Je be Ris (I am Laughing)

I find myself writing gibberish	à mal
Wondering what is wrong with me	très mal
Looking for that innocence and wonder	Amahl and the Night Visitor
But feeling more and more a commodity	a Mall and the Right Customer
Longing for the lost music	à mal ou de curatif
A melody curative.	Je be ris.

 

In My battle with the Intellectual

In my battle with the intellectual

I have always been ineffectual

to the degree I am transparent with rage

just so blindly they offer bilious as sage

they belittle the reader with their pedantry

and quotes themselves oh so preciously

It scraps at my hide to an excess degree

caught between my brightness and ignominy.

    (which I always spell wrong ignomy

     having learnt my spelling but dimly,)

When the scholarly elite write a 3-tome set

and call it a synopsis, I find it so wet

that I can't help but open my sorry YAP

and look like a whiner, ah, there is the trap.

It isn't your blindness I want to explain

it is just when you puff yourself I feel pain

For if of all my disabling traits I were free

that blow-hard/poetry expert/know-it-all would be ME.

The Benefits Package

The Employee Handbook for Poets

by TBO's Dear Tick

The interview is in your hand
it comes out of a book
if you are right for poetry
we will know by the look.

The training is in sestinas
and limericks and sonnets
practicing the basic art
and putting your mark on it.

The pay is made in satisfaction
occasionally a fan
and the hatred that is generated
by makers of evil plans.

The prize is in a roses core
a delicate half op'ed thing
when grit and glory congregate
and your wildest joys take wing.

Vacation pay is the daily grind
that pulls you from your work
the pension plan is memories
to the last, you did not shirk.

Please Do Not Apologize

Please Do Not Apologize

by I Am Your Friend



I do not apologize for breathing air
I cannot be any other way
If you cannot check yourself
I can accept that
But to apologize
for things you will never change
Is an insult, and not an apology.


I am your friend
I love you, I forgive you
But please, please,
don't apologize.

Call me Frankenstein, or the difference between a tweek and a drub?

I am furious
Writing in a vacuum
When Joe says
"I love you like a summer's eve"

And I make douche jokes
The audience thinks I am the douche.

When Jane says
"I seduced my prison guard"
And I say "bars cannot a window make"
The audience says
"Hail Shakespeare, go peddle your wares elsewares."

I want to disinvent the pen.
Create a chamber, made to torture
any who claim the name poet
to have to hear their own work 5000 times
until they KNOW it is dreck.

But, the only pen's graveyard
Is trying to make my thoughts known;
The only poet's torture chamber
Is pointing out egregious flaws.
And getting told "Mine was better"

[Of course yours wad of wet fur was better:
If I could taxidermy rot & get the live animal
Call me Frankenstein, I'd call this amateur crap quits!*]

*And then some flatterer will eat my Dahlmer sandwich
and say it tastes like fresh basil and caviar.

Words are the source of all misinformation.

Mother's Day Poem #2

Do You Want A Mother?

by Happy Hiram

Do you need
your clothes washed
or your hair braided?
Is your homework too hard?
Did the bullies bruise your pride?

Yahoo is the land of the mother-less child.
Celebrating this holiday here
Is like Peter Pan Day
A lovely fantasy,
a horrid reality.

Let's all appreciate
the mothering we've had:
my mom had a lovely voice
was beautiful,
and kind to strangers.
And she held
the house together
when dad was useless.

Do I need a mother?
Na, not anymor

Mother's Day Poem #1

Mother Spigot

-by Happy Hiram

Christmas gloves
Always Christmas gloves,
never a toy or game
But when February
blew cold on my hands
I wished I had not lost them, again.

Mom always put a pair of socks
on my hands in place of mittens.
Not a pair did I own without holes
Though I tried to keep hands hidden.

I came back home with ice cold hands
Longing for some bit of comfort
Mother yanked away the half-torn shreds
and turned the tap on hot and walked off.

Rubbing hands in ice cold water
Hoping they would thaw out a bit
Before it quickly got much hotter
Still froze hands must close the spigot.

Burned and bitter and wondering why,
Too young to know, too old to cry.

Thank You Gary

May First Miracles

Your best friend worked in the building
behind which there are apartments,
apartments of the most wond'rous kind;
one where my best friend will be happy.

The day you left, the calendar page
turned upside downside inside out
But each year you bring another gift
to lighten our lives on the first of May.

Gary, you were no angel, saint nor sage,
you just brought common sense to everything.
Cut Gordian Knots with a pair of tin snips
And made us all into Crusaders for Good.

Thank You Gary for another May Miracle!
I miss the you like all heck!

-Happy Hiram

Why Don't I Just Talk To Yoy

Why Don't I Just Talk To You

by Happy Hiram

I hate the part of me that identifies with you
Seeking for dark beauty in ugly things
I take your gig, and add it to mine
My 1990's meta meta meta everything.
The two together become a funhouse
Mirrors filled with anger, hate, and self-loathing.
It's so monotonous
So I don't read you anymore
I don't comment on you
Your name comes up
Like Mount Rushmore
The 800lb. elephant in the room.
But everything I say
Becomes about you
Because I am mirrors
And you are Narcissus.

Rising From the Tomb

Rising From the Tomb
(or a Halloween Story with a Happy Ending.)

by Happy Hiram

Time does not exist
Every now is then
God straddles every wall
Cohabiting peace with pain.

My future MEs
and past MEs
Stand together
On a sacred plain
Thus the past rewritten
And the balance
Can remain,

If I learned nothing
else from suffering
than this one thing I'll explain
My soul is not my body
and no crimes
can reach my brain.

What once was desperate refuge
Becomes a bastion for the sane,
And then and now do not exist
And are one and the same.

Albatross for Bannibal

Just a thank you to help remind
I had really put Yahoo behind
Put "out of service" up on the door
I had no use for this place anymore,
But a gentle tug by sweet Bannibal
Gave my reticence that one sharp pull
So if you do not like some things I say
Blame Bannibal, for making me stay.

I guess despite misery and strife
I'd rather play your game than get a life!

Can you love someone evil?

To My Evil Brother*

by Happy Hiram

I can apologize for calling you evil
But not for thinking it.
I know that twisted, bound up
fist in your stomach, as if it were mine
Nails pressed into your spleen
Blood oozing in your sh!t
And by sh!t I mean your work
It is beautiful sh!t sometimes
Filled with guts and bits of spleen.

But it comes from an inhuman place
I know the rafters of hate
The i-beams of disdain
The shingles of gruffness

If I weren't inept
If my every move were not a misstep
I would be like you

A cunning animal with the bleeding heart
of a poet
But I am just a word-masher, an ever-clever,
a trickster
not the swept back caped villain...

But you prefer an apology,
and hypocrisy.
So be.

I am sorry, I said what I meant.


*This poem is about Dave, not my actual brother.

Charlie B

Charlie B crossed the street
The other day when we chanced to meet
Now my house has been TP'd
No one wants to talk to me
Crossing Charlie brings a fee
Who is this Bukowski?

He plays the game reports come snappy
And wonders why I'm not so Happy.

[I later explained that Charlie B and I were hit by the same truck, out of control because it was in Bachmann Turner Overdrive.]

The Roof Blew Off and Fell on Rodney

The Roof Blew Off and Fell on Rodney*

by Happy Hiram

Quarreling quays of quartz-faced Quislings
standing like chessmen at the waterside
Devilishly delving in dirty dealings
making pacts normal folks despise.

Rodney, a rogue, rued responsibility
for this mottled and furious clique,
but he was the CEO, chief and authority
over them all, and it made him sick.

Nor was he sure before he expired
he would have enough time to remit his sins
palliating a parson for pardon proper
before some strange coincidence did him in.

Rodney saw rigging raised up by rough wind
the roof blew off one and fell on him.

[Dave wants everyone to know that he is not now nor ever was named Rodney.]

Can You Smell It Ferd?

Can You Smell It Ferd?
(A parody)by Happy Hiram

When the urges of an angry spleen creep out
Obscene ooze on the skyline's rim
Rising from the bowl of fetid doubt
Hoping to cling to any cheek they find.

When two farts collide, the thunder is loud
From deep in the bowels of emotive shame
Alighting on others like a fragrant shroud
Till a wayward match turns stray gas to flames.

Poisons enflamed can burn away reason
and farts can engulf and embrace us like vines
treating the organ of origin with treason,
Leaving smoldering @sses burnt but benign.

The gaseous monsoon will soon recommence
Poetry like farts make an unwelcome entrance.

The Coma of the World

The Coma of The World

by Happy Hiram

Here I cling
Perilously on the edge
Buried in concrete
Scratching at the wall

But I fall asleep and dream of the world
I have a house with mulch-trimmed lawns
The sun shines on the neighbors
And at night there is a comfy bed.

When I wake
I am again on the ledge
The world, a hostile place.
Bats swoop down at me
And I shoo them off
Without losing my balance.

Better the dream of a real life
Solid locks on hardwood doors
Knowing this isn't real, but
Feeling how solid it all is.

Back to the trap
Surviving on fleas
Carrying my seeds
To faraway climes
Where the concrete
Doesn't rule.

Ah the peace of day life
Knowing the dream is gone for a while.
Even though I wake up --

-- in a panic, almost falling
While I drifted in the world
Here I am again
Balancing on the cusp.
Longing for the dangerous safety of sleep.

Once, long ago, I fell from this height,
To the desperate infinity below
But I never hit the ground
I vanished into the coma or reality

Am I a weed clinging to a skyscraper?
Or a man having a terrible dream?
I long for the coma of peace and contentment,
Not the anxiety of truth.

The Ballad of Settling for Less

The Ballad of Settling for Less

by Happy Hiram

She knew she was clever as
But let her brother get the laugh
Straight women are hard to come by
She says as she pries
excess hair from her eyes
"I will always be wanted by SumDumGuy!"

Heels so she can't run away
Why wouldn't she want to stay
Eat like a fly while he is obscene,
Well anything can replace
what's waiting at her place
Wet stockings and a Lean Cuisine.

Along came Ferd,
and it seemed absurd
But he had his pick of the women
If he stood her up twice
Or said things not so nice
Well that was the price - and her burden.

The "white man" they say
Had bills to pay
for excepting the status of domination
Well squeezing your IQ score
in a "blonde" lifestyle is more
Of a "bust" than a winning sensation.

Always the short end,
The sticky, self-fend
But women are the stronger of the breed.
That comes with deferring
The reality blurring
Between what's true vs.
What you really need.

So tip your hat to the gals
The lovers and pals
Standing by us as they shatter
They make it okay
To be Ferds all day
And pretend that they just do not matter.

The slave of the slave
As Lennon rightly said
Is the victimizer of herself
If she had any wits
You wouldn't put up with us sh!ts
But we knocked her so long
She a pelt.

Please write encomiums
Giving love no opprobrium
For women like that sort of thing
They can't see the collar
The yoke and the tiller
Because it all has such a lovely ring.

Poem to CW

You were no friend to me, you lout
Now you say so -  you've been found out!
You thought I didn't see your strings
But I pulled one and my ear still rings
From being slapped by your puppet master*
I didn't like the show, oh my, disaster.
So here I am, said placatingly
O powerful Oz, please don't harm me.
That would be pointless, boring and obscene.
But thanks for fulfilling that epithet of mean.

I wish you well chasing opportunity
It must be tough being your own enemy.




[Dave wants everyone to know that the hand up CW's ass isn't his.]

A Birthday Poem

Birthday Poem

By Carbollocks

Hiram, wears a healer's habit
(though he is still too wedded to bloodletting)
The seventh child of the seventh son
greeted by the half-moon,
To a mother struggling and fretting,
Born on the witches' sabbath.

Poet? Nay, just a son of St. George
Making windmills out of dragons
Seeking truth in a desperate landscape
No mask or cape
Sought superpowers out of flagons,
traded them in for a verbal forge.

Would that we were more like he
The world would descend into anarchy!

Staring at Ants

Staring at Ants

by Happy Hiram

Crawling all over the earth
Little articulated legs and heads
Each one a perfect creation
Scrambling together like a waterfall
A pile of intentions and energies
Who would know
Looking at this sea of perfections
That one was a billionaire's son
Or one had leukemia?
They seem like so many ants.

The Watermelon Tree

The Watermelon Tree

by Happy Hiram

Clutching the moldy skeleton
of my last precious watermelon
clutching its heart and worrying each seed
like it was a chest filled with rosary beads
Hoping to survive on it a week
scratching and clawing what sustenance it eked
When a lorry crashed against me from my street
Sending the melon into broken sheets

AA* BB* CC*
The thread of my tale escapes even me
my lifeblood sunk down in the muck
I cried in my yard o'er my shards
thunderstruck.

1 by 1, black tears took root,
drilling up from sog and soot
growing together, to a mighty vine
wrapped with melons side to side
a tree of fruit, grown from my dismay
Do miracles work any other way?

If only had I the patience
to watch the ground
but I rescued that melon
with a mighty bound
and it's seeds and it's life
died with me.

And there never was a watermelon tree.

The Holy Lunatic

The Holy Lunatic

by Happy Hiram

Wearing a little electric chair
on a chain around his neck,
he tried to tell me his brother
was executed for my wrongs.
Jimmy was passionate,
and compassionate
and the fire in his eyes was strong
it kept his nonsense from seeming funny,
as he spoke of his brother's suffering:
his last meal,
his walk of shame.
"Yes, I was there," said brother James.

"I was there when the law took his flesh
for no other reason, but our happiness.
Now you will live forever if you call my brother's name."

His brother's name was Jesus, perhaps you've heard his fame.

Poem about my friend Love Child

Two for One

I seldom waste words on praise
And I don't sharpen knives on butter
But there are sorry days
When you lift me like no other
Though often on the fence
Irritatingly so
Your caution's not offense
Because, deep down I know...

Love Child is a tiger chained
Yet aptly named
Her compassion brings her fame
But never dismiss that innocent brain.

Her touchstone is an angel
Her engine is her pain
She works against the grain
But she can delve from any angle.

Saundi is a student-scholar
Contributor to Life
Hyper-verbal dynamic strife
Western? Sci-Fi? What will follow?

Now if she could not deliver
Every thought that comes to her.*

*It wouldn't be me (Pseudo-Me?) without a sting in the tail.

LC's Challenge Poem

The Meaning Well
(O Mean and Fell)

by Happy Hiram

S'pectorant sparks and flies escape its senseless maw
(Echoing barks and lies, delayed relentless caws)
All useful words are drowned out by its ceaseless din
(Stalwarts, no few, turned 'bout by such beasts as within)
The well of meaning leaves poetry's daunting task
(Ravel and glean things heaved furtive, through drawn damasks)
But verse dares to jump over that sacrosanct wall
(Converse scarce hoodlums caught in the sacristan's hall)
For most aren't stupid, they as participants choose)
(Others fall for this dank pit and its crippling views.)
Purpose fills the choice with better knells to follow,
(But this well's dark voice will tell you souls are hollow.)


Listen to your inner essence, write from it as you hear it.

Carbollocks' Answer

A young poster asks "Can you explain Poetry to me?"

No, I cannot help you
Poetry is an arrow
Pointing off a cliff
It says "Don't jump!"
If you do, you've missed the ship.

If you think
"Thank goodness that was there!"
You've missed the lesson too
Without the arrow
Jumping the cliff
Would never have occurred to you.

Finally you grasp the irony
Of the mislaid instruction
You say "Maybe it means I could have jumped?"
Another erroneous deduction.

Finally you realize
How strange these puzzles feel
And the poem was
to make you feel THAT,
Now you've got it for real.

Carbollocks' Last Poem

Carbollocks' Last Poem

The doors in our hearts
swing one way only
Allow evil in and you
can never shut it out again
So why hide the stain,
why not shout it out
"Here I am,
I have succumbed!"

 ... because shame
is the last vestige of
my walking upright in the light,
the last thing I can call my own.

Put out the lamp and take me
You shitforsouls monsters
before the dawn comes,
before I can cry;
so I can't wake and wonder.

Or wise up and die.

Carbollocks' Second Poem

Carbollocks' Second Poem

Trace of lipstick gleaming
under the residual smoke,
a high heeled toe stomps it out
into my burning flesh.

Pain, I want more but
I am not worthy, my chest
does not heave with enough
passion for this fin de siècle
this age of sadomasochism.

2012, why did you ever come
and why would you ever leave,
tossing the lackluster dolls
of our imagination aside
for a greener Myers-Briggs?

Psychosis is, as psychosis does
few would despair
of finding a mate
if it were no more obscure
than a left sock.

You crush me
With your autonomy
and I bless you
with my fraudulent obeisance.

Carbollocks' First Poem

 Carbollocks' first poem

Mother and lover conspired a plot
Volumes of her handwritten verse -quite a lot!
Reading the site looking for clues
And posting a related poem or two.

They created a character out of whole cloth
Revealing as living the woman they'd lost
She'd would always be sick, but would always shine on
No one would know she was already gone.

Her poetry striking at irons still hot
Ironic, given that the poet's in a pot
But they keep her alive with an email or two
And her work is still relevant, powerful and true.

Wouldn't we all like to live when we've died
Few have succeeded though so many have tried.

"Last Poem"

"Last Poem"
A parody of a poem by Dinesh

What sunny poem drooping from its stalk,
Lies huddled, longing to get talk
And goes on growing when instead
Critically, it should be dead?

No pity, that the poor budding bell
Had not a chance to leap out of its shell,
But realize that reason beating down,
Has turned all claptrap autumn brown.

But who's to say that the Poem needs to fall,
Or chooses to be on the web at all?
Until the music forgets how to climb,
Spare it its life at this moment of time.

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index;_ylt=AnXOC8WULTFjZpmNA_m2BbSn5HNG;_ylv=3?qid=20120326002321AAOM4pn

Response to Someone

The crumpled pit flattened over time
opened, it reveals
infinities of insults and slights
With guilt-ridden slambacks
like goal posts every few miles, streetlights, allowing you
a Byzantine escape from
treacherous landscapes
your mother built for you.

Crumpled like a bad draft in a
waste-basket corner of your mind
seething like an old unstomped out
cigarette butt.

Precipication

Precipication

by Happy Hiram

Dangled over the precipice
you look for that shoe
fallen away amidst distant
pin-sized tsunami peaks wondering what deep-seated
death-wish moves me
to dream this dream over and again,
another shoe and you know
that this is real - your fingers slip
the wind whirls by, wrinkling
the sheets as you wake up.

The Land of Empty

The Land of Empty
(a tale of the Yahoo Poetry Wild West)
By Happy Hiram

I will be kind to my neighbors
Welcome strangers
Live off my land, and never borrow money.
Be honest to my kids
And straightforward in my dealings.

Well the store bought seed was not so good
Got a little stuff that grows better
Of a Mexican passing through

Yeah well I won't tell the young'uns
Their shoes fell off the truck
As the Sears and Roebuck man
Was leaving town.

A few bucks for sugar
I'll pay it back come harvest
I could spare the turnips
But hungry neighbors just get worse
So a shot in the air
Pretty much scares them off.

This one proly just
Came to my door
Looking for the directions
To Tupelo.

Now I gotta figure out where to hide the body.

(P'Quaint: "I'm of the view that nobody leaves this site permanently...once having bitten the bait." -P'Quaint

Hiram: "Once you have been corrupted you are not fit for other, more civilized climes.")

This was it!

This Was It
By Happy Hiram

This is it
Fire your guns.
If you miss
that will be your story...

If you miss your chance
There will be no
story to tell.

There is no locker room afterward,
no bullpen or back porch.
Nobody in the nursing home
will get your name right
even if you make it there.

That was it,
moment gone,
never to come again.

Was it worth your time
was it just an amble
or did the guns
strike this time?

Done, by Happy Hiram

Done

By Happy Hiram

The excitement of a new face
the first touch, that new-again thrill,
I'll never again feel.

No more first dates
disappointing surprises shunned,
no worrying about how I look;
all that childish glamour, done.

Life is now the safety lane,
a steady smile, a ready hand,
but never again a bumpy land.

It is over. Finished.
All that romantic rot.
The novel goes ever on
without chapters or a plot.

I have found her. Seen the one.
All my loneliness is done

Was It Really Always Me?

Was It Really Always Me?

by Happy Hiram

The glue that held
the host together,
the pepper that stirred the stew
the platform that cradled
the dervish
the planet that housed the virus
that made us all sound good
and revive the sputtering muse.

The muse is alive in me
but her sisters languish
in silence, laughing
at the terror of being
a footnote.

Are you 9/10ths below the surface?

Waiting Under a Glacier

time and dark matter
grind me to germinate
make me flower in night
invisible tendrils reaching out
options from my spinneret,
an easel of mental projection
laser thin and curving
under a hidden planet
of your intentions.

Nature Suggesting a Divine Artist?

God sings into the dark void
painting quasars in distant galaxies
far from any eye but His.
Light lost in an infinite silence

Here on sodden earth
trampled under foot
is art more pinked with lilac
than any impressionist's dream.

So much wasted beauty
speaks to a deeper soul
that fathoms it all, yet
can still hear the prayer
in a baby's cry.

The Jury of my Yahoo Peers

--I posted this in Yahoo with the names removed and got a rant from Caz saying stop including her in my diatribes. Notice she is not mentioned!

The Jury

by Happy Hiram                                     

Olympian powered they hold my fate and
like the ghost at a funeral I watch and wait
Dave the foreman tries to steer
but the rebel BG's verdict is clear
Dallas placates all sides around
thinking her true thoughts don't make a sound,
Love Child speaks for the prosecution
but tries to placate those of different resolution

Lapiz defends though she's not really sure
and Chicken Little quivers and longs for the door.
Cheesy and Liz plot to blow up the courts
while Alpha whatever through the documents sorts*
Cassie dwells on their oath to be impartial while Pandora's emotions swing from grievous to martial.
Thomas, the swing vote, sits in the wings
Pondering ancient and unrelated things.

Pete, E, Gene and Neon, back-up jurors
Go home unable to hang him in self-pity and furor.
Hiram stands up, the verdict is rendered.
His Yahoo account to the bailiff is rendered.

*Notice the broken English in this line, my gift to Frederic, Elys, Lapiz and yes my friend Gio, all those Ph'ded, published, renowned or just beloved hackers of the English language. Butchery is seldom beauty when the meat is too archaic.

Love Thine Enemy

Loving Thine Enemy When He Has a Gun To Your Child's Head.

By Happy Hiram

Nobody feels love now.
But what of compassion;
what misery and pain
led to this quandary?

Can I think of my child
fiercely, and thus uselessly
or can I understand
the man with weapon in hand?

Does passion get
the better of love?
Who will win, who will rise?
Understanding holds the key.

When a child's soft hand
reaches for that hot flame
sometimes we bruise it
pushing it away

We may thwart
the terrorist with love
or with hate,
but what is left?

Understanding
is a greater weapon
than is hate.
Compassion
is not weakness
but strength.

Mocking Devils

Not an Original Idea

Good news children
Hold your hat
The future is golden
The future is phat!

Not with the wealth
of Constantine
or the grand success
of a solemn dream;

No, this is a vale
of perilous crap
and enough misery
to seal your YAP;

But the moral comes
like a tacky rhyme,
tragedy close-up
becomes comedy in time.

So clutch your pitiable
senseless tales,
though it seems like
evil long prevails,

For in the end
devil is disgraced
when we laugh at him
right in his face.

Labyrinth Sonnet

Labyrinth Sonnet

by Happy Hiram

On day one, the maze looks fresh and new,

when we start at our circuitous meander,

the first dead end, and we laugh

and then, our next rebuff receives much more candor.

The balmy dew of our perspicacity

leads to no end of trouble

from the height of the myth of our vast capacity

we find we cannot set our dreams to right.

Selling ourselves a new short

we imbibe the false wine of hope and it flattens us

more shattering, and we may not survive

but wander the course, turned gelatinous.

Cul de sacs wait!

To live to see a bend that doesn't culminate another end. 

2/28/2012 

Why Reopen the Scars?

Response to Libby

The ground came open
and Hiram got closed in
In some perverse universe
we should rescue him.
But open again healed scar?
Feel that pain again?
Wanting Ian or Hiram back
is masochism pain.

Enjoy the friendly banter
But don't mention fallen foes
It's perfectly possible
To walk around without toes,
But if the lack of wiggle room
leads poetry's star to set
Just decry the excitement
of the "put down"
as too much to forget?

Why did things go so awry?
When did this ever really work
Do you remember?
Do you want that again?
Freedom comes with a jerk.
So blame the one's who flee this place
Treat reminiscence with scorn
When your acid tongue
is stolen too
will it then be okay to mourn?

Reposted from 2 years ago: My poem about Jerry Lewis and the Muscular Dystrophy Association

Birth of a Cynic

His hero was spokesperson for the charity

The cause, a life-threatening curse

The boy tried to make cash selling lemonade

but it didn't bring much of a purse.

He got two paper routes and tried

to save every possible cent

After two years he raise $100 bucks

and off to the charity it was sent.

He hid the fact of his donation

as a secret in his heart

that he did good no one should know

he just tried to do his part.

His neighbor's nephew had the disease

but ran around with glowing health

The treatment was simple, easy and cheap

So why did the charity seek wealth?

Any child who found out of this cure

they said he was misdiagnosed

And the search went on for expensive cures

needing more and more cash, one supposed.

But the boy could see it had all been a lie

and his money was given to wolves

His passion was ripped like a flower from his heart

and his joy at the world became shelved

The boy carried on though his turbulent heart

Strove with anger and shame and violence

His emotions were wracked and seared and died

and his innocence faded into silence.

Copyright hgl 6-30-2010

What is it that makes us believe?

Comfy-Communion by Happy Hiram I brought my friend to Episcopal mass because Catholic church always drove him ape I hoped for outlet for his struggling faith and to help his religious mania pass. Strange and adult, slightly sinistery I remember watching mass in Latin; now talky priests in vestments of satin breaking the zen, killing the mystery The feminine priest says familiar prayer but she offers communion in 4 ways “Whichever feels comfy”, the blonde priest says and I know why I'd never go back there, “Not like real church.” my friend said as he laughed and my hopes to find him a path were dashed. 2/27/2012

An Answer to HD/Chicken Little's Question

How does my heart hurt? How is Yahoo like my heartless, idiotic smug, self-righteous family of origin (aka, why I don't like synopsis) by Happy Hiram My heart hurts in that little place under the cupboard where my insignificance  is the only hope of safety. Where elephants trod over feelings, evidence, reality and replace it with words; and all you can walk away with is a scrap of self. After that when someone quotes Schiller, or paraphrases Hawking you know where this is leading; devaluing you, putting their loaded brains, their know-how and brute force in your mouth and pulling the trigger. Reality is up for grabs assertions are little stabs. People are beasts, evidence is yeast Devouring with knowing jabs. 2/27/2012

Hiram's Oscars

Oscar Smoshker We have waited for days making sick canapes through the channels a-lighting seeking red carpet sightings Who's gown will succeed or become blogsmears feed? We judge in, out or down each celeb in the town... Poor Seann William Scott by the Oscars, forgot Meryl Streep has been snubbed (but at least made the club...) Old George Clooney's a wreck with Pitt neck and neck; Dujardin takes the prize with Uggie by his side. till the wee hours of dawn they will still party on... To the Governor's ball on Kimmel shall we call Checking out who was there at Vanity Fair. By the end vacant stare I've forgotten why I care.

The Story of The Little Lost Fly

Frozen in the Moment by Happy Hiram Our fly is stuck in amber stinking of dinosaur sweat running from greedy spiders, seeking out foetid flesh. Stars converge/diverge, hairy armpits replace antediluvian quill follicles while he, still dreams of fossilized walking birds, now turned into plastic bags and motor oil. The jungle has now become a thrice filtered product, sanitized for your protection by scavengers and squirrels.

Alone With My Thoughts/Ode To Blocks

Alone With My Thoughts

by Happy Hiram

Alone with my thoughts
Free of Yahoo's hem and haw 
Afloat in a somnambulist's bath 
Chomping at the nasty muzzle 
Longing for those old 4 point restraints: 
#1 You can't say ass, 
#2 The one who always says "It's your own fault!" 
#3 TD's like a stray dog's unexpected urine; 
warm, innocuous and anti-septic, 
#4 What am I without blocks? 

Ode to Blocks 

(The poem within the poem) 

There is no love without hazing 

Space equals angry white death 

Walls make life a-maze-ing 

My friends and I, unpalatably cleft. 

I would do it again for $50 Buks 

That was then and this now sucks. 

Now comes the ending, are you seated my chill'uns? 
Alone with my thoughts is better indeed 
Than alone with your reactions. 
How does THAT make you feel?

To The Denizens of Yahoo

Haven

Haven

by Happy Hiram 

Whitney Singing with the choir

Poets reach what they aspire

clocks go back

no problems tack

there is no muck and mire.

Lenny Bruce comes for the ride

complains there's no underside

he can't mock

'cause peace ain't schlock

so it sucks being snide.

Orchids bloom, 'till the girls all swoon

hot chicks hang in every room

candles dancing

light romancing

love that tucks away the tomb.

Whiskey, water, wine and ale

"Drink up, boys! We soon set sail!"

Devastation

to limitations.

Just grab your ruck for the rails.

Fishing for the less venturous

no one's here to censure us

Grab a pipe,

I think I might!

 (It makes me look more lecherous!!)

Peace at home for young and spry

Coffee, tea and apple pie

spitting needs

like melon seeds

who needs what or where or why?

In the midst I see it calling

snowy cherry blossoms falling

at the end of miseries wailing

nothing ending, sick or failing;

coming out of life's tunnel

birthing from a pastry funnel

to a life like a wedding cake

no uncertainty or mistake

a chance to harbor our souls and heal;

a pity heaven isn't real.

Happy Hiram Unleashed

The skies have changed, the road bends

the time comes to break out on our own.

We'll miss some enemies, and some friends

But life is a journey we must all go alone.

If I can bring a smile or laugh to your face

or make you pissed off (As only I know how!)

then joy and energy can alight on this place

and Hiram can be unleashed, unfettered, unbowed.

If you want to contribute to this artistic asylum

email me a poem, at writehappyhiram (@gmail.com)