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.