ALL Poems by Happy Hiram
copyright HGL 2013
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Notes from A Nine Fingered Reality
Nine digits represent nine strange minds
Poking about in a world sublime
Seeking as only thin fingers can
Thinking kinesthetics without a hand.
One finds a reason to rise each day
Hiding its dark side and smiling away
Hiding its dark side and smiling away
Two carries on despite burdens of grief
Hiding a genius for joy underneath.
Three builds a temple round an open wound
But starts to see daylight amidst the gloom.
But starts to see daylight amidst the gloom.
Four builds sandcastles in the air
And mocks anyone who would live there.
Five takes the center and dares all comers
Consorts with phantoms and dresses down mummers.
Consorts with phantoms and dresses down mummers.
Six lives in a village of it's own
Wondering why it is all alone.
Seven's emotions and intellect excel
But chases a perfect body as well
But chases a perfect body as well
Eight sees the world with a hard-boiled eye
But nevertheless can play sweetly, or sly.
Nine is wayfaring, yet completely blind
Turns beauty to muck with its dirty mind.
Turns beauty to muck with its dirty mind.
Nine digits represent nine strange minds
Poking about in a world sublime
Seeking as only thin fingers can
Thinking kinesthetics once a happy band.
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Damask Scene
A Damask is a designed cloth that looks the same frontwards and
backwards. It has a single weave (theme) and was the signature product
of Damascus during the Ottoman, Byzantine and many empires before.
The missile crisis was another hoax,
The real conundrum: where the rocket pokes;(he really wants a shot at Snowden)
The Russians back their despot client
No matter how disturbed, derailed, defiant.
If war occurs it won't be drones and 'raqis
The whole region becomes explosive's frackies
The curtains tornThe whole region becomes explosive's frackies
the lines are drawn
rebellion sees another morn
and bodies strewn like seed corn...
Is all we'll have to show for it.
What's the alternative? Go for it.
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The Masochist's Dream
In dreams I see, you are a sullen shrew
who in the day are nothing if not kind
But when I sleep, you drive me raging blind.
Awake, I find a very saint in you.
What harpy married my somnabulant self
and started on this course of infamy?
You there are not yourself, and I'm not me
But when I wake all rage goes on a shelf.
What could be the reason for my sad state?
Who would dream of evil with a sweet mate,
everything in dreams is not for reason's sake;
The things that dreams concoct -- daylight may sate.
Perhaps I do not feel the way I think
and would prefer the pain at which I blink.
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Response to Firecat's Poem
Garbage in, garbage out they say
My evil past thus gets in my way
Our ghosts are screaming in a white hot noise
Shouting that its the players and not the toys
The odds don't matter 'cause its not a game
For the layers of our onion are all the same.
The stars cannot speak if we're still in the dark
But with death hanging over, there's no walk in the park
Children of tomorrow will still find their fun
The cataclysm is glacial and never gets done.
Write them of faith in their lonesome self
'Cause they've put gods and sages away on the shelf.
Courage is Anachron's fading gray hair
All the kids want is a game and a chair
The children of the flowers use walkers these days
The electrics gone out of their weary gaze.
My evil past thus gets in my way
Our ghosts are screaming in a white hot noise
Shouting that its the players and not the toys
The odds don't matter 'cause its not a game
For the layers of our onion are all the same.
The stars cannot speak if we're still in the dark
But with death hanging over, there's no walk in the park
Children of tomorrow will still find their fun
The cataclysm is glacial and never gets done.
Write them of faith in their lonesome self
'Cause they've put gods and sages away on the shelf.
Courage is Anachron's fading gray hair
All the kids want is a game and a chair
The children of the flowers use walkers these days
The electrics gone out of their weary gaze.
