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)