they were many,"
quoth the frog from his perch.

"Of glorious spotted hue, fading fast
in the wearied eyes of search.

"Soon, the only leopards will be in cages,
and all of us remaining frogs in the zoo."

And so they waited, nothing they could do.
No need for spots in the monsoon.

Tis the season without reason,
coming to your home soon.

Stay tuned...

RWH: 11/24/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/18/07

The Net

The Net is a web of mythical proportion,
hiding its mythical spider.

The one that that is on the outer edge,
where you went so far to find her.

The one you meet in clandestine rooms,
rather than sit down beside her.

On the front porch swing,
stealing a feel, knowing it's real.

Before that all important kiss,
to seal the deal and steal her heart.

No, this is more like hit and miss,
like sending out an Amber alert.

For she is not what she seems,
pictured beyond your wildest dreams.

She's probably a guy, the FBI,
teasing your heart to the seams.

Or a perv with a lot of nerve,
fishing for a filthy little fly.

Or a fag to make you gag,
when you find out he's a guy.

But she's probably just a floozy,
online whenever she gets boozy.

Trying to impress you with her art.
Trying to give her life a jumpstart.

So never try to meet her, cuz,
she's not interested in an old fart.

RWH: 11/17/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/13/07

Bury Me Not

Bury me not neath fragrant clover.
Not under the old oak tree.

Not down by the Black River,
where all my folks seem to be.

Where sometime in the future,
they will come to resurrect, to dissect,
every little part of me.

Where they will come to bring me back.
To a world I cannot now conceive,
and can't even dream of.

No, let me be as I am.
Cut me open like a clam,
and take my pearls of wisdom.

My heart, my lungs, my kidneys,
my corneas, my liver, my skin,
my very marrow and pass them on.

For they are in good condition,
though used, seen little wear.

They have a fine patina,
from years of gentle care.

The rest please give to science,
for spinal cord research.

A little forensic archaeology,
to find the cause I search.

Finally burn to ashes, dust to dust,
the remains of what I trust.

Cast to the winds as fertile food,
part of the universal must.

Feed more than just daisies,
from my grave site thrust.

RWH: 11/9/07

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Poem of the Week: 11/4/07

12-21-2012

I was born on that cold December day,
long ago and far away.

When all the prophecies came to rest,
and humanity was put to test.

When the Mayan calendar and I Ching,
both predicted the very same thing.

Time would come to an end.

The Bible,
and Nostradamus said,
all our trouble would come to a head.

A time of hunger, pestilence and fear,
when we would lose all held dear.

When Edgar Casey predicted the end,
and we wouldn't know foe from friend.

It is quite clear that it will be by fire,
the Sun's last rant, its funeral pyre?

Whatever it is, the time is near.
Scholars and media spread the fear.

I plan to celebrate my birthday that fateful night,
have a drink, go to bed, and turn out the light.

To wake to a crystal-clear morn.

RWH: 11/4/07

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Poem of the Week: 10/28/07

Candy Is Dandy

Maybe it was the pumpkin pie,
or the full moon that caught my eye.

Whatever it was, it led to my demise.
At least in the church's eyes.

For I have sinned. Gave inned,
to my inner mission.

I was not a pedophile, no,
passing candy single file.

Touch and go, no no,
it was much worse than that.

I ate it all in one sitting.
For me it was so fitting.

Leaving nothing for the poor,
little waifs come to my door.

I shouldn't have bent over,
but it was too late.

A Santa Anna wind came up,
and the rest was fate.

RWH: 10/27/07

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Poem of the Week: 10/21/07

Blank Page

The blank page presents an opportunity.
A place for words from here to eternity.

A love sonnet with creamy words on it.
A rant of maniacal hate and fear.

The Constitution of a nation,
Or its declaration so pure and clear.

The start of a great novel.
A will to ones held dear.

The deed to land held close.
A great theory mathematically pure.

A lesson learned from life.
The lifetime of seer.

A bit of wit and wisdom.
A joke that brings a tear.

A page on which much is written,
that should still be wiped clear.

So with blank mind I ponder,
this page I hold so near.

Should I write blank nonsense?
Or leave the page still pure?

RWH: 10/20/07

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Poem of the Week: 10/14/07

Road Wish

Going eighty on I-80,
Eighteen-wheeler on my rear.

Ending up as road kill,
Is my nascent fear.

Seven days of pounding,
Concrete ridges bore.

Counting miles and time,
Like someone's keeping score.

Or smoothly tires screaming,
Siren above the roar.

Safety grooves a singing,
An ear-piercing soar.

Music pulsing to the beat,
Cruising down main street.

Looking for America,
And finding only traffic.

So put some magic,
In these controls.

Make them fly,
Like pilot's souls.

Above these asphalt,
And concrete trails.

Where the sun sets,
On cloud's wispy tails.

And every trip,
Has a silver lining.

RWH: 10/14/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/23/07

Mind Control

Shopping till I'm dropping--exhausted.
Switching to free lanes on a freeway.
Intercepting calls on a play-by-play.
Balancing bills on payday.

Mind racing a mile a minute.

Munching takeout from a greasy spoon.
Meeting deadlines way too soon.
Head filled with that crazy tune.
Scanning e-mails way past noon.

Scrambling to stay in it.

Juggling remotes with buttons ablaze.
Text messaging sonnets with eyes aglaze.
GPSing the way through the maze.
Popping pills to cut through the haze.

Trying to manage all of the shit.

Hearing lost in all the noise.
Eyesight dims in the spotlight.
Feelings become out of touch.
Mind loses control,

... and more rushes in.

RWH: 9/21/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/15/07

Letting Go

Sometimes the best laid plans,
take us to and fro.

No matter how we work it out,
we just have to let it go.

The world is full of choices.
We make them while we can.

But choices don't make us wise,
the fallibility of man.

We all want to hold on to love,
at least that's what we know.

But love is a fickle thing,
and we must let it go.

Life is what we make of it,
we choose our path so well.

But life does not go our way,
like the ocean swell.

Sometimes up, sometimes down,
sometimes heaven, sometimes hell.

The only real certainty in life,
is that we must let go.

RWH: 9/15/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/9/07

Fever

Where have you gone, Patti Page?

Heat from within,
mortal sin,
wavering in the distance.

Heat from without,
with a doubt,
shimmering in resistance.

Mind grows dim,
thoughts are grim,
vaguely in persistence.

Chances are slim,
on the rim,
all life's existence.

Delirium comes,
night sweat sums,
to pool that persistence.

Until it breaks,
or life it takes,
on the other side of existence.

See it coming in the distance?

RWH: 9/7/07

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Poem of the Week: 9/2/07

Titillating

Your tender tips,
your swaying hips,
your ruby lips,
undulating.

Deep in the night,
with unseen sight,
your magic fingers,
flying.

Legs spread wide,
cover to the side,
cross panties slide,
defying.

A taboo thing,
your earlobes ring,
insides sing,
dying.

A lovely pain,
penetrating rain,
gently slain,
sighing.

Watching in lust,
with your trust,
hardness thrust,
trying.

To get some sleep,
in the heat,
of the titillating night.

RWH: 8/23/07

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Poem of the Week: 8/26/07

Penny Wise and Pound Foolish

-- the word pound refers to the British Pound Sterling

Who hasn't tried to pinch pennies and save?
There are savings schemes galore,
in fact, they're all the rave.

It's funny that most require a small expenditure,
A pittance, in order to catch the wave:
Buy now and save!

But we are conditioned to consume,
like lemmings to their grave.
Always buying over our heads,
on those magic words, "You'll Save!"

We put a pittance in a jar,
and think that it will go afar.
It is but a drop in our debt,
we have not figured out yet.

For credit so easily given,
by the stockholders' profit driven.
And debt becomes a slippery slope,
from which there is no realistic hope.

We are colored by our fears,
keep up with the Joneses all our years.
A dream house is easily foreclosed.
Bankruptcy snaps at our toes.

The answer is quite simple my dear,
live simpler and hold your money near.
Saving what you do not need,
give to others instead of your greed.

Nothing will bring our economy down,
quicker than a bunch of spending fools.
Who never learned the basic tools,
of living the frugal life.

RWH: 8/23/07

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Poem of the Week: 8/19/07

Fickle Muse

Through all the years and all the tears,
the crying's almost done.
The rain has passed, the Sun's come out,
and the blues are on the run.

Each tear stained note, put to rote,
is fading from the page.
A Renaissance of write, saw the light,
and ushered in a new age.

Words that rhyme, so sublime,
poetically form a song.
Tunes in the head, with words unsaid,
run through the mind all night long.

At morning light, tunes fade from sight,
must get them on the page.
The wisdom of the dream, in daylight seen,
is no longer sage.

The muse is fickle; it comes and goes,
must capture its delight.
Grab the words and lay them out,
naked in plain sight.

To form an epic so obtuse,
throw up hands, for what's the use.
The muse may come, and it may stay,
but tarnished words won't go away.

RWH: 8/17/07

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Song of the Week: 8/12/07

Johnny's Gotta Gun

by Ronald W. Hull

To all the blues artists gone before...

Hummm, Hummm, Hummm,
Johnny's gotta gun.
Hummm, Hummm, Hummm,
Girl, ya better run, better run.
Cuz Johnny's gotta gun.

Hummm, Hummm, Hummm,
Hon, ya better git, ya better run.
Hummm, Hummm, Hummm,
cuz Johnny's got, you know he's got,
that great big gun.

Hummm, Hummm, Hummm,
Hon, ya better git, head for the trees,
Hummm, Hummm, Hummm,
cuz Johnny's gun's gonna catch ya,
and do what he please.

Boom, Boom, Boom!
Johnny shot ya with his gun.
Boom, Boom, Boom!
Girl, your lovely on the run,
so Johnny shot you with his gun.

Boom, Boom, Boom!
Fiery bullet through the heart,
Boom, Boom, Boom!
Burns with love from the start.
Johnny's got your cherry tart.

Soon, Soon, Soon.
Johnny, put that gun away,
Soon, Soon, Soon.
Gonna marry and take you away,
marry and put that gun up today.

Soon, Soon, Soon.
Johnny'll find a little place to stay,
Soon, Soon, Soon.
There'll be family with kids at play,
so Johnny can put that gun away -- forever.

Hummm, Hummm, Hummm,
Hummm, Hummm, Hummmmmm.

RWH: 8/10/07

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Poem of the Week: 7/29/07

A Country Song

(Dedicated to John Denver)

My life's just a country song,
hop on and ride along.
Ride the rails from dusk till dawn.
Life's just a country song.

Smell the morning new mown hay,
nothing sweeter to greet the day.
Out in the pasture the colt's at play,
chasing those filly blues away.

Hitching a ride by the thumb,
spanning the states with ease.
counting the clouds passing by,
imagining kingdoms in the breeze.

(Chorus)

Guitar in hand the vagabond,
weaves his magic with a song.
Sings for his supper all night long,
good friends and a country song.

Mighty rivers flow to the sea,
upstream is where you'll find me.
Seeking to find the river's source,
singing its praises in my verse.

Mighty mountains touch the sky,
I'll be out where eagles fly.
Singing songs of long gone by.
Can you take me home?

(Chorus)

In the moonlight she will be,
the only fire light that I see.
Singing songs to keep me home,
so no more will I roam.

We'll marry in the forest glen,
with all our friends gathered in.
I'll sing us songs of our story,
and the good life that has been.

We'll raise the kids to live free,
not much of them will we ask.
Except that they will still love us,
when our time has come to task.

(Chorus)

RWH: 7/28/07

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Poem of the Week: 7/22/07

This Life

You can't take it with you,
so spend it while you can.
Sunrise from the mountaintop,
bare feet on seashore sand.

Learn all you can from masters,
who wrote it down before.
There's no use in reinventing,
no one's keeping score.

Take time for your elders,
for they have gone afar.
Their lives so rich with history,
in them you can explore.

Let not others rule your life,
for you must go alone.
The companionship you truly need,
is when you're on your own.

Take with you only what you need,
the rest will drag you down.
Nothing more worthless in this life,
than a materialistic clown.

Save a third of all you make,
live only on the rest.
Live out your golden years,
free from life's great test.

Leave not your footprint on the land,
give back more than you take.
This Earth is not for you to plunder,
but for your children's children's sake.

Luck is what you make of it,
and not a roll of dice.
For if your faith is only in fate,
then you will pay the price.

Life is for the living,
and you must live it well.
With only one life to live,
make it heaven, not your hell.

RWH: 7/21/07

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Poem of the Week: 7/15/07

Magic

It must've been magic,
it couldn't have been a dream.
I saw her on a crowded street,
or maybe, a village green.

What struck me was her beauty,
to others, still unseen.
When her eye turned my way,
I melted like the scene.

I dreamed of her forever,
or at least a life or two.
Her magic deep inside of me,
an illness with no cure.

For she was not my station,
beyond my reach or touch,
and though I ruled the nation,
I could not ask that much.

It may have been her boyfriend,
or her husband close at hand.
She may have cast me with disdain,
Magic melting into sand.

Whatever my choices,
I couldn't find a cure.
For magic lives forever,
in a place that never were.

When I get down and lonely,
filled with fear and doubt.
I remember her filled with beauty,
and want to scream and shout.

But a whimper, is all,
that comes out.

RWH: 7/14/07

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Poem of the Week: 7/8/07

Wasting Time

Slipped on a dime, wasting time,
thought I would never get bread.

Time waster's holiday in the whine,
thoughts spinning wildly in my head.

Pre-waking hours, wet dream showers,
racing through a life before dead.

Mindless flowers, birds in their bowers,
colorful words waiting to be read.

Essence of nonsense, distilled,
works through the mind for hours.

When all that is said, is done.
When all wars wed have been won.

When the deed that is sewed is sung.
Minutes yanked from the wrung,

of time immemorial...

RWH: 7/7/07

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Poem of the Week: 7/1/07

Love Lost

There is no love lost for words,
from mouth and pen, they fly like birds,
as if forgotten, repeated, again and again.
For If they do not, depression sets in.

At least that's the way it's always been.
When we let our ego be our guide.
Better to hide our lost pride, than
proclaim our great lost love, forever.

Tattoo it on your arm,
cause great harm,
to yourself and those around you.

After all you are the center of the universe.
A sort of perverse curse that you nurse,
decrying your broken spirit forever.

Time to crawl out of that hole you're in,
get a new life and seek some sin.
Forget that you're ugly to the core,
accept your faults and you will score.

No use living your life in tears,
falling down drunk from too many beers.
Pull yourself up and get yourself out,
time to scream, time to shout.

No time left for lost love's pain.
Only the time that you have left in vain.
So get out and splurge and spend your worth.
But save your money for your time on Earth.

RWH: 6/30/07

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Poem of the Week: 6/24/07

Quarry

Deep in the woods lies a snare,
where the edge of life abruptly.

Carved rock a deep scar mark,
cunningly cuts the course bluntly.

A vertical leap, a droppings heap,
silently signals foreboding danger.

The tracking hound never found,
a mystery that was stranger.

Deep below in crystal-clear flow,
the rotting wreckage of a life.

No sound heard, nothing disturbed,
a stillness as sharp as the knife.

While time passes, memory lapses,
and calmness replaces strife.

But deep below, beneath life's flow,
the dread of death still arises.

A myth in the night, terrible fright,
the reality of the dream surprises.

RWH: 6/22/07

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Poem of the Week: 6/17/07

Inspired by Richard L. Cedarburg's poem, "Juggernaut"

A behemoth, from the Bible, is generally considered to be a hippopotamus.

Behemoth

Deep down in the soul of every man,
there lies an allegiance to the clan.

For no man stands alone.

A great cave beast in the East,
lies plotting like a plan.

For on cave walls dim lit scrawls,
outlined from whence it came.

With ochre red and barely fed,
they carved the bloody beast.

With signs laid raw they did claw,
to prepare it for the feast.

With this wheat, bittersweet,
did this mammon fall from heaven?

On monastery walls, museum halls,
they spread this bread like yeast.

Deadly cereal commercials and,
fast food morsels choked with grease.

Candied yams and cholesterol hams,
fill its gargantuan gorging urge.

Bulimia bound, the stapled gut hound,
howls with a ravenous glee.

Weighed down, behemoth bound,
a medicine chest waiting to die.

Bye-bye.

RWH: 6/16/07

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Poem of the Week: 6/10/07

Fantasy

In a land so far away that never was,
I wrote a drama with a musical score.

There were creatures wild and free,
with human features who could talk to me.

There were treasures beyond compare,
many adventures that brought a scare.

No matter the trauma I always won,
good over evil was how it was spun.

Makes me long for tragedy and its despair,
the human condition drawn and laid bare.

For aren't poets the light of the world?
Bearing the blood of the saber unfurled?

If all is just the thrill to the nth degree,
and we come away scared, thrilled to the t.

But unscathed, unhurt, unsoiled, unsore,
if life is a fantasy, what is real life for?

RWH: 6/9/07

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Poem of the Week: 6/3/07

Rendezvous (Erotic)

I'll meet you down by the bridge.
Bring some cold ones from the fridge.
We'll climb to the ridge, and
taste a smidge, of forbidden fruit.

I'll smooth my blanket out.
Know what I'm talking about?
Even if we scream or shout,
they won't hear us far below.

We can see for miles and miles.
All I can think of is your smiles,
when we throw our daily toils,
to the summer wind.

Bring your bikini or bring it not.
The sun will be warm; it won't be a hot.
Let the breeze caress your bare skin,
let it massage the mood you're in.

Wild flowers will be flirting with fragrant perfume.
The bees will be buzzing just about noon.
We'll share our food with a lustful eye,
as the clouds drift gently across the sky.

Sated with food and a little bit tipsy,
my hands search your body like an errant gypsy.
Drops of salty perspiration run down your skin,
fueling the fire burning within.

My lips taste yours with salty perception.
Electric encounter with soulful intention.
You come to my senses like air to a fire.
We rock to the roll of the song called desire.

When we lie back, we can feel the full breeze.
Our senses flush alive, our minds at ease.
Picturing the clouds as they drift by,
dreams in their shadows to our minds eye.

Suddenly, awake, from a deep, deep sleep,
the sun is waning, but it's burned so deep.
I play with your whimsy covering pink skin.
Rekindling the fire your mood is in.

Sunburn be damned, we don't care.
The fire within us burns brighter by far.
And so when the sun sets safely to rest,
we steal off to home to the expected test.

RWH: 6/2/07

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Poem of the Week: 5/27/07

Warrior

He thought that his service,
would make him a man.
Before he got there,
he didn't have a plan.

Full of testosterone,
he stayed on the lamb.
His grades were deplorable,
his life was a sham.

With no prospects for college,
and job opportunity dim.
His girlfriend knocked up,
and creditors after him.

A beautiful picture,
of order and style.
How, as a soldier,
he'd go the extra mile.

He'd gain strength and discipline,
and learn how to fly.
The adventure of a lifetime,
all he had to do was try.

He signed in a minute,
and his buddies joined in.
What greater escape,
from the fix he was in?

Basic was tough and,
he almost washed out.
He learned how to follow,
and not think or doubt.

Before he was ready,
they shipped him out,
to a place so foreign,
he never figured it out.

His girlfriend and baby,
on food stamps to get by.
Stayed with her mom,
and learned how to cry.

Firefights were few,
but when they came.
His firepower was immense,
and who was to blame?

If women and children,
got in the way?
No time to think,
or you're blown away.

Just collateral damage,
is what they'd say,
but the damage was real,
and it worked its way.

Inside his head,
where he unraveled,
in dreams of dread,
and hopes trampled.

He began to live,
for the adrenaline high.
The rest just boredom,
and waiting to die.

For death would come swiftly,
from the corner of his eye.
With no rhyme or reason,
and without saying goodbye.

He returned home a hero,
with the look of a star.
But inside he was broken,
and didn't have to look far.

Before he knew,
that his life was in vain.
He had killed so many,
that they still came.

In his dreams so violent,
wife and baby ran away.
Moved in with his mom,
and wasted away.

Until he put his 45,
to his head, and,
with one trigger squeeze ,
he was dead.

His family still comes,
each Memorial Day.
To pray at his grave,
and send honor his way.

For peace, hope and valor,
are what we all seek.
Unfortunately, the warrior,
is often not strong, but weak.

RWH: 5/26/07

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Poem of the Week: 5/20/07

Prancers in the Park

We are but prancers in the park,
dancers in the dark, moonlight romancers,
riding on the ark.

Mood enhancers, private dancers,
freedom lancers on a lark.

Tone trancers, fine art fanciers,
looking for a place to park.

French kiss kissers, lost in blissers,
groping for the spark.

Titillating the times, miming the mimes,
mining for diamonds in the rough.

Starstruck gazers, eyes like lasers,
hopeful when the times get tough.

Tear jerk losers, lost in sorrow boozers,
poets without a clue.

Writing our hearts out, trying to shout,
hoping against hope we'll get through.

But in the end, only one thing my friend... is true.

We are but prancers in the park.

RWH: 5/19/07

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Poem of the Week: 5/13/07

Down on the Farm

Spring is sprung and the grass is riz.
Down by the creek I take a whiz.
Frogs are croakin' and I don't know why?
Too many of them legs I used to fry?

Old Paint's got a hard on for Lazy May,
his thing is a draggin' for all to see.
Got me to thinkin' as I watched him play.
Of all those kids and me... What?

That's right, it warn't goats, but sheep.
Lambs that was goin' to market to sleep.
You could call it spring fever or fervor,
whatever you like... like, Whatever?

Bees is a buzzin' around the honeypot,
the flowers is a blushin', I kid you not.
So full of pollen they's 'bout to burst.
Drink from the creek to quench my thirst.

Got me to thinkin' of ole Daizy Maye,
Anytime was a good time to roll in the hay.
Sure do miss that ole girl that way,
crossed eyes, missing teeth to this very day.

When the corn got high we'd play hide and seek.
She'd drop her top and give me a peek.
twarn't nothin' to see but I got to... hee hee,
she was a durn sight better than sheep!

Wonder whatever happened to that ole girl?

RWH: 5/12/07

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Poem of the Week: 5/6/07

Beauty

The quality of beauty is not strange.
Tugged by the gentle reins from heaven.

It comes upon the landscape unarranged,
as though every part seeks safe haven.

It catches the senses unaware,
with a sight, a sound, a smell... a dare.

It comes upon the soul softly,
and not in the headlights' glare.

Its essence is its harmony,
with all that's gone before.

It is couched in the beholder,
to make mere pleasure more.

To make young again the older,
like memories on the shoulder,

Of a life well lived.

RWH: 5/5/07

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Poem of the Week: 4/29/07

Ancient Rhyme

Ancient rhyme comes down through time.
in a voice that's still sharp and clear.

A story told of events so bold.,
repeated year to year .

Of gods so mighty and people so weak,
that they know not of what they speak.

And tales of yarns so legend,
With songs so silk of sage.

Proclaiming the prophecy of a right,
brought on by the prospect of rage.

For gods are always vengeful and wrath,
trying to keep their lambs on path.

As if the course of their construction,
is leading to some sure destruction.

Of all that is beauty and truth,
breathed from song sayers of sooth.

It's time to relax and face the facts,
that ancient rhyme is of another time.

Enjoy it for its beauty and worth,
rivers of thought so sweet and sublime.

And though I walk through that valley,
I will be fine.

RWH: 4/28/07

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Poem of the Week: 4/22/07

Exaggerated

A review of his new book was slightly overrated,
the report of his demise was a bit too premature.

His life of exploits will be likewise exaggerated,
of that we can be sure.

Always on the right side,
to cast off any doubt.

The expletives will be deleted,
and the hyperbole will be fleshed out.

Ladder climbers all in the perfect fight,
carefully building rungs of bogus right.

To complement their fear of light,
upon their feats so shameless.

A personality cult of bloated proportion,
filled with jackass and elephantile doubt.

Enough hot air for global warming,
that one pinprick would let out.

So if you float a trial balloon,
on the resume of fame.

Hackers will get your goods,
and expose you in the game.

Keep your exaggeration to yourself,
and keep your own good name.

RWH: 4/21/07

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Poem of the Week: 4/15/07

Four Free Ride

In the spring we ride for free,
for that is what was meant to be.

So small and fragile at our birth,
our mother's pouch becomes our earth.

We hid from dinosaurs in the dawn.
Ate their eggs and lived on.

Through the terrible time of their death.
Thrashing wildly their last breath.

Burroughed in through cold, dark night.
Surviving on death until the light.

When the birds sang again,
in the hours before long lost dawn.

Now the monster machines come,
rip up our home and leave us none.

We have to wait for the trees to grow,
but we are patient, we are slow.

We sense the warming, coming soon,
We will survive, for we have room.

We can live where you would die,
A million years mere bat of eye.

For now we wander your backyard,
four free ride, young and proud.

RWH: 4/14/07

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Poem of the Week: 4/8/07

Optimistic

I am optimistic that we will mend our fences,
mind our tenses, and close the golden door.

That we will seize control and let faith no more,
determine if and how we go fore.

Solve big problems with small footprints,
on our mother's home of birth.

Soil not and save a lot the plenty, beauty,
fauna and flora, of our mother Earth.

Cast out, "go forth and multiply," as a lie,
that keeps us from knowing our true worth.

Save the world with uncommon sense,
scientific knowledge of what is really tense.

Not with slogans and gala events,
glorifying the rich with moralistic pretense.

End destructive wars among ourselves,
grow up and leave our childhood behind.

If we come to know each other as people,
no real differences we will find.

We have the power in our grasp,
to end all evil and make it past.

We can stop the bickering and the bombast.
We can heal the Earth and make it last.

We can keep our eyes on the stars,
and if we are willing, leave ours.

And create heaven of our own making.

RWH: 4/6/07

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Poem of the Week: 4/1/07

Survival

We are a social lot,
it's programmed in our genes.

From family, town to country,
we are loyal to extremes.

Throughout the animal kingdom,
the weak do not survive.

Strengthening the gene pool,
so that only the best will thrive.

There are many social animals,
but they all have a golden rule.

The weak and misfits are banished,
in a way humans think is cruel.

Since the dawn of civilization,
we have protected human life.

And routinely save the unsaveable,
in the name of what is right.

But overpopulation on a relentless path,
threatens our station that will to last.

Money cannot save the starving,
the diseased, and the weak of heart.

If we don't start downsizing,
our world will come apart.

And we will taste the flesh of men,
before we taste the end again.

And only the scavengers will be left,
to make a brand new start.

RWH: 3/31/07

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Poem of the Week: 3/25/07

Fakes

It's hard to tell a fake from a phony,
they all spread the same baloney.

There is something in their character ingenuine,
something hiding in them like a gremlin.

That makes them exaggerate a bit,
and lead others into believing their bullshit.

It always starts with a little lie,
that they use to get over or just get by.

A crutch or support if you like,
to cover a flaw, inferiority, or dislike.

Inside, they know it's not true,
so they seek others to verify their view.

The human psyche is easily conned.
To the fake, it becomes a magic wand.

A pseudonym is a good place to start,
create a persona with a big heart.

Schmooze the masses to bring them in,
slay them with kindness and ply them with a grin.

Exaggerate all you want,
they'll never question your file or font.

Some fakes are so good they make lots of money.
An incentive for others to follow the honey.

So if you are a guru, apostle, or poet,
and you are faking it there are some who know it.

Your fame will last as long as your charm shines,
your house of cards will fall as tarnish claims.

The illusion you work so carefully to create,
but bullshit is bullshit and for you it's too late.

RWH: 3/24/07

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Poem of the Week: 3/18/07

Iraq My Brain

Iraq my brain for a solution.
As Iran all the way home.
Support the troops in Afghan stand,
or pray to the Pope for them to Rome?

Shot down every which way but loose.
Seeking the golden egg, I get the goose.
For anarchy on AD, I raise my cup.
So sweet saccharin from which to sup.

Korea, Korea. Why you do me this way?
North of the 38th parallel, I must stay.
Castro oil my bod and Venezuela away.
Peru my Ecuador, Panama my Uruguay.

Ural down on Russia,
Siberia it to your friend.
If you knew beer from vodka,
your Cossack you would lend.

Kenya lend a lion to Libya?
China light on panda Mozambique?
Are there real Indians in India?
Sicily a Malta to a Pizza freak?

Iraq my brain for answers.
As Iran all my patrons home.
Firmly in my Anchorage,
I might as well be in Nome.

RWH: 3/17/07

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Poem of the Week: 3/11/07

Time Has Come

The time has come, my little belle,
to set you free, free from hell.

To set you free from the ties that bind,
to set you free from the fears you find.

In every dark day that comes your way,
in every dark thought that holds you sway.

The time has come to break free,
spread your wings and fly with me.

To worlds and places yet unknown,
to worlds and places you make your own.

Just open your heart and open your mind,
to the possibilities that you find.

The time has come to sail with me,
on a sea of life so wild and free.

That fear and pain are forever banished,
to the dark places where they dwell.

While you and I soar with the stars,
our minds free of tormenting hell.

The time has come, are you ready?
Here, take my hand, I'll hold you steady.

RWH: 3/10/07

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Poem of the Week: 3/4/07

Good Morning Sunshine

Good morning sunshine.
So good to see you greet the day.
Good morning sunshine.
Please don't bring clouds my way.

Good morning sunshine.
Please help me dry these tears.
Good morning sunshine.
Please clear my darkest fears.

Good morning sunshine.
Come warm these weary bones.
Good morning sunshine.
Melt this heart of stone.

Good morning sunshine.
Let me know it's a new day.
Good morning sunshine.
Cast off these doubts to stay.

Good morning sunshine.
Great to see you skip across the room.
Good morning sunshine.
You brighten the darkest gloom.

Good morning sunshine.
You are all that I'm about.
Good morning sunshine.
I cannot do without.

Your warm rays of love,
that pierce my heart.

RWH: 3/3/07

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Poem of the Week: 2/25/07

Rustle and Hustle

Rustle and hustle and do the hip hop,
Yo, the in word and repeat till you drop.

What's up? What's up? To get 'em high.
Answer that question and you will die.

If not from an overdose,
then from a senseless drive-by.

Fast money Honey is what it's about,
can't sing or dance, just scream and shout.

Get 'em all riled up on a hatred high,
Niggah this and Niggah that till the money fly.

Get all dressed up in exotic bling.
Conspicuous consumption is the new thing.

For if you ain't got nothin', down in the hood,
them rides and that bling sure lookin' good.

So what of the blues and rock 'n roll?
Songs of the heart from deep in the soul?

All lost in the din of out shout you noise,
the in crowd get it and are one of the boyz.

Some boyz become men with business savvy,
most become a burden on friends and family.

When will we learn that art is greater than fame,
and stop paying money for those in the game?

Rustle and hustle enjoys a great ride,
but it's wasted money that we can't abide.

Before buying a CD or a concert in hip-hop,
drop a 20 in the hat of a street corner stop.

Where the real music is born.

RWH: 2/24/07

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Poem of the Week: 2/18/07

The Hills are Alive

The hills are alive and running to the sea,
while the sea is a rising how can that be?

The moon is in the seventh house lying,
while the sun is at the equinox sighing.

Earthquakes are growing like leaves on a tree,
tsunamis are flowing from the lip of the sea.

I am dying for your love or the love of thee,
you are living for my love, you will soon see.

No it isn't very pretty, what a town without pity,
can do. Gene Pitney wouldn't. Would you?

Moonbeams are forming a roof over me,
to hang studs of Viagra for all to see.

The cows are coming home and the chickens to roost,
the lies in the back room are now let loose.

Going nowhere fast on the southbound train.
My mind going northbound to a familiar refrain.

And what have I done by telling this tale?
starlings have turned, a whiter shade of pale.

And the hills live on.

RWH: 2/17/07

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Poem of the Week: 1/11/07

Beauty and Brains

Have you ever wished,
you were in her genes?
Pretty as a picture,
but not what she seems.

Have you ever wished,
you could be that smart?
Ideas overflowing,
with no place to park.

Trying to perfect,
every little part.
Always fighting aging,
hoping for a new start.

Off into trivia,
puzzles and games.
Pushing the formula,
to ever higher gains.

Attracting attention,
with every move.
Using sexual tension,
to a higher groove.

Withdrawing from others,
into your shell.
Perfecting the implements,
for your own kind of hell.

Natural selection,
got you this far.
Store-bought selection,
raises the bar.

No one understands,
who you really are.
Looking for love,
that's always too far.

Because you're a star,
of your own making.
A star so misunderstood,
your heart is breaking.

RWH: 1/10/07

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Poem of the Week: 2/4/07

Confusion

Who put the "con" in fusion anyway?
All I long for is a bright, sunny day.

If we really had the sun's fusion.
it would all go away.

So we are running wildly around.
like chickens with our heads cut off.

Trying to make a point or buck.
and keep from being laid off.

Keeping up with the latest thing.
showing off all our stuff and bling.

You can wait for Armageddon.
you can wait for the water to rise.

But it's time that you see the truth.
when it's right before your eyes.

It's time to focus in on all the mess.
it's time to work and not to rest.

We must save this planet from ourselves.
we must save this planet like little elves.

Live in the forest with the creatures as one.
stop plundering our legacy for riches won.

Dumping our problem on the next generation.
fighting stupid wars with veneration.

Grow up and face our real fears.
stop running scared with nothing but tears.

Science is hard, but we must prevail.
in science we trust, in faith we fail.

Man's history is long and it is distinct.
time to stand up or become extinct.

RWH: 2/3/07

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Poem of the Week: 1/28/07

Idol Worship

Now is your opportunity,
to seek fortune and fame.
All you have to do,
is run the Idol gauntlet game.

You don't have to have talent.
you don't have to know how to sing.
All you have to do is show up,
your ego attitude to bring.

Smooch up to Paula,
Weather Simon's sting.
Let old Randy do the dog,
and jump into the ring.

It helps to be sexy,
it helps to be smart.
Others try to go to Hollywood,
only with their art.

You have to sing a cappella,
and still carry a tune.
Forgetting the words won't save you,
if you're pitchy before noon.

Some are there for real,
with voices smooth as silk.
Some are there for five minutes of fame,
a very annoying ilk.

Following in Hung's footsteps,
fool after fool appear.
All hoping, hope against hope.

It will be their Idol year.

I pray for prescreening,
to throw the nut cases out.
So I can hear real singing,
what American Idol is all about.

RWH: 1/27/07

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Poem of the Week: 1/21/07

I Forgot

I forgot to say, I Love You,
ten thousand times or more.
I forgot your birthday,
forgot it by the score.

I forgot the day we met.
Was it a restaurant or seashore?
I forgot the times we spent,
just watching the rain pour.

I forgot what day it was,
yesterday, I think?
When I first discovered,
there was a missing link.

Between what I thought,
and what I think.

I contacted a psychiatrist,
and then I forgot to go.
I rev up for each day to begin,
only to watch it go by slow.

You may think I am crazy,
to forget where I must go.
You may think I am lazy,
and just think I don't know.

But I vetoed the stem cell bill,
many years ago.
And now I wander my muddled mind,
and forget what I don't know.

Muhammad Ali haunts me.
From his punch I am too slow.
My brain cells turn to mush.
With every smashing blow.

Christopher Reeve's smile,
is etched across my mind.
I try to forget him daily,
but he is always right behind.

And my old friend Ronald Reagan,
waits around the bend.
When I forget I'm living,
then my mind will mend.

RWH: 1/20/07

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Poem of the Week: 1/14/07

Easy Come, Easy Go

(Something a little musical)

Money, she be a river,
Easy come, easy go.
and she do flow forever,
down the old Ohio.

I come me into money,
Way back in '49.
I come me into money,
but now ain't got a dime.

Money, she be easy,
running a line of ho.
Down in the Tenderloin,
long time ago.

Money, she be a river,
Easy come, easy go.
and she do flow forever,
down the old Ohio.

I met me a mermaid,
a swimming star so high.
Mention her in Hollywood,
always brought a sigh.

Couldn't run with her crowd,
didn't see eye to eye.
Stabbed a man in Reno,
just to see him cry.

My, my.

Money, she be a river,
Easy come, easy go.
and she do flow forever,
down the old Ohio.

Got hooked on the bottle,
really dragged me down.
But horse got in the saddle,
and I went round and round.

Those hoes did come easy,
but they done wore me down.
Was nothing but a frazzle,
when I left the Frisco town.

Money, she be a river,
Easy come, easy go.
and she do flow forever,
down the old Ohio.

Hightailed it for my homeland,
to watch the spring grass grow.
Sin in Cincinnati,
where the river, she be slow.

So, if you hanker fo' the money,
and far away, you go.
When the easy money's gone,
there's still a sunset's glow.

And she do flow forever,
down the old Ohio.

RWH: 1/13/07

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Poem of the Week: 1/7/07

Overflowing

Life has been good,
life has been rolling.
Life takes many paths,
until it is overflowing.

Curiosity has its virtues,
the way new things are found.
But curiosity can be a sidetrack,
by the paths it takes you down.

Far above survival,
with leisure time galore.
We take the path less traveled,
if only to explore.

That path leads to another,
and another, on and on,
until we can go no further,
so many paths that continue on.

And so the cup of life is full,
full to overflowing.
And I must sip the essence there,
and let the rest keep flowing.

So if I've passed you up in life,
it is not for knowing.
It's just that there are so many paths,
too many for the going.

So if I pass your way but once,
and you do find me lacking,
I doubt if I will pass your way again,
I have no time for slacking.

For I am overflowing with love,
with no regrets looking backing.

RWH: 1/6/07

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Poem of the Week: 12/31/06

Ode to an Adventurer

They named him Terry,
but he preferred TJ.
Always in a hurry.
Always in his own way.

His father disappeared at 14,
to his great dismay.
To say he idolized him,
would understate the say.

His father was 101st Airborne,
who helped bring Hitler down.
Helped guard Berchtesgaden,
brought fame to their little town.

His father built a trucking company,
the biggest man around.
Hunting and fishing his legacy,
sharp of eye and sound.

With money from mowing lawns,
a Triumph Bonneville at 16.
Three years and three wrecks later,
motorcycles were not his scene.

He tried college for a bit,
but that was not his style.
Started a fraternity to meet his need.
A degree with spite of it guile.

He met her in Manhattan,
small town meets big city.
While Robert Kennedy lay in rest,
they married without a pity.

He tried corporate America a while,
but it was not his liking.
Set himself up in electrical contracting,
and sent corporate America hiking.

Like his many other hobbies,
he easily took to flying.
Started a commercial flight operation,
but stopped, afraid of dying.

Sold his empire on the Maumee,
to get a little cash in hand.
Went to Florida a boating,
divorced, "to live off the land."

Cruised the Caribbean waters,
with her in a '49 Chris-Craft.
Were soon cruising the highways,
in a pickup camper draft.

Miles and many jobs later,
they finally ended the ride.
To Montana went a hunting,
to become a big game guide.

Off to the Northwest Territories,
where grizzly and caribou collide.
Tread the Nahanni wilderness,
where nature and beauty abide.

Bought a British Columbia resort,
in the Stikine River canyon grand.
Smoked salmon was a virtue,
but the natives owned the land.

Traveled on to Tucson,
a new woman by his side.
Eventually they'd marry.
One daughter, 3 wives--his pride.

Back to Florida he wandered,
from Naples to Sebring.
Pro bass fishing became his passion,
multiple enterprises he'd bring.

Forty three years after,
and ten years too late,
his father was found in Boise,
at least he knew his Dad's fate.

For if the full story could be told,
his tales one could not believe.
like Hemingway, TJ lived life large.
And wore it on his sleeve.

Terry J. Wenzel died when his truck rolled over
the night of December 27, 2006 in North Dakota.
He was 59. Many will remember him.

RWH: 12/30/06

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