Each man must his own

Relationship make.

With God, and his Lord,

And which path to take,

But may I ask this, for I feel it’s my lot,

When you walk with the Christ,

Please, embarrass Him not.


For you walk with a Friend

Of both you and me.

A Friend whom I love and

Honor you see.

A Friend who hears often

The excuse, “I forgot”.

So I ask you please,

Embarrass Him not.


Of traitorous friends He’s

Had more than His share.

And, yet, through it all

He still seems to care

For each who claims Him,

Each friend that He’s got,

As a favor to me,

Please embarrass Him not.

James Huetson

May, 1971






A New Life From My Valentine
(A poem for Nancy)


Major segments of my life were ripped away

Leaving me never to be whole again.

So I wished for the world to disappear.


I know I can laugh

And not feel any joy.

For this has oft been my life.


I know I can strive

And hate my success.

For this has e’er been my result.


I know I can cry.

The tears clamping my chest

With an ache that inhibits my breath.


This was my story.

Until my spirit was released

From the confines designed by its past.


When you created a new beginning.

Then guided me to the presence of your love

Through your own blessed acceptance.


James Huetson

January 29, 2009









As a native son my heroes were

Soldiers, sailors, and marines

Of World War II who came by on their

Way to take back the Philippines.


When other bad guys took some land

South of the 38th in Korea,

I volunteered to serve as an airman.

I could not stand to see a

Tyrannical government violate an agreement

Made for the divided occupation

Of a land liberated by the heroes we had sent.


Instead of going to Korea and the Orient,

Orders were cut for my designated station,

And off to Germany I was sent.

A member of a different divided occupation.


There I became friends with former enemy,

Many were refugees from the eastern side.

Who fled from the sadistic hordes of the Red Army

To the City of Dresden, there to abide.

Air Marshall Arthur Harris, known for his bombing,

Authorized the Fire Bombing Of Dresden

Killing thousands of these like an inferno descending.


The war we fought in the Korean Theater, Oh My God,

Over 36,000 of ours died with more than 92,000 wounded.

They called the war won when we got back to the38th isn’t that odd?

But, at least the warriors were honored.


But Nam!  Oh Nam!  The pride of our youth

Forced to go to Hell by bloody handed politicians.

They fought, died, and hurt, while protestors so uncouth,

Protested the warriors while ignoring the Patrician

Leaders who lived in opulence and abundance

Even as making personal fortunes based on the destruction

Of the lives, honor, and innocence of military Grunts.


And now this war of prejudice and hate on both sides,

Instigated by the rich and powerful for the wealthy financiers,

Sucks the moral structure of all into oblivion and derides

The essence of honor that is instilled in each of our soldiers.


Unlike the worst of the worst of the wars of the past,

This war has the underlying objective of destroying

All of the freedoms that our heroes died to make last.

And every one of them, wherever they are, must be crying.

To see how we have wasted the energy, pain, and lives

That they gave for the freedom of today’s generations,

Leaving only our failure, indifference, and guilt to survive.


                                        James Huetson

                                        July 17, 2008


The Demise of The Eagle


As a lad I sat on the ground,

High on Table Mountain,

And watched the Eagles fly around,

So many you could hardly count them.

My collie and my cocker beside me,

Always on the alert to keep me safe,

And I truly understood being free.


Ah!  The eagle, that symbol of freedom,

Was chosen to be the icon of our nation.

Our country has often sounded the war-drum,

Calling upon us to protect our freedom with action.

We responded time after time to the call,

Because living a life with no freedom,

Was, in fact, not living life at all.


The latest call of the drums of war was,

Deceitfully titled Operation Iraqi Freedom.

This was to make it sound like an honorable cause.

The Patriot Act was passed initiating a chasm,

That stripped citizens of Habeas Corpus,

Their privacy, and made it so if they challenged,

This loss of Liberty they appeared Faithless.


The sequence then is this.

Iraqi Freedom is a myth to send our troops away,

And foster fear at home to lead us all amiss.

The patriot is maligned to betray,

His right to voice dissent against the lies,

That caused his loss of Liberty and Freedom.

Then thus the Eagle dies.


James Huetson

July 7, 2007






Honor is Truth


A person of honor can be totally trusted.

A person without it is like a world without love.

Such people are truly maladjusted,

Corrupted, tarnished, degraded and full of,

Perverseness, injustice and lies.

Honor is often distorted to mean,

That a dissenter is less patriotic than a blind,

Follower of a deceitful politician.


A person who brings truth to the table of life,

Is often maligned, libeled, and scorned.

Liars, frauds, and imposters alike,

Attack with impunity and loudly morn,

The seeming inequity of being misunderstood.

If only the truthful one knew all of the facts,

He would agree with the liar, surely he would,

Agree with all of the imposter’s acts.


 It’s easy to spot a man of dishonor,

By the way he responds to facts.

He strikes as swift as a poisonous adder,

Maligning the source with repulsive acts.

He postures and threats,

Threatens and flails,

On and on until he gets,

You to ignore the,

Lies of his fairy tales.


James Huetson

June 9, 2009






Loves Revelation


From behind this woman,

With her cocktail party laugh,

And her solid defenses

Against a world too cruel,

One day I saw a lovely spirit child peek.

And we briefly touched!


Then as I walked through

My experiences bathing me

With a deluge of other peoples

Rage, pain, and captivity to hopelessness

This spirit child heard the events and shared the emotions.

And we often touched!


When the spirit child was in anguish,

The woman would have hidden the pain from all.

But from the spirit child I had learned,

To hear the events and share the emotions.

So I held her to me and shared the pain.

And we touched continually, even when apart.


Now when we're alone,

And no one else is there to see,

The lovely one is there most of the time,

Solemn and giggly and sharing herself with me.

Making the desire of my freedom be to set the real her free.

And our touch has become a radiance!


James Huetson

August 14, 1981






The Honor Trap


He stood tall at roll call,

Because once a Marine always a Marine.

Always faithful to a fault,

He was one of those always first at the scene.

The proud, the responsible, the best,

Characterized in Semper Fidelis.


His job as a soldier,

And now as a criminal justice agent,

Is to follow the laws and orders.

It is not to think about what is decent.

The people in charge have made the decision,

And it’s not for him to seek a revision.


In his life he can never know,

What crises will demand his immediate best?

These crises scars don’t always show,

Then those in charge order and he must obey, lest

He be deemed disobedient and punished for,

Living up to his code of honor.


In order to protect his peers,

He must forsake his Oaths of service.

He must forsake his colleagues for the tiers

Of management, which drive him to the precipice,

Where to honor one is to dishonor the other.

To obey those in charge is to defile his brother.


So he summons the best friend he has,

And dispatches him on a short time mission,

To bring back an item from the past,

Highlighting the memory of a previous situation.

And while his friend is fulfilling his request,

He blows his heart right out of his chest.


Jim Huetson

June 9, 2010






Jun 1, 2010 ... Nun Excommunicated After Saving a Mother's Life With Abortion. Church Stands by Decision to Kick Out Sister Margaret McBride


Applied Mathematics


Math is a very funny thing.

Its use can be unusual.

Two times zero renders nothing,

And knowing this is mutual.


But zero times two still renders naught.

This leaves me mystified.

Having two with zero affect, ought

Leave me two and satisfied.


But mathematics must prevail.

The total must really be zero,

And no matter how logic tries to assail,

You can’t change it and be a hero.


If the problem involves human lives,

And there are two who soon must go.

When we do nothing, the answer it gives

Allows mathematics to reign, leaving zero.


A Mother and Child are suffering and blue,

And both can die from inattention.

If nothing is done ‘tis zero times two,

This fact requires your admission.


The Child is not yet fully formed,

Leaving a no acceptable result situation.

So the solution that will cause storm,

Is to use subtraction not multiplication.


James Huetson

June 12, 2010








She was a rebellious woman,

And yet she was needy.

She yielded to no fear,

But lived in a nightmare

Of terror and dread.


The first time it happened

She had become insanely anxious

Over an unimportant event

She screamed with no pause

Until he slapped her.


It wasn’t a hard slap,

No bodily damage was done.

She was shocked

Because it wasn’t his nature,

A nature of gentleness and caring.


It must be her fault,

The screaming must have caused it.

And in placing the blame on herself

She joined a third of the nation’s women.

Who are repeatedly battered every year.


He was so devastated,

As to be unable to breathe.

He had just needed

To stop her screaming

Before she waked their baby daughter.


The words he used to make her to stop

Were not succeeding.

What horrors would her screaming

Inflict upon a three-year old child.

With no thought or planning, he hit her!


This woman, his wife,

And the woman, his mother

Were constantly in conflict.

He applied the Biblical admonition

To put away his mother and cleave to his wife.


As he left that town

His mother told him tales about his wife.

How she had contacts with another man.

It wasn’t long, in the new town,

That friends told him the same type of story.


Those who govern community mores,

The courts, police, and some churches,

Have sanctioned patterns of family behavior

Allowing a husband the inherent right to

Have sexual gratification from his wife.


And so he exercised this marital right

Without a thought about how she felt,

And her screams of frustration and pain,

Triggered his rage so that he left his body,

And watched himself in this despicable action.


Then from the darkness came a voice

That said, “Stop it! You will kill her!”

And miracle of miracles, he stopped.

He stopped, and he left.

And he stayed away for hours.


When he returned his wife and child were gone.

And he knew they should be gone, never to return.

Regardless of the law of the time, he knew,

Rape is rape no matter how you justify it.

No matter if it is accepted by the society you are in.


A telephone call came from the family Doctor.

Came from the hospital.

His wife had overdosed on medications.

She had taken the baby with her to the hospital.

She had been treated and they were sending her home.


During the rape and the beating

She became numb both physically and mentally

As though she was no longer a part

Of her body and what was happening.

Someone else was being battered as she observed.


Her mother-in-law blamed her for the event

In order to make herself feel less guilty’

After all, she had initiated the negative idea.

It left the wife feeling trapped with

No way to reestablish her former sense of safety.


He now understood.

There was no way he could stay with her.

He was totally out of control in her presence

And to stay would be to slay.

He left.


In the years that followed he drifted into alcoholism

And stopped drinking seventeen years later.

Living with two different women for a number of years

He rarely had even a cross word with either.

At any signs of imminent violence, he fled.


She completed college obtaining a degree in journalism

Working for some years as a teacher of children with disabilities.

She renewed a drug addiction that she had acquired from an accident.

On leave from a mental institution with a fellow resident

She died of a suspicious drug overdose.


Everything happens for a purpose,

Even the tiniest detail.

Be an observer of that purpose.

Don’t judge it. Don’t fight it.

Don’t try to change it.

Observe it only!


James Huetson

July 5, 2010






Charity Equates to Love


The words Charity, Life and Love

Are all, interchangeable.

They all originate from above,

And come from a heavenly table.

Charity is bestowed to others

At four different levels my brothers.


At the lowest, and first, is because we must,

For it is bid by our dedication to duty.

We make sure that everyone knows so we can just

Bask in the glow of our marvelous gratuity.

Like the Pharisees of an earlier day

We may even stand in the streets to pray.


The second level, and visibly higher,

Is to be secret about it; not telling the crowd.

But the recipient is to know we are superior,

And thank us in a voice aloud.

It is necessary that he be appreciative

Or else what need would there be to give.


The third level up, next to the highest,

Requires that we never tell a living soul,

But now there is more to the test.

The receiver himself must not ever know.

This method is a total lesson in humility

Freeing oneself from the abyss of self-pity.


The absolute highest and greatest of all,

Is when we give automatically and don’t even know.

The beneficiary receives it and has no recall,

Of anyone involved in this act to bestow.

The rest of the world proceeds just as if

This never had happened, that there was no gift.


James Huetson

June 14, 2010 






The Great Mystery’s Circle of Life


Oceans support all the Life of Mother Earth.

God is Life, Love, and Light.

The Light of the sun warms the oceans,

Which is a part of God.

This Light draws the ocean

Up into the atmosphere

As fresh water vapor

And condenses into clouds.

The clouds carry this fresh water vapor

Over all of the earth

Releasing its miracle in the mountains

And on the plains as rain or snow.

This snow and water may fall

In the Grand Tetons of Wyoming,

Forming the birthplace of the Snake River.

The great Snake flows into southern Idaho,

Falling over the 212-foot high Shoshone Falls.

Millions of gallons of its water flow

Through the Thousand Springs of Idaho.

This gathers other arms of the fresh water vapor

From rivers known as Boise, Payette, Weiser,

Salmon and Clearwater rivers of Idaho

Along with the Owyhee, Malheur, Powder,

Imnaha, and Grand Ronde rivers of Oregon.

Then it joins the mighty Columbia River

From Washington and Canada

To flow back into the ocean from which it sprung

There to renew the cycle as the sun warms the ocean

Into which it has returned.


James Huetson







Grace and Mercy


Grace is when I get what I haven’t earned.

Mercy is when I don’t get what I deserve.

Grace is when I wake up in the early morn,

And hear the birds sing and calm every nerve.


Mercy is when I haven’t lost another friend

By operating my mouth without a caring thought.

Being given a new beginning instead of a sorry end.

When I have no regrets for not doing what I ought.


Grace is sitting in the beauty of a valley,

Looking up at the hills covered with summer browning.

Knowing that they are not hills at all

But are at the edge of a prairie with wheat fields growing.


Mercy lies in the real life fact

I could not hear the birds and their beautiful singing.

Without a stranger performing the act

That constructed the aids to give me my hearing.


Then I was able to see the hills so beautifully glowing

With the white-capped Snake River so gorgeous and vital.

Mercy then provided a surgeon capable and knowing

To remove cataracts giving me vision clear and total.


I have Mercy and Grace beyond my deserving.

There is vision and hearing when both were gone.

My Spirit with gratitude doth both pray and sing,

To the Love of the Universe that goes on and on.


James Huetson

June 15, 2010








The word Universe means Unity.

Everything rolled into one.

Universe is World is Universe you see

So any wrong that is done

To one is really done to all.

If we betray our Mother Earth

Upon the whole Universe will fall,

The long-term resulting hurt.


To respect and care for Mother Earth

Is to serve the Creator of all life.

For she is the creation sent forth

To sustain us and help us live without strife.

Oh Mother Earth whose Soul sings with the stars,

Keeper of the spring for our provision,

Let us live in your bounty while you live in our hearts,

And to never forget our true mission.


Each must take responsibility

For their good or the disrespectful actions,

And work for the good of the Unity.

We always must be alert for better solutions.

Gratitude is the holiest of prayers.

We give our thanks for the beauty of Mother Earth,

And for desolving all of our fears.

Fears that are lost when daily matched with faith.


Unity blesses us with the matrimony of peace.

Our freedom is as vast as Mother Earth’s oceans.

No one can own Mother Earth.  We can only lease,

For a lifetime, with unfilled aspirations.

The Creator of the Universe, and its Unity

Is in everything as Light, Life, and Love;

Serves all its creation with compasion and pity,

And hangs the sun and the moon in the sky above.


We have wounded Mother Earth with our greed.

She bleeds oil into her own fragil evironment

To satisfy the thirst for greater riches, not for need.

We strip mine her flesh to make more cement

To build bigger structures for us soon to destroy.

We rip out her lungs by destroying her forests

Then pollute her lakes and rivers with an alloy

Of garbage, chemicals, poisons and other pests.


Mother Earth is a living soul,

A part of the living universe.

Her wounds affect all life as a whole

And the healing requires your service.

Her future is only determined

By the choices you make this day.

Actions unchanged leave her undermined.

Love, not abuse, is the way.


All is one, one is all.

Rocks or mountains, sun or trees,

If it’s a lake or a waterfall,

Or even the waves upon the seas.

Be it a bear or tiger strong,

A buffalo or antelope,

It makes no difference, as long

As we know each has soul, we have hope.


James Huetson

June 18, 2010






Through The Glass Darkly


When I arrange the mirrors just so

I can see the I's extending into infinity;

Lined up behind me,

All waiting for their chance to take my spot;

and turning . . . . .

I see the I's lined up before me extending to eternity.

There is no end;

But life is only where I am now.

It is in the middle of the line . . . . .

And always will be.


If you are standing in an endless line you can all

Walk together if you turn ninety degrees.


The life that was is only here . . . . .

The life that will be is only here.

Is there any less reality through the mirror?

When I leave where do they go?

You say this is only a reflection.

I am only visible because I reflect light.

Am I not, too, only a reflection?


God is light . . . . .

Light is time . . . . .

Time is God . . . . .


Am I not there when there is no light to reflect from me?

Do I change or become another creation

Because I am not seen?

What then of the reflection in the mirrors?

Are they in truth less real than I?

Do they appear to be less real

Than other people appear to be?

Does the reflection in the mirrors see me . . . . .

Or does it see reflections of itself?


Do I see God or do I see reflections of myself?

Does God see me or does He see reflections of Himself?


I see a reflection of me but is this true?

Am I perhaps seeing

The reflection of a reflection

Of something I cannot see?

Can I see an image of me without the mirrors?

Can I see a true image of me in the mirrors?

Can I find any way to see an undistorted me?


Or do I see me as God reflected in other people?


We see colors as they are supposed to be;

Running the vision through a mental enhancer;

And are often shocked by a color print

Which shows the colors as they truly be exhibited.

Even with a perfect reflection

Of whatever is being reflected

Cannot my own vision

Distort the true reflection?


All truth is constant.

Reflections vary.

Perception depends upon reflection.

What can replace perception?


As I moved from the reflections behind me

What did I bring along?


As I move into the reflections ahead of me

What can I take along?



Then for what purpose am I here?

Nothing that matters to the reflections of those behind me;

And nothing that can affect those ahead.


James Huetson







The Silence Of The Man


They lied!

The elders, and teachers,

The leading priests and the high priest

Of the Church,

They lied.


They made all sorts

Of accusations against him,

They accused him of

Crime after crime after crime, 

And they lied.


Pilate demanded of the man,

“Don’t you hear?

All of these charges they

Bring against you?

Don’t you hear?”


But the man made

No response whatever

To the charges,

And the accusations,

Surprising the Governor greatly.


The man didn’t answer

And so the high priest

Stood up before the others

And asked the man

“Will you not answer?”


“What about all of these charges?”

“What do you have to say

For yourself?”

And the man said nothing,

Astonishing the Governor highly.


Pilate sent the man before Herod.

Trying to avoid the situation.

Herod asked the man question

After question after question

But the man refused to answer.


The man maintained the

Virtue of silence,

Giving his persecutors

No ammunition

For adding more charges.


James Huetson June 10, 2010









A Poem For Max


She was a loose woman,

A street tramp.

And she was very, very pregnant.

A small, black vamp.


A deputy noticed her

And picked her up.

It was in middle summer.

He fed her water from his cup.


She was fairly dirty

And didn’t smell too good,

But her eyes were pretty.

She came in, and there she stood.


She was a little black dog,

Probably two years old.

Representing a prologue

To a life, which will be told.


So then she had to be jailed

And off she went to the shelter.

If her previous owner failed

To claim her she’d have a new owner.


While she awaited her incarceration

She approached a different officer.

Then with a paw upon his leg, and no hesitation,

She showed him her love and became his master.


She made a pair a family

When he took her home to his lady.

She had won their hearts completely,

They became her mommy and her daddy.


Daddy would chase rabbits with her,

His long legs a pumping.

Step just hard enough on a grasshopper,

And slow it down for gulping.


She cornered a possum in her yard

Late one night and it was hissing.

Daddy grabbed a mop to hit the possum hard.

While holding the dog back he knew he was missing.


Max is the name used

Before they found what was her gender.

It left her a little confused

Wondering if she was a sitter or a pointer.


Her mommy’s lap was just a jump

That Max would make each evening.

To settle down in mommy’s lap

And spend time TV watching.


Nine good years of love, fun, and play,

She hunted, stalked, and captured,

All the different kinds of prey.

No difference whether squirrel, rabbit or bird.


Then age and illness wore her down.

Her breath and heart were failing.

Daddy sat on the floor beside her his own

Heart sick and bursting.


Her mommy heard her horrible groan

And was stricken with a fearful pain.

Daddy said, “This can’t go on”

And called the veterinarian.


At the office they gave Max a shot.

Her breath struggle was easing.

Daddy’s calming hand stroked her soft.

Heart bursting, he let her go with his blessing.


James Huetson

June 22, 2010








A common occurrence instituted

A new understanding in me.

It came from my mother and dad

Insisting that I eat liver, you see.

Now, to me, the taste of that food

Causes me to gag and to choke.

How anyone can ever consider it good

Is beyond me and must be a joke.


So logically, one must assume

That everyone’s senses can differ.

So two smelling the same bloom,

Each using their own unique sniffer,

Can regularly experience different

Emotions caused by the smell.

Odor can be a lovely scent,

Or it can seem to be coming from hell.


To some a soft tender

Touch may speak strongly of love.

But to others, it will engender

The sense of being given a shove.

 A man, quite often, cannot give a hug

Because he’s self conscious

And doesn’t want to seem smug.

He will avoid any kind of a fuss.


To some the sight of a predator

Attacking its prey

Makes their excitement soar.

Others at the same sight may say,

This is a sight I cannot stand.

It is not fair that the prey must die.

But it is unfair that the predator starve and

Its not for us to know where justice lies.


Noisy boom boxes drive me to distraction

Bellowing out that obscene rap.

While classical gets my roommate’s attention

And swiftly makes him ready to nap.

The reality in which we believe

Exists only in our own mind.

We run every sense through our emotional sieve

And we are fools if we believe what we find.


There is more to the sense

Than the sense it’s self.

 Humans often offer pretense

As though taken from a bookshelf.

Half the people see religions as harmful.

Claiming to love their neighbors,

They often seem to be more full

Of hatred toward the faiths of others.


Righteous living consists of action

Interwoven into every day living.

It is the narrow path to salvation.

It is not for acquiring but in giving.

All life is sacred and has a soul.

All creation has to include

A bit of the creator to make it whole.

Most religions make rules to exclude.


It is necessary that we comprehend

That each person has his or her own monsters to fight

Of fear, apprehension, insecurity and resentment.

To help them we must stand right

With them and help them determine

The reasons for their inner strife

Then heal them with love divine.

And in this way heal them for life.


Those who live in accordance with the beatitudes,

Those who will lovingly endure the sufferings of life,

Those poor in spirit and pure in heart with proper attitudes,

Will enter God's kingdom and gain eternal life.

Whoever tortures a human being,

Whoever abuses a human being,

Whoever outrages a human being,

Abuses the Great Mystery’s being.


James Huetson







The Shame Is Not Hers


I opened the drapes to my deck.

There she sat like a pile of laundry,

Hair a mess and scarf on her neck.

Head bowed so she couldn’t see.


Mary came throughout the week.

Often she had eaten no breakfast.

She wouldn’t ask, she was too meek.

I would tell her that eat she must.


She was a frail little drunk,

Trying to live without using.

Life was in an unhappy funk.

Most of the time she was losing.


One morning she didn’t show.

I later found that she had gone

To visit a friend that I know.

The friend, a girl, lived alone.


My friend who she went to visit,

Was as beautiful as any model.

The majority of men would try to hit

On her, often being boastful.


Her father raped her as a teenager,

Setting her on a tortuous path.

The result produced a daughter,

And created a hideous aftermath.


She and her father were arrested

When she was a still quite young,

Because they had distributed

Pornography, along with other dung.


She then became a call girl,

Working the hotels of Seattle.

Life became a hectic swirl

With drugs and sex and bottle.


She married a man who really, truly

Loved her and forgave her life style.

But she had to bicker and act unruly.

Demanding he go the second mile.

One night after a horrible fight

He left to go out drinking.

She cursed him with all her might

What was she thinking?


Then as he was driving his jeep,

He came to a fork in the road.

He ended up with the car in a heap,

Broken neck and dead by the road.


She called me frenzied with grief,

Crying, babbling, making no sense

Hysteria huge with no relief.

Her desire to die made me tense.


He had a revolver, a huge forty-five.

I feared she would turn it on her self.

I took it with me to help her survive.

And stowed it away on my shelf.


With obscenities she attacked.

Accused me of stealing and such.

So reluctantly I gave the gun back.

I hoped she’d survive in the clutch.


She had just gone looking for

Ammunition, then loaded the gun.

Then came a knock at the door.

It was Mary looking for action.


My friend invited her to stay.

Then she fixed food and they spoke.

It was about pain, they both had a say,

And to their deliverance they awoke.


James Huetson

June 30, 2010






Rendered Sacred


The Man declared,

If anyone loves me

He will desire to

Follow my teachings.


The Creator will love

Him and come to him

And make His home

Within his heart.


The teachings given are:

Banish your opinions and

Search for your Creator,

Learn truth through sorrow.


Have the willingness and faith,

To let your Creator rule.

Make a dedicated search,

For every spiritual truth.


In all things be merciful.

Know the Creator as the

Only true cause in all of

The areas of your life.


Bring inner peace to the

The altar of your life.

The Creator’s gift to you

Will be harmony and joy.


Judge not so that you

Are not judged

As you have judged

Your fellow man.


Love your enemies.

Bless them that curse you.

Do good to them that hate you.

Pray for them who abuse you.


The Creator is in everything.

It is the space in which it creates.

It is compassion, wisdom

Equality and forgiveness.


James Huetson

July 9, 2010






Die Hard



I - the old ideas,


I - the human ego,


I - the masking personality,


The I of desire to obtain,


The I of desire to avoid,

Dies and I submit,

Then God can completely

Take over my consciousness

And "I am God"

In that He is the only doer.


I die hard!


James Huetson

July 9, 2010








Yesterday a man was ordered

To be set free from his tortured

Brain.  Was it a mishap or

Could he no longer fight the war?


I wanted to take time

To make this poem rhyme,

But torture doesn’t lend,

It’s self to that end.


It begins with a hate

That makes us relate

To murder and chaos

Making evil the boss.


Kill every living thing

Then heroically sing

About the destruction

Of every good function.


If a woman from an order fault

Turn her into a pillar of salt.

If a man shows a little courage then

Throw him into the lion’s den.


Nothing ever

Gets better.

Demons never hit bottom

You just know you’ve got’em.


The preachers all yell

That you’re going to hell.

You’ve decided they’re right

So you give up the fight.


When you cross over the shore

And find that what you’re looking for

You’ve found out too late

God gives love, not hate.


You have ended your life

Full of inner strife

A most selfish act

That you cannot take back.


James Huetson







Sam’s Folly


It all started in 1942 when Franklin D.

Authorized the beginning of the OSS,

An organization that was given the responsibility

Of espionage and for helping the resistance

Movement in Europe.  Donovan was appointed as the head

And given the rank of Major General.  The OSS was

The model for the CIA that bloomed in 1947 and served instead.


Its original role was to evaluate intelligence reports

And coordinate the intelligence activities of various departments

In the interest of national security.  But all sorts

Of other missions were assigned to agents

Of what became known as the CIA's Black Operations.

This involved a policy that was later

To become known as Executive Action.


Executive Action is also known as a plan to remove

Unfriendly foreign leaders from power.

This including a coup d'état that overthrew

The Guatemalan government of Jacobo Arbenz in 1954

Other political leaders deposed by Executive Action

Included Patrice Lumumba of the Congo,

And Ngo Dinh Diem, the leader of South Vietnam.


In 1975 Senator Frank Church became the chairman

Of the Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations.

This committee investigated alleged abuses of power by one,

The Central Intelligence Agency and two, The Federal Bureau of Investigation.

The committee also discovered that the CIA and FBI

Had tried to destroy their targets reputations by sending

Employers and wives anonymous letters full of lies.


In its final report, issued in April of 1976, the Committee concluded

That Americans’ Constitutional rights to free speech,

Association and privacy had been undermined and threatened

By Domestic Intelligence activity because each

Primary provision for these rights by the Constitutional

System for checking abuse of power has been not enforced

By those who, by law, should have been responsible.


''The camps, hidden in the steep mountains and mile-deep valleys

Of Paktia province, were the place of underground headquarters

And clandestine weapons stocks of Afghan resistance leaders.  Ultimately

The Afghan resistance was backed by the intelligence partners,

The United States and Saudi Arabia, and the camps were

The last word in NATO engineering techniques,

Manned by CIA assisted “resistance fighters”, each a warrior.


Then they were given a label "resistance fighters" so they were ok.

Now they have been given a new label "terrorists"

And thus they are transformed into the terrorists we are fighting today.

So now we can bomb them into the abyss.

No need for UN discussion, no need for proof, no need to be just.

The U.S. is the detective, hanging judge, jury of peers, and hangman,

  All offices are sanctified in the fight against the terrorist.


The U.S. side of the relationship with bin Laden was by the CIA

So much of the operation is unknown.

But we do know one thing, money, the old “Pay Day”.

How much money?  This should make you moan.

More than six billion 1980 dollars

And that’s just what they admit publicly.

Then Saudi Arabia added enough to make anyone holler.


In case you have lost track of U.S. intents,

Bin Laden was a resistance fighter then

But now he is a terrorist, made one by events,

If we need him will we make him an ally again?

If a worldwide terrorist organization has been created by the people

Whom the U.S. and Saudi Arabia paid during the Afghan war,

 Aren't the U.S. and Saudi governments who backed them responsible?


Bin Laden et al were CIA employees, given the best training,

Arms, facilities, and lots of cash for many years.

But in a change that is most amazing

Bin Laden became a deadly enemy of the U.S. raising our fears.

The relationship changed, don’t ask too many questions.

In other words, once again,

The government line is accepted as self evident, but fiction.


Is bin Laden an enemy in fact?

Our leaders swore bin Laden and friends were good guys,

 "Resistance fighters" joining with us in a pact.

If the government at that time filled us with lies

Why couldn’t it be lying about them today?

Let’s play a game.  Imagine that bin Laden

And all of his friends are still employed by the CIA.


Could it be that our search for him is intended to build

Respect for bin Laden among Muslims who oppose us?

Is he to channel Arab anger into a regressive guild

Of fundamentalist movements that raise such a fuss

That they thereby destabilize secular Muslim societies

Which might resist U.S. control?  Religious fundamentalists have proven themselves

The most effective enemies of independent-minded governments and their treaties.


This is precisely why the U.S. created an

Islamic Fundamentalist Proxy army in Afghanistan initially.

Perhaps bin Laden's new assignment is to be the ablest

Bogey-man of convenience whom the U.S. government blithely

Can use on any government it wishes to bomb?

This may sound crazy but is it any crazier than giving these

People six billion dollars in an attempt to control Islam?


James Huetson

November 25, 2007








She couldn’t teach through lecture

As the student was unable to hear.

Nor could she teach by exhibit.

The blind student could not see it.


The student was able to respond to touch.

It would be necessary to learn how much.

In other instances one could use taste.

Such learning could not be done in haste.


Other times she could teach using smell.

Done kindly to bring him out of his shell.

These are the only ways to communicate,

Establish an interactive state.


The scholar must expand his repertoire

In order to communicate with the mentor.

Communication involves at least two people.

For this the mentor must be responsible.


The original language had to be built

As a form of Braille, not seen but felt.

The one developed, used both hands’ fingers.

In different combinations representing letters.


The teacher must provide an object to feel

And spell its name, using finger Braille.

Then repeat this over and over until

The student relates the object to the spell.


Communication is established one word at a time

The patience required is greater than sublime.

Then after success with more than one session

Must begin again with Braille 8 dot conversion.


Alphabet using both small and capital letters

Define objects requiring combinations of fingers.

Numbers and symbols and all punctuation

Must be learned and be used in each situation.


The student is driven by a need to communicate.

The teacher has an angelic drive to dedicate

Great effort to providing a life of true usefulness

To this loved one of God with all of its brightness.


James Huetson

August 2, 2010





He was lying on

The exam table.

Doctor was done.

The boy was unable

To even begin

Understanding the

Trouble he was in.

Doctor said that he

Had been attacked

By Poliomyelitis,

A disease that stacked

The odds against his

Obtaining full recovery.

How the illness spread

Was a great mystery.

Quarantine, it was said,

Was absolutely necessary.


His parents were devastated.

He was their only child.

He could even end up dead.

They were in for a wild

Ride to a world of terror.

He was snatched from them

Then isolated from their care.

It was all due to ignorant whim.

They were not well to do at all.

Mom had regularly needed treatment.

What sacrifice would upon them fall?

March of Dimes provided payment.

He was admitted into a far away place.

Where his parents were denied access.

Two months passed then he saw their face.

Even then it was through a pane of glass.

They couldn’t touch in this horrid place.


The head nurse was large and quite capable.

She had him brought from the ward to her.

They sat him on the treatment table

Sitting upright, with his back perpendicular.

His paralysis required that his knees be bent.

She had a larger orderly lie across his knees.

This made him lie back and into pain he went.

He cried out and the nurse went into a frenzy.

With the orderly still holding his legs flat

She pried him off the table and like a wrestler

Placed him in a full nelson style hold so that

Her full weight caused a pain near torture.

At that young age he learned a new truth.

You were not to disrupt what they intended.

No tears permitted and anger was uncouth.

Such actions resulted in penalties unbounded.

No leeway was given because of his youth


They actively seemed to ignore his pain.

Application of boiling hot wool army blankets,

Twisted limbs they needed to restrain,

When splints and restraints are removed it lets

The therapists forcefully pull and push on

Spasticized muscles the brain cannot relax.

And force joints to move to a normal position.

Each forced movement gives pain like an axe.

Survival depends on curbing your feelings and wants.

Accept whatever those in charge put upon you.

One must do more than expected to avoid the taunts.

Protecting each other is an obligation that is due.

You can’t hide your problem if you walk that way.

You can’t hide it if you can’t get up by yourself.

They won’t ever hire you if you can’t work all day.

Insurance won’t take you; you’ll be put on the shelf.

If they class you a cripple they’ll fight you all the way.


To get Polio is the luck of the draw.

To beat it takes acceptance and work,

Faith in your self and grit in your craw.

Shakin’ and movin’ and don’t ever shirk

Then the worm turned on type A persons.

The harder they tried to be normal,

To hide disabilities the more the path steepens.

Protecting against criticism is central

To increasing their sense of not feeling a failure.

This is actually the onset of Post Polio Sequelae.

The indications include exhaustion ‘til life’s a blur,

Swallowing is hard, muscles burn, depression’s high.

It wasn’t supposed to be this way.

We fought so hard to reach a level

That we could maintain every day.

But its ended up we’ve lost the battle.

Unless we make the most of each day.


James Huetson

August 8, 2010








“Oh”, said she

“You do not understand,

This is not reality

So strike up the band.

Life is a cartoon.

It’s just for a laugh,

A humorous lampoon,

All on fate’s behalf.

Thus began a life

Of joyous frivolity

Never a time of strife

Between myself and she.

Once my life was sad,

Always filled with duty.

Now it’s mainly glad,

Even sometimes jolly.

Often when we walk

She does her little dance.

We are close and we talk.

Others often at us glance.

There’s that other lovely thing

That happens now and then.

She often starts to sing.

Then there is the buggy

In which our dog likes to ride.

Others often wait to see

If he’s in it or by our side.

Now and then he’s gone away

And I have an empty buggy

Then the passersby all say,

“That old man is pretty balmy”.

The dog is a little Shi Tsu.

Named Chen by the family before.

New mom said, ”Little man you

Are Rudy to me for evermore.

Quickly he became famous.

His short cut and gorgeous tail

Are his signature no less

Drawing comment without fail.

At skateboards he takes offense,

Chasing all and barking loud.

Bicycles startle and make no sense.

He wishes they weren’t allowed.

Rudy rushes up to everyone.

Like he wants to make a friend.

Then he sniffs them and is done.

With that the meeting’s at its end.

He sasses all the big dogs

With barks and a wag of tail.

When they ignore him he logs

It as a success, he did not fail.

The beauty of the lady,

And of the great Snake River,

Along the path most shady,

My gratitude makes me shiver.


James Huetson

August 17, 2010








If God is all of it

Then there is nothing wrong with any of it.

If there is nothing wrong with any of it

Why am I disturbed by it?


This is a world of predator and prey.

Neither is more blessed or protected than the other.

But the cries of the wounded, the injured, the torn,

And their screams of anguish tear at my heart.


I am helpless over this.

I cannot change one iota of it

And I cannot avoid knowledge of it.

I can feel everyone’s pain.

Sometimes I feel as if I will be suffocated by it.


I can surrender my life and all existence to God

But it does not provide the “Balm of Gilead”

To heal my soul.

“What will be, will be”

Is not a happy place.


In the end, all Life exists only in God.


James Huetson







Dead Wrong


Nobody cared how we died.

Nobody cared that they lied.

We died side by side by side.

Because they lied we all died.


We joined to pay for education.

We joined to protect and serve our nation.

We joined to honor our relations.

We joined with highest expectations.


We spilled our blood in foreign lands.

Our bones were broke by foreign hands.

Our brains were warped through concussions

Caused by IEDs and other close explosions.


Coming home we met an attitude

That was anything but gratitude.

Were there any that cared about our broken spines?

Or were they all concerned with their bottom lines?


We get no special employment consideration.

Our old jobs are gone no new ones on the horizon.

Our heads are still filled with combat.

God only knows how we are going to react.


So we also died at home using a gun or a rope.

Or we died on the floor after using too much dope.

However we died we died without any hope.

At home they abandoned us leaving us to cope.


James Huetson







A mother’s wounds begin with her dreams.

So often they begin with her mother it seems.

She may dream of being exactly the same.

Or her dearest wish may be that she gains fame.

On the other hand she could have a beautiful wedding

Attended by those for whom she would be everything.


In all situations something happened to disappoint.

Was it her fault that nothing matched up to her intent?

Those who should have been her best advocators

Were the first to point out every one of her errors.

There would be a second chance for their good opinion,

When she gave birth to and properly raised her children.


The children came and were given to her to love.

She gave her all to serve the Giver from above.

The Giver and everyone who observed her goodness,

Knew she would always give more and never less.

 So the Giver gave her the greater challenges.

He had confidence that she would give her best.


Her very worst critic and judge lived within.

No matter how hard she tried it declared it a sin.

She continually searched but never could find,

 The bliss of perfect serenity and peace of mind.

She needed to understand that she had fulfilled her part

In order for the Giver to heal her wounded heart.

James Huetson



The soul must live in the heart

Because the brain is too noisy.

His name was Frederick Gruenenberg

He was a Jewish native of Germany.

He had been saved from Buchenwald

By a band of Hungarian Gypsies.

He would say to me, “We are

Friends heart to heart, Shimmy.”

His brain knew much about fear and pain.

But for him the heart knew only Love.


I watch the flowing Snake River

Coming from the far reaches of

The Wyoming Rocky Mountains.

It joins many other rivers and flows

Onward to the Ocean in the manner

That visions flow into my heart

From some alien streams of energy.

Yet not so unfamiliar after all

But perhaps the energy from a chorus

Of like hearts; Overflowing with Love.


The heart looks steadily forwards seeing

The replacement of old understandings

With fresh awareness’s replacing the blossoms

With fruit of the Heart both tender and nourishing.

The Soul acts upon the heart with feeling

Rather than with directions and instructions.

The Soul knows better than it does and

Leaves the heart sick and disappointed

When it has been unable to love to the extent

That the Soul has wanted it to.


Correction can only occur when

The individual heart links itself

To the Universal heart creating a bond

Within that is indestructible and

Subjects itself to the absolute law.

The law that says we are to love

The maker of everything and all

That it has made and the revelation

Of that law comes not through words

But by the law; For the Soul is true to itself.


   James L. A. Huetson

December 21, 2010









The Shreds of the bodies of our young are spread

Willy nilly over the landscape of the world.

In Korea at Inchon or Imjin River,

Or Bloody Ridge and Chosin Resevoir.

Maybe at Heartbreak Ridge then alternately

The battle at Kapyong or possibly Osan.

Forty percent of American POWs died

In Korean prison camps from Changson

To Pyoktong to Wiwon and Sambakkol.

And all for what purpose?

It isn’t over yet!


The Shreds of the bodies of our young are spread

Willy nilly over the landscape of the world.

In Viet Nam at Dak To and Hamburger Hill,

Maybe at Ia Drang or Lang Vei  where the

Green Berets were over run by NVA tanks.

Then there was Khe Sanh and Hue

Just to mention a few.

The prison camp Hoa Lo was

Nicknamed Hanoi Hilton.

Then there was Pho Ly Nam De

Also known as the Country Club.

Eleven percent died in custody

But this does not include MIAs.

And all for what purpose?

We’re business partners with them now.


The Shreds of the bodies of our young are spread

Willy nilly over the landscape of the world.

It’s been a tortuous journey from

The Mission Accomplished farce

To these never ending daily battles.

As of today the official DOD count is

Troops Killed in Iraq: 4417,

Troops Killed in Afghanistan: 1371,

Wounded in Action: 41,357

And all for what purpose?

To protect Israel and Big Oil Profits.


James Huetson









There is a master carpenter that I love,

Who gathers messages from above,

Then gives them to me in a manner clear,

And alters my spirit so I can hear.

Among the messages are lessons he taught,

Things that I ought and things I ought not.


It was declared long ago without any pity,

That love of money is the root of iniquity.

Kings of long ago exacted silver and gold,

From the people whom they never told,

That the rulers then used those taxes to spill,

The blood of innocents across every hill.


Money equals power in the world of men.

The struggle is always to achieve dominion.

It takes money to make even more riches.

Addiction to money is the greatest of itches.

The bodies of butchered women and children

Cry out to the world of a dream in ruin.


A Soldier is given lies until he forfeits

His life to secure the corporations’ profits.

Business executives follow on the soldier’s heels,

To establish profitable business deals,

Bringing with them laws and enforcers

To prevent rebellions, strikes, and protesters.


Those who love money can never love others.

They use and manipulate all of their brothers.

They enslave anyone they can for a profit,

While those who escape must be thrown in the pit

Of despair, anguish and hopeless humiliation

In order to conquer each and every nation. 


What then can be our only deliverance?

Must we always chase after dollars and cents?

Perhaps we must return to living the law.

The rule that only the carpenter saw.

Love your enemies; bless them that curse you,

And onto Love you must always be true.


James Huetson







Love One Another


When love is given to another,

Only the giver can completely

And truly understand that love.

If unexpressed, love is unknown.

For the person being loved

To know that they are loved

It must be put across by action.

The human expression of love

Is distorted because there is no

Word or action sufficient

To give expression to love.


The persons receiving love

Add to the distortion because

They can only perceive love

Based on words or acts that

Have meant love to them

In their life experiences.

Human love is, therefore,

Immensely more beneficial

To the lover than to the beloved.

The beloved can recognize love

Only when it is from the soul.



IT’S substance within ITSELF.

IT is love and being spirit

Expresses IT’S love spiritually.

IT gives of ITSELF as love,

Into our souls.  No words, no acts,

No mental perceptions are required.

The love of our CREATOR is given

To us as a feeling which we perceive

As beyond physical, or mental states.


We therefore love best when we love

Our CREATOR, and it loves us.

Loving others through our CREATOR

Links our souls to the CREATOR

Which links our love to all others

Through the CREATOR’s gift of ITSELF.

When we let go of our physical selves

Then we become only the instrument

For our CREATOR'S LOVE to men.

We love because IT first loved us.


James Huetson









My mother gave me no brother

And my father no brother conceived.

Neither was I given a sister

And did not need either I believed.


My parents made every effort

To insure that I shared all I had.

I was trained to always give comfort.

Any form of rudeness was bad.


My uncle’s first marriage ended

After his son, Duane, had been born.

His life taken when he was blasted

Away and to an unmarked grave was borne.


His mother took Duane,

Changed his middle and last name,

Then disappeared to a place arcane.

She deemed my family to be all the same.


Thirty-seven years later he was found

Using a Salvation Army quest.

At our first meeting we were bound

Together for a brotherhood blest.


A joy came with him into my life.

The similarities were amazing.

He brought with him a lovely wife.

His first love a lady most dazzling.


His first love’s name was Joan.

A Joan was also my first devotion.

He taught music, he was a musician.

Electronics for fun was his notion.


My work was with electronics.

My hobbies were playing the guitar,

Singing, and working on the basics.

My style was O.K. but I’d never be a star


We both enjoyed the pun

And shared many with no stigma.

We traveled just for fun

From Dallas Texas to Canada.

In 2004 heart-rending news,

Duane’s cancer, once defeated,

Re-ignited, his body to suffuse.

I went to his side feeling cheated.


For years, like brothers we did abide.

Approaching the end I still teased,

I held his hand and with him cried.

But his pain would not be appeased.


There is no avoiding the experiences

That we came to experience

Including the experience

Of avoiding what we came to experience.


James Huetson







Awakening At Dawn


During my morning meditation

There occurred a quieting

Of nearly all bodily senses.

There was no difference of feeling

Between those parts

Touching other objects

And those parts not.


During this moment

Came a sense of total uplifting,

Both physical and spiritual.

And then, from deep within,

Beginning from behind me

Came a clarity and brightness

Like the dispelling of a fog.


It was as if there was

The removal of a haze

Surrounding my total being.

Not from before my eyes,

But from all around me.

Then came the words



And it was as if

I were speaking those words

To my Creator

As It spoke them to me.

As though two entities

Made into one were speaking

The same words simultaneously.


 Jim Huetson







Grace In The Silence


When I go to the silence

I do not need to take with me

A task to be performed,

An error to be corrected,

A healing to be obtained,

A subject for healing,

A consciousness of any need,

A desire to be used,

An expectation of illumination,

An expectation of heightened awareness,

An expectation of forgiveness

For myself or for another,

With no expectation

Of a miracle or a sign.


I go in silence to watch

My Creator do the works.

I do not ask,

I do not seek,

I am not answered,

I do not strive.

My Creator’s Grace

Is sufficient unto all.


Jim Huetson 







The Voice


Dark nights filled with terror,

Your heart filled with fear,

The tortures of knowing

Your own death is near,

A plunge into the abyss

But awake at the dawn

To a still small voice saying carry on.


Is it all but a dream

With those great rocks below

 In tumultuous waters

As downward I go?

Then just when it seems

 That I soon will be gone

The same still small voice whispers carry on.


One must cross his bridges

No matter how frail.

Life's road must be traveled

Even be it a trail.

Beyond the next bend the trail may be gone,

But that still small voice bids me carry on.


I fear not the pain

Of life brought to it's end.

My fear is for fences it’s too late to mend,

Fields never plowed, opportunities gone,

Yet the still small voice urges carry on.


At the end of life's road

Is there really a gate?

To a new life beyond

Where new work will await?

Or is it the end?  With a cold grave to don

And the still small voice whispers carry on.


James Huetson









A single flake of snow

Falls into the high place.

It seems to be of no

Consequence or importance.


It joins with other flakes

Forming a pile large enough

To equal many haystacks

Of the white powdery stuff.


The soft warmth of spring

Wafts in as a breeze

Bringing with it the melting

That will return it to the seas.


From a trickle in the high place,

A creek becomes a stream.

Becoming a river it starts the race

Ever more powerful it would seem.


At the sea it finds the sun,

Which lifts it high into the sky

Where it is given a new direction

Then to a new high place will fly.


As a single flake of snow

It falls into a new high place.

Where it seems to be of no

Consequence or importance.


James Huetson

July 12,2011







(another poem for Nancy)


I woke up knowing it!

I woke up feeling it!

I raced up the stairs to tell you it!

But you had left!


I’m in love with you.

I’m in love with a REAL woman.

Not a remembered fantasy,

But with the longest love I’ve ever had.


A heart to heart love,

That has suffered through

Much pain and travail with me.

Who has been there longer than anyone.


If saying I have only

Been in love once

Hurt you as much as it could

I am so sorry.


That is an untrue thing.

I have never been in love

With anyone as true

As you have been to me.


I may have caused you pain.

I once vowed to myself

To never do so again.

I apologize from my deepest soul.



I have no idea for how long

For you are so a part of me,

You are my life’s song.


James Huetson 

March 12, 2011







(Ichthyosis a hereditary skin disease

 in which the epidermis continuously

flakes off in large scales or plates.)


How can I explain thee

Icthy in the fall?

How can I describe

The misery of your call?

Can one who’s never felt

Or experienced your drive

To rip off the crusty shell,

To feel truly-truly alive,

Even begin to comprehend

 Or to appreciate the want,

To find a way to end

Your ability to daunt.

I can’t, nor should I try.

There’s no dialect

That can apply.

What you feel is what you get.


James Huetson 11-19-11








It began with water.

A little boy sailing bark ships

Down a gutter river

On a brick street that equips

Him with a behavior

That makes him come to grips

With the impermanence of life.


Outside the town of Mammoth

He lived in an Eden of nature

With every day a virtual Sabbath,

Eagles flying so very sure,

Lizards to catch, a stream for a bath,

And a bright sun with air so pure.

All were taken away from him so soon.


What words can describe a love lost?

The pain is beyond all description.

She was his love they were star-crossed.

Then came the difference of religion.

Her parents believed him to be lost.

His believed he’d not accept her canon.

Together the parents took her away from him.


So he destroyed his mother’s dream

Of college and service to her God.

He left college, went to the extreme

To avoid her control and he trod

To the recruiter’s fulfilling his scheme.

There was a war and he shipped abroad.

What difference did it make?  Nothing lasts.

Neither Joy nor Sadness

nor Trust nor Disgust

nor Fear nor Anger

nor Surprise nor Anticipation.


Jim Huetson  12-19-2011






The Atrocity Of Power


A soldier was convicted

Of murdering his wife.

An army jury found

Him guilty of taking her life.

The same jury sentenced

Him to life in prison and

Dishonorably discharged

Him with forfeiture of pay


A 19-year-old infantryman

At the time of the murder,

 He had been severely shaken

By a vicious combat encounter.

He had been a machine gunner.

His squad leader reported,

Saying that the convicted soldier

Performed well and was gifted.


He also told how their Stryker was on a street

In Mosul’s Palestine neighborhood.

A bunch of kids ran out to meet

Them calling Mister! Mister! Mister!

 Then an IUD exploded knocking

 Him into oblivion.

He then awoke to a most shocking

Sight.  A soldier lying across him.

With his jugular vein spewing

Blood all over both of them.


He recalled, too, wadding up his glove

And shoving it into the soldier’s gaping

Wound to stop the bleeding.  Then he caught sight of

Another soldier whose head was burning.

He turned to the convicted, who had

A foot-long piece of wooden ladder

Sticking into the side of his head.

Squad Leader said, Don’t pull it out of there!

And the convicted said, OK, then pulled it out.

Then he got to his machine gun where

He started shooting to end the bout.


Is not the perpetrator also a victim?

Of the tragedy along with his wife?

In September of 2001, on a whim,

Saudi terrorists attacked, changing our life.

Al Quaida in Afghanistan was the organizer.

None were from Iraq nor was it a direct threat.

Are not all who placed us in needless fear

Equally guilty?  TheVP and President,

The Secretary of Defense and Secretary of State,

The Attorney General and every appointment?

All of them were generating and inciting hate.

All should be sharing the punishment for this verdict.

Plus all of the Muslim and Christian extremists,

Who insist on making this a religious conflict,

Such distinctions are not from the God of Justice.


Only one among those men who sent

These youth to experience the carnage,

Had ever participated in a similar event.

Nam was when they were the right age.

One had time with boots on the ground,

All the rest used influence and deception

To avoid being to the military bound.

Of cowardice those are the description.

The lives that they wasted

For their profits and pride,

Left a future un-tasted

By the many that died.


James Huetson

July 4th 2010








Always dreamed the winner,

Ever lived the loser.

Always dreamed the hero,

Ever lived in fear.

Always dreamed of romance,

Ever feared the dance.

Always dreamed of good,

Ever lived the hood.

Always dreamed of duty,

Ever ended dirty.

Always dreamed of honor,

Ever lived the hustler.

Never made the cut,

The door was always shut.


James Huetson

August 10, 2010






The Voice


Dark nights filled with terror,

Your heart filled with fear,

The tortures of knowing

Your own death is near,

A plunge into the abyss

But awake at the dawn

To a still small voice saying carry on.


Is it all but a dream

With those great rocks below

 In tumultuous waters

As downward I go?

Then just when it seems

 That I soon will be gone

The same still small voice whispers carry on.


One must cross his bridges

No matter how frail.

Life's road must be traveled

Even be it a trail.

Beyond the next bend the trail may be gone,

But that still small voice bids me carry on.


I fear not the pain

of life brought to it's end.

My fear is for fences its too late to mend,

fields never plowed, opportunities gone,

yet the still small voice urges carry on.


At the end of life's road

Is there really a gate?

To a new life beyond

Where new work will await?

Or is it the end?  With a cold grave to don

And the still small voice whispers carry on.


James Huetson










In eighteen seventy-seven we marched to organize,

Hayes sent Federal troops and brought us down to size.

In eighteen ninety-two Carnegie Steel hired
A private army to kill marchers as their guns they fired. 
March after march would be broken by several
Militias at Buffalo, and Tennessee, it was awful.
In eighteen ninety-four President Grover Cleveland
Sent four companies Infantry to crush a march and
Then in eighteen ninety-eight twelve hundred miners or so
Were imprisoned without charge to break a march in Idaho.
Whether marches were used, or boycott, or speeches, 
The employers and government would attack like leeches.
 In two thousand nine at Pittsburgh Pennsylvania
Thousands of police tear-gassed innocent Academia 
While plain-clothes Law Enforcement officials
Were throwing protesters into unmarked vehicles.
At the same time Police randomly terrorized students 
At the University using gas and rubber bullets.
Protesters or bystanders they all took their knocks.
Journalists observing were all put behind locks.
The hypocrites in DC demand that other governments
  Not use violence against their citizen participants.
As our own government has used violence on us, then
Bloodied but unbowed I will never march again.


James Huetson

Aug. 18, 2012


Rudyard Kipling's Poem "if'


If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;


If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with triumph and disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;


If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";


If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man my son!


by Rudyard Kipling


This poem was written by Jack McC. for his father, and the people who almost saved his life.




We died of pneumonia in furnished rooms where they found us three days
later when somebody complained about the smell.

We died against bridge abutments and nobody knew if it was suicide and
we probably didn't know either except in the sense that it was always

We died in hospitals, our stomachs huge, distended and there was
nothing they could do.

We died in cells, never knowing whether we were guilty or not.

We went to priests, they gave us pledges, they told us to pray, they
told us to go and sin no more, but go. We tried and we died.

We died of overdoses, we died in bed (but usually not the Big Bed)

We died in straitjackets, in the DT's seeing God knows what, creeping
skittering slithering shuffling things.

And you know what the worst thing was? The worst thing was that nobody
ever believed how hard we tried.

We went to doctors and they gave us stuff to take that would make us
sick when we drank on the principle of so crazy, it just might work, I
guess, or maybe they just shook their heads and sent us to places like
Dropkick Murphy's.

And when we got out we were hooked on paraldehyde or maybe we lied to
the doctors and they told us not to drink so much, just drink like me.
And we tried, and we died.

We drowned in our own vomit or choked on it, our broken jaws wired
shut. We died playing Russian roulette and people thought we'd lost,
but we knew better.

We died under the hoofs of horses, under the wheels of vehicles, under
the knives and boot heels of our brother drunks.

We died in shame.

And you know what was even worse, was that we couldn't believe it

ourselves, that we had tried.

We figured we just thought we tried and we died believing that we
hadn't tried, believing that we didn't know what it meant to try.

When we were desperate enough or hopeful or deluded or embattled
enough to go for help we went to people with letters after their names
and prayed that they might have read the right books that had the
right words in them, never suspecting the terrifying truth, that the
right words, as simple as they were, had not been written yet.

We died falling off girders on high buildings, because of course
ironworkers drink, of course they do.

We died with a shotgun in our mouth, or jumping off a bridge, and
everybody knew it was suicide.

We died under the Southeast Expressway, with our hands tied behind us
and a bullet in the back of our head, because this time the people
that we disappointed were the wrong people.

We died in convulsions, or of "insult to the brain", we died
incontinent, and in disgrace, abandoned .

If we were women, we died degraded, because women have so much more to
live up to.

We tried and we died and nobody cried. And the very worst thing was
that for every one of us that died, there were another hundred of us,
or another thousand, who wished that we could die, who went to sleep
praying we would not have to wake up because what we were enduring was
intolerable and we knew in our hearts it wasn't ever gonna change.

One day in a hospital room in New York City, one of us had what the
books call a transforming spiritual experience, and he said to
himself "I've got it ." (no, you haven't you've only got part of
it) "and I have to share it." (now you've ALMOST got it) and he kept
trying to give it away, but we couldn't hear it. We tried and we died.

We died of one last cigarette, the comfort of its glowing in the dark.
We passed out and the bed caught fire. They said we suffocated before
our body burned, they said we never felt a thing , that was the best
way maybe that we died, except sometimes we took our family with us.

And the man in New York was so sure he had it, he tried to love us
into sobriety, but that didn't work either, love confuses drunks and
he tried and we still died.

One after another we got his hopes up and we broke his heart,
Because that's what we do.

And the worst thing was that every time we thought we knew what the
worst thing was something happened that was worse.

Until a day came in a hotel lobby and it wasn't in Rome, or Jerusalem,
Or Mecca or even Dublin, or South Boston, it was in Akron, Ohio, for
Christ's sake.

A day came when the man said I have to find a drunk because I need him
As much as he needs me (NOW you've got it).

And the transmission line, after all those years, was open, the
transmission line was open. And now we don't go to priests, and we
don't go to doctors and people with letters after their names.

We come to people who have been there, we come to each other. We come
to try and we don't have to die.........



(A Soldier Died Today)

by A. Lawrence Vaincourt




He was getting  old and paunchy and his hair was falling fast,

And he sat around the Legion, telling stories of the past.

Of a war that he had fought in and the deeds that he had done,

In his exploits with his buddies; they were heroes, every one.


And tho' sometimes, to his neighbors, his tales became a joke,

All his Legion buddies listened, for they knew whereof he spoke.

But we'll hear his tales no longer for old Bill has passed away,

And the world's a little poorer, for a soldier died today.


He will not be mourned by many, just his children and his wife,

For he lived an ordinary and quite uneventful life.

Held a job and raised a family, quietly going his own way,

And the world won't note his passing, though a soldier died today.


When politicians leave this earth, their bodies lie in state,

While thousands note their passing and proclaim that they were great.

Papers tell their whole life stories, from the time that they were young,

But the passing of a soldier goes unnoticed and unsung.


Is the greatest contribution to the welfare of our land

A guy who breaks his promises and cons his fellow man?

Or the ordinary fellow who, in times of war and strife,

Goes off to serve his Country and offers up his life?


A politician's stipend and the style in which he lives

Are sometimes disproportionate to the service that he gives.

While the ordinary soldier, who offered up his all,

Is paid off with a medal and perhaps, a pension small.


It's so easy to forget them for it was so long ago,

That the old Bills of our Country went to battle, but we know

It was not the politicians, with their compromise and ploys,

Who won for us the freedom that our Country now enjoys.


Should you find yourself in danger, with your enemies at hand,

Would you want a politician with his ever-shifting stand?

Or would you prefer a soldier, who has sworn to defend

His home, his kin and Country and would fight until the end?


He was just a common soldier and his ranks are growing thin,

But his presence should remind us we may need his like again.

For when countries are in conflict, then we find the soldier's part

Is to clean up all the troubles that the politicians start.


If we cannot do him honor while he's here to hear the praise,

Then at least let's give him homage at the ending of his days.

Perhaps just a simple headline in a paper that would say,

Our Country is in mourning, for a soldier died today.


© 1987 A. Lawrence Vaincourt




by Peter Dale Wimbrow



When you get what you want in your struggle for self

And the world makes you king for a day.

Just go to the mirror and look at yourself

And see what that guy has to say


For it isn't your father or mother or wife

Whose judgment upon you must pass,

The feller whose verdict counts most in your life

Is the guy staring back from the glass.


You may be like Jack Horner and chisel a plum

And think you're a wonderful guy.

But the man in the glass says you're only a bum

If you can't look him straight in the eye.


He's the feller to please--never mind all the rest,

For he's with you clear to the end.

And you've passed your most dangerous, difficult test

If the guy in the glass is your friend.


You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years

And get pats on the back as you pass.

But your final reward will be heartache and tears

If you’ve cheated the guy in the glass



This is the original version of a poem first published in 1934. 

The poet, Dale Wimbrow was born in 1895 and died in 1954.

"One ship drives east and another drives west,
  With the selfsame winds that blow.
'Tis the set of the sails, and not the gales
  Which tells us the way to go.

"Like the winds of the sea are the ways of fate,
  As we voyage along through life:
'Tis the set of the soul which decides its goal,
  And not the calm or the strife."

-- Ella Wheeler Wilcox (Poet, 1850-1919)



A bigot’s a bigot’s a bigot,

They’re more to be pitied than damned.

Like the mind of a drunken sot

They will never be able to understand.

They’ve lost the ability to reason,

To them they are totally right.

Under the control of their demon

They are damned to live without light.

We must never be drawn to condemn.

For to do so gives them provocation

To take their grievance before men

And justify their destroying our nation.


Jim Huetson  1-16-2011





Well his voice was gruff and his manner was mean.

He said, "Kid you're supposed to help me on the bendin' machine.

Grab yourself and end and start to tote your load

and if you smart mouth me you'll never live to grow old.




Then we bent that rebar just to build 'em a store

and they covered it with concrete and asked for more.

So we furnished them the strength they needed to keep it up

and he said you don't do bad for such a young pup.




We worked more steel through the punch and the press.

We rolled it and welded it and done our best.

Some men lost a finger and some men lost a hand

but when we were finished we had us a dam.




We built dams and machinery and bridges too.

We built tanks and buildings just to mention a few.

That old mother steel she makes you thin and old

but the men who work her are hard and bold.




Hard and bold but quick with a practical joke.

Hard and bold men who have very little in their poke.

With a heart big enough to keep the world going 'round

We live for building up not for tearing down.




Words of praise are few for the work that we do.

Like the steel thanks is hidden 'neath a hard shell too.

But the words from a buddy overrun your cup

If he says you don't do bad for such a young pup.




Dedicated to the men who worked at Oslon City Steel 1948-1949 building the tunnel liner for Arrow Rock Dam.

Jim Huetson


When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Tampa, Florida, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value.

Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, They found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.

One nurse took her copy to Missouri . The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.

Crabby Old Man

What do you see nurses? ...What do you see?
What are you thinking......when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man,.....not very wise,
Uncertain of habit ........with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles his food.......and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice .....'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice ....the things that you do.
And forever is losing .............. A sock or shoe?

Who, resisting or not...........lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding ... The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking?.......Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes,'re not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am ......... As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten.......with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters .........who love one another

A young boy of Sixteen ..with wings on his feet
Dreaming that soon now..........a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows........that I promised to keep.

At Twenty-Five, now ........ I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide ....And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty ........... My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other ....... With ties that should last.

At Forty, my young sons ....have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, ......... Babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children ........ My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me ...... My wife is now dead.
I look at the future ............I shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing......young of their own.
And I think of the years...... And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old man.........and nature is cruel.
'Tis jest to make old age .......look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles..........grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone........where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass ..... A young guy still dwells,
And now and again battered heart swells.
I remember the joys..............I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and over again.

I think of the years ..all too few......gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact........that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people and see..
Not a crabby old man.....Look closer....see........ME!!









I am much too gentle of a heart

To have been sentenced here.


I am a microscope for the Universe.


I give It the ability to see

The smallest details of It’s creation.


It can only view the beauty through

The eyes, ears, nose and touch

Of all It’s microscopes.


There is only beauty and all is good.
Jim Huetson 2-26-2011

Honor is a gallant promise to one’s self that his actions will always dignify his words thus giving worth and value to his name.






Honor is Truth


A person of honor can be totally trusted.

A person without it is like a world without love.

Such people are truly maladjusted,

Corrupted, tarnished, degraded and full of,

Perverseness, injustice and lies.

Honor is often distorted to mean,

That a dissenter is less patriotic than a blind,

Follower of a deceitful politician.


A person who brings truth to the table of life,

Is often maligned, libeled, and scorned.

Liars, frauds, and imposters alike,

Attack with impunity and loudly morn,

The seeming inequity of being misunderstood.

If only the truthful one knew all of the facts,

He would agree with the liar, surely he would,

Agree with all of the imposter’s acts.


 It’s easy to spot a man of dishonor,

By the way he responds to facts.

He strikes as swift as a poisonous adder,

Maligning the source with repulsive acts.

He postures and threats,

Threatens and flails,

On and on until he gets,

You to ignore the,

Lies of his fairy tales.


James Huetson

June 9, 2009


The Click Of Dice


Death is not our foe.

Death is our parole.

When the cosmic dice are rolled

And you are about to be paroled

It is not a thing so strange

And it’s not ours to arrange.

It is already in God’s log

That earth’s breath is a fog

Of souls arriving or departing

So it is a time for us to sing.

It is not a time to hate

For it is hard to differentiate

Twixt bravery or foolishness.

To make no judgment is the best.

Nothing is ever bad or good,

Neither shouldn’t it nor should.

The story is from The Heart

It’s just for us to do our part.


Jim Huetson 2-5-2012




They never saw my Nancy.

They never saw her with Max.

They never saw her with Rudy.

She is “Misty” done on a sax.


She is my sweetest of music.

She is “My Funny Valentine”.

She is a violin playing classic.

She is like a sonata devine.


She exhibits the spark of life.

In everything she sees the humor.

Even in the midst of strife.

She lives with exquisite fervor.


She brings to life a happy soul.

And draws you with her into joy.

She makes every day whole.

Love and laughter she does employ.


So here’s a toast to Nancy.

And that means full of grace.

She’s as gorgeous as a pansy.

She’s as delicate as lace.


Welcome Home!



James Huetson

July 6, 2010



Rudyard Kipling



When Earth's last picture is painted
And the tubes are twisted and dried
When the oldest colors have faded
And the youngest critic has died
We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it
Lie down for an aeon or two
'Till the Master of all good workmen
Shall put us to work anew
And those that were good shall be happy
They'll sit in a golden chair
They'll splash at a ten league canvas
With brushes of comet's hair
They'll find real saints to draw from
Magdalene, Peter, and Paul
They'll work for an age at a sitting
And never be tired at all.
And only the Master shall praise us.
And only the Master shall blame.
And no one will work for the money.
No one will work for the fame.
But each for the joy of the working,
And each, in his separate star,
Will draw the thing as he sees it.
For the God of things as they are!






“And the Creator regarded

It’s every creation in all of its beauty.

Beheld it and knew it was good.

Created for man and all he could be.”


Oh, so beautifully said

And so hopefully appropriate.

Unfortunately its beauty has been faded

By the worldly clamors of fate.


The surest proof there is no God

Are the actions of the self assured Pious,

Who insist on running roughshod

 Over the lives of everyone else.


James Huetson 10-14-2012



Bon Voyage


Body my house

my heaven: my hell?

what will I do

when there's only a shell?

Left on the beach

wave torn and empty

occupant fled.


Bones left to leach

in the spray of the ocean.

Soul fain would teach

life‘s lessons: devotion,

a creme de menthe potion,

a creme de la creme world?

How will it be/ Master/

my soul to extinction?

empty eternity/

a storm tossed sea?

No, a soul's definition

precludes its demise.


Heaven my house

and there will I dwell

My soul‘s destination

when there‘s only a shell



Vera Hazel Brown Huetson 1993


Written by Vera Hazel Brown Huetson

Jimmy’s mother


This was written after I was interviewed by a Social Security Interviewer who actually said, "This woman cannot be rehabilitated". The words express the period of devastation that followed her proclamation. A doctor (psychiatrist) later said to me, "Nobody, NOBODY should ever have such a destructive statement made to them. This poem speaks vividly of the agony she caused me to experience.


What is in man's destiny that makes him hide his head in the sand or crash through life as a herd of elephants in deep jungle forests; or even drag and slosh along the bottom of some muddy underwater swamp?  Why will man sludge through weary wastelands, sending circles of heaviness widening, enveloping all they meet? These questions haunted me.


Then, one day, a woman looked disdainfully at me and said, "Wasteland! No good in her; no way to salvage anything of value. Away with her. There's nothing to reclaim. WASTELAND!  WASTELAND! WASTELAND!

Repudiation of my worth was violation of my right to live. Useless to society? Her words became a shrill scream ringing in my ears. WASTELAND. I clung to everyone for strength,


To nullify the voice.

A box made of walls and drugs became my world--erased the sun. WASTELAND! WASTELAND!

And I was deaf to everything except that woman's shameful proclamation. I cried in desperation. Tears pled my cause but none would hear. Destruction brought me into fellowship with that vast throng of those who travel lonely ways. All hope was gone.


Then a miracle began; a feeble light, a voice, firm with friendly understanding probed gently. "You can be anything. You can write--here, take my pen--write. The walls of darkness wavered and the calm voice, sheltering with acceptance, rescued me from nothingness. Removed the dark box of drugs and filled the void with listening. Depression shook in shattering violence. Patient hearing firmed my will to live. Then yet another friendly voice joined voices to rid my soul of anger and despair. With outstretched hands she came, with plans for rehabilitation.  Because she was my friend I felt alive. Faith came in flowing, surging streams relieving pain. "God has need of you," "You're valuable. You're part of His universal plan. None other in His world is made like you."


Again that first voice tried for victory "Not so,



"But that sneering voice was promptly squelched with faith joining

doctor‘s probing questions, destroying walls. Supported with the prayers of countless others. . the telephone, the mail, with those who lived daily with me in my boxed in world I was upheld, hour by hour. So, came a day incredibly bright when hope replaced despair, and joy supplanted apprehension. Listen! There‘s music. A bird‘s song fills the day with lilting melody. See!  The sun has burned a hole through murky fog's rain curtain. Feel! Rain washes pain lines from my face. Taste! A simple meal becomes a celebration. And answers to my questions sing through every atom that makes up my fleshly habitation. My eyes look out; no box remains, I am released.


Look up! Walk free!! LIKE ME!

Release is mine, the box is gone.

Forevermore I shall seek these with walls that need removing.

God's universe is made for loving, for sharing and for-giving.

l'll share this Joy through Christ to anyone in need.

My destiny is not to sludge through mud, nor to crash through forest jungle.

Because He loves in depth, I live. Sharing and keeping the Faith.

     I LIKE ME!





Violence begets violence



Peace can be the joy of being helpless,

As during war, violence or conflict,

A connection by me within me for us,

And to a feeling of well-being connect.


Peace connects to all others heart to heart,

Providing resolution of conflict with forgiveness,

And make available a shared humanness as a part

Of reconciliation with our shared humanness.


Peace requires respect for differences,

“The right of all to justice, freedom and dignity.”

It is a way of being that mends fences.

It is a way of living for one or a country.


It is time to choose peace as the path

Based on trust not distrust, respect not disrespect,

Conciliation not conflict, not suffering but health,

Our thoughts and attitudes we must redirect.


As with a rope unity is the source of strength.

Every individual is reliant upon the unity of all

While guarding individual freedoms by going to any length

And silence the clamor of selfish ambitions’ call.


In all things we must share our resources fully

Keeping an open heart with willingness and compassion

To stop the suffering caused by violence totally.

Making peace a living presence our mission.


The greatest gift we can give to our children

Is to raise them in a culture of peace.

This should be our most urgent concern then,

“To not infect their souls with violence.”


Issues that touch our collective lives

Require a group conversation that is considerate

Of differences, broad and inclusive.

It needs to be civil and impassionate.



                                                                                       STYX AND STONES
                         (An ode to Sandyhook Elementary School)


Evil does not dwell within the gun,

Nor dwell in a man who owns one.

It never remains in any one place.

But often appears in the lines of a face.


The greatest of sins is one against love,

Birthed in hate and fostered by vitriol of,

A type that assigns evil motives to another

Expressing evil to harm your brother.


An evil of helpless, hopeless, humiliation,

Which ends up causing severe retribution,

By generating fear created and fostered,

By wrath that adds sorrow to the world.


We can control horses with a small bit,

And to ships we can a rudder fit,

The tongue is a small part of the body,

But it can corrupt a whole society.


Violence cannot be reduced by gun control.

It can only be limited by citizens as a whole,

Refusing to take part in violent language,

And in no case allow unchallenged verbal rage.


Strongly protest abusive or humiliating,

Statements by politicians or news casting.

Refuse to listen to any of their program

And never buy products that sponsor them.


For to ignore the filth they spew forth,

Is to kill our children and friends both.

We must not allow ourselves to participate

By allowing our society to indulge in hate.


Continued acceptance of such behavior,

Changes each of us from being a savior,

To being one of the problem’s causes,

An unwilling participant in our own losses.


                                    Jim Huetson  December 18, 2012



I don’t have any idea what that is,

But I know I got it.

I know what its terror begets,

And I know it could fit,

As the manner in which I could die.


My stomach gushes its acid

Into my throat as I sleep.

A half second later it can have fed

Into my lungs and settled deep

As I gasp, and cough away my life.


They say watch on what you dine

Within several hours before you retire.

You’re sure that five hours is fine.

But then your stomach erupts with its fire,

And again you wakeup nearly too late.


You take medicines that don’t always work.

You sleep sitting up on an adjustable bed.

You follow the rules and never do shirk

Away from whatever the doctor has said.

But surely as hell it will happen again.


Then one fated night it will happen again,

The rush, the gush, the choking cough all,

And you’ll be the half second too late, then

The coroner will make the final call.

He died from GERG whatever that is.



                                    Jim Huetson December 27,2012

                                                                                      SO MUCH FOR THAT

When a Soldier would lay down his life for a buddy,

But his buddy is killed anyway.

When an Airman must kill a thousand in one mission,

But must kill again another day.

When a Sailor must retrieve the body of a shipmate,

From the twisted metal of his ship.

Then join in to fight the flames ignited by the strike,

And suffer burns from foot to hip.

When a Marine must daily fly from a carrier deck,

So that no one’s ever left behind.

When Victors must view the wreckage they created,

Feeling the bitterness of the survived.

When the honorable leave the field feeling dirty,

And wondering what it was all about.

And come back to speeches expressing gratitude.

No one knows they’re all burned out.

Welcome home oh glorious warrior let us pray,

You won’t infect us with your attitude.


                                    Jim Huetson 01-07-13


 You don’t get to choose who you help.

The Infinite Source places those it needs you to help before you.


You don’t get to fully understand how you have helped.


Life is like a jigsaw puzzle.  If even one piece is missing it will never be completed.


You can only serve God by serving His children.




Dakota is not a place,

She is a song of the women,

She is a song of the men,

She is a song of the pioneer,

She is a song of the good times,

She is the lament of the bad times,

She is the mother of them all.


She is the roar of the cyclone,

She is the whisper in the pines,

She is the call of the Rain Owl

On a warm summer’s night.

She is the cry of a coyote,

She is the lowing of cattle,

A barn cat calling for its milk.


She is the black of the hills,

She is the red of the dawn,

She is the flash of lightning

From the heat of a storm.

She is flood,

She is drought,

She is bottom - land mud.



But mostly she is people,

Cut from the same kind of cloth.

Dependable, charitable,

gentle, and genuine,

Not just from the heartland,

But from Heart to Heart.

Caring, caring, and caring some more.


Jim Huetson 9-23-2013

                                                   VISION BEYOND THE DREAM
 What comes next when your last dream is gone?
And your body is tired but still hanging on.

Sunsets are so beautiful and calming to the soul.

But the sunset of life is when the memories unfold.

Memories of loved ones lost along the way,

All were but actors who on the stage of life played.

The game of success both near and afar,

The victories won and hung on a star.

The next song to be sung or poem to be wrote,

May not get written and the chances are remote,

Some one will notice but if they do will they even care.

Twill be only who wrote them and did their garment wear.

From whence came the teaching that love must be won?

That one will be judged by the good that he’s done.

Did not a great spirit once teach this was not so?

Demonstrate through action a better way to go.

None of God’s children are required to pay,

Earning the right to live happily each day.

To serve with love is our duty, the work of our lives.

Just suit-up and show-up when opportunity arrives.

God plays no favorites.  We are each one of His kids

Whether we are top drawer or have hit the skids.

Jailer or prisoner we all have our place,

And due to His love we will all see His face.

Love is in action. It’s sure not in preachin.’

It keeps right on givin’ when you’re totally done in.

I love you means nothing when you’ve been deserted.

To love is to be there with effort concerted.

Love does not waiver with one’s misbehavior.

It is given from the Universe; it is constant forever.

It is totally a gift that must be passed on.

If not so shared you will find out it is gone.

                                Jin Huetson ooOctober 23, 2013
                                                          EVERY TEAR IS A PRAYER


Some tears are a question, “why”?

Some tears are shed in pain.

Some tears are lifted to the sky.

Others may fall like rain.

Some tears are anger based.

Some tears because of hope lost.

Some tears are a plea to God.

Others haunt your soul like a ghost.

Some tears provide needed relief,

From sadness lying deep within,

And heart enduring the ache of grief.

Missing the story it had begun to spin.

The story of two hearts beating as one,

Each ever sensing the other’s pulse,

The other’s existence under the sun,

A constant peace over everything else.

The heart beats with a code of its own.

The code can be read from here to afar.

It will display its rhythms outside of its home

As their waves ascend to the furthest star.

From here to infinity those waves will roam.

So they are always with us wherever we go.

In any state whether ethereal or spirit.

We always reap whatever we sow.

It goes on forever – there is no end to it.


Jim Huetson 11-13-13





(Or Tte Embodiment There-of)


When first they met

He was funny she thought,

And with a mindset

That she easily bought.

His manner was easy

But often upsetting

So she judged him as teasing

Not really berating,

Thus allowing them both

To just laugh it off

When the cut of his cloth

Had intended to scoff.

When he showed he could care

At her grandfather’s demise

She decided to share

And reveal her true side.

And so began an incredible journey

Of love, passion, and laughter.

A basic objective to ever be free

And maybe with luck a love ever after.

Love ever after, including pets,

Friends, trailer trips and oceans.

A soul connection with no regrets,

With many views and many scenes.

Then started times unexpected,

Emergency Rooms for him,

For procedures yet to be detected.

Usually winter and cold for them

Hours on end by his side for her.

Holding it all together she had shown

Faithfulness and never once did even offer

To pull away, leave him on his own.

How did it ever come to be

That a girl like her would take a place

So demanding and there for all to see

Shed on his life so much grace.



jim huetson  02-08-2014

                                                                             MUTILATED DREAMS


It has ever been a dream of mine

To defend the underdog,

To require bullies to toe the line

Lead the bewildered from the fog.

Clear the panic from the eyes of a woman.

Mend the wounds of a bewildered child.

Provide justice for each and everyone.

For every injustice correction be filed.


Then my muse remonstrated with clarity,

You must first define what justice includes.

To save a fly from a spider expresses charity,

But removes from the spider one of his foods.

The laws of nature are really quite clear.

Existence is based on established food chains,

And can’t be altered by we who live here.

Justice and injustice we cannot explain.


How mother-nature works is beyond our ken.

She alone determines what is just.

What you don’t get to know is how or when

All you know is that happen it must.

Her laws apply across the universe

And includes the warping of time

Is even this a blessing or a curse?

Or does it matter even to the Sublime?


Jim huetson 02-19-2014



Our demons are totally within,

Totally contained by our attitude.

Created when we judge as a sin,

The act of another setting a mood,

That condemns the act as evil.

Thus it is our own judgment,

Based only on our self-will,

Creating the demon to us sent.

If it is evil it’s legal to hate it,

In this manner we justify hate.

With any who sin we throw a fit,

Hatred towards them is their fate.

Hate is the great exaggerator.

It can take the smallest of faults

And magnify it into a disaster

Which justifies hates assault..

 The only solution to hate is love.

Which does not have to be huge.

It usually doesn’t come by a shove,

But by a small act not a deluge.

Perhaps a small gentle act of kindness,

Or even just a friendly smile.

Any act that leaves one feeling blest,

Able to continue for another mile.

Love doesn’t always come in fancy wrapping’

It may be a hug or gentle pat.

It will always come from a heart with feeling,

 Never, ever expecting something back.



Jim huetson  2/24/14



He was sitting in the saddle.

An exceptionally comfortable saddle

With the high back, a saddle horn,

And a saddlebow with sufficient

Depth to grasp with your knees,

Should the horse decide,

To work out a few wrinkles

In the early morning cool.

The sky was a pale blue,

With not a cloud in sight.

Ahead the path curved around,

 The granite base of the mountain.

  The horse’s steady walk,

And the rocking motion of its gait,

 Had put the rider into a

Semiconscious state of deep relaxation.

  He knew in his heart

 When they rounded that corner

Into the unknown

 He would be entering the most

 Wondrous world in the universe.

  The joy flooding his heart

Was greater than ever ex­perienced.

  They entered the shade of a pine

Beside the path’s corner

Where he awoke

To the agonizing reality

That he would once again

Not make it around that corner

Into that majestic place of his dreams.


From this drab world

Of disappointment

He lapsed into memories

Of happier times.

The nine miles by model

T Ford was over now. 

They had gone through

The two barbed wire gates,

And saddled up the horses

That his parents were to ride,

Along with his own special mount

A Jenny mule named Gray.


.  They had nine more miles to go

Along a narrow path cut out

Of the rock faced mountain.

  The up-hill  stirrup brushed

The face of the cliff above,

 While the downhill stir­rup

Was teasing the top of a

Mountainside tree growing

From below the path.

The path sometimes sloped

Frighteningly towards below.


As you entered the camp

There was an old mine

With tailings and slide gravel

Down a gradual slope.

  Straight ahead was

A stream with the clearest,

Coldest water to be found. 

It was about fifteen feet wide

And maybe a foot deep.


Next to the creek was a floor

 With walls about 3 feet high

And with a tent for a roof. 

This was home to his family.

  In front was a corral

Beyond the corral was a

Two-hole outhouse with no door.

 As a child he could sit in the outhouse

And look at the butte across the valley. 

The butte was topped by cactus

 Appearing to be a man on horseback

But it never moved.


From the inside of the tent ceiling

Hung the rattle of a snake

Which sounded with each breeze.

In the af­ternoons he watched the

Shadows of liz­ards catching flies

On the tent top just before

He took his childhood nap.


The most glorious sight of all

Was the eagles soaring high

Above the nearest peaks looking

For prey doomed by the eagles

Swift dive and capture.

The eagle would then climb

Slowly and ponderously upward,

Until the prey was dropped to its death,

Then torn apart for the eagle’s meal.


A collie was his childhood guardian.

Often placing itself between him and

Sharp hooves of either mule or horse,

Using it's own body as a shield and

Pushing the boy out of harms way.

He wasn’t allowed to run ahead


When they walked on the trail.

Dad always placed him between

Himself and his mother.

On one trip up to the mine shaft,

Dad had rounded a corner

And went out their sight.

He called back to his mother

To let him come ahead of her.

He raced up stopping at where

His dad was standing.

He said “You are standing

By a rattle snake". It was dead.

Dad had just killed it with a boulder.

Dad opened its jaws so the boy

Could watch the two long fangs

Drop down into striking position.


He was taught never to pick-up

Any object  with .his bare hand.

First kick it over to see what’s under

That could bite you and sicken you.

This habit would give him problems

In the military when he was is

Ordered to police up an area.


Transportation consisted of Gray,

A jenny mule, Jack, a jackass,

Midnight, A Black horse, and

Popcorn who liked to buck.

The family was to use these to go

Visit a neighboring lumber camp.


Gray was the boy’s ride but,

 She had runaway with a herd

Of wild asses during the night.

  So the boy had to ride old Jack.

Now Jack was not a beast amenable

To having a four-year-old boy ride him.

The first thing he did was to scrape

The horrible little thing off his back

On the low limb of a tree so the boy was

 Scoured right off Jack’s back by the limb,

Landing on his fanny right behind Jack.


Riding in the mountains one

Encounters Obstacles such as

Huge rocks and slides.

Horses go around obstacles above,

Mules pass them on the low side.

During the time that the Jack was

Not with the horses frightened the boy,

Especially on the larger slides.


Gray suddenly appeared

In a valley below them,

Down a very steep incline.

The wild night with the wild asses

Had ended with the entire herd,

And Gray, down in that valley.

Well, ole Jack decided that

He'd best join them so down into

 The valley went Jack with the boy.


Jack was sitting on his haunches

At such a downhill angle the boy

Had to cling to the saddle horn

To not slide off over Jack’s head.

All of the time his mother and dad

Were yell­ing, "Hang on! Hang on!"

Neither of their mountain horses would

 Even try to go down that slope.

His dad had to ride up the trail

 Then double back to rescue him.

  Meanwhile mom could only sit by

The trail trying to keep him calm.


Going home the way was blocked

By a wild range  bull, known as Ol' One-Eye.

He was gray from the Arizona dust

That billowed out of his hide,

Snot was flying from his nose

At every vicious twist of his head.

His widespread of horns

Were dan­gerous to both

The mounts and to the riders.

Ol’ One-Eye met his match in Dad

Cause dad chased him off with a charge.