Emberace

I have experienced 

so many 

“last moments” 

of my life, 

when I knew 

I was about to die, 

and each one 

was different. 

How many 

more seconds will I waste 

staring at the chasm 

instead of embracing 

the fire 

of all that my life is.

Sailing on the Gulf of Yap!

Golden green-dayglow
upchuck, brittle as it is stale
left flailing next to lovely English countrysides
filled with jazz and memories.

Offal awful tutencommonplaces
forage around Sam Spade encomiums.

Yellowed word salad frobishers
apoplectic as the man behind the curtain
pair with pithy, parlor trick peons to laughter.

What Is It?

The fuse is lit 

but made of water 

it rises, a mist 

and starts it's slaughter... 

...fearing hate, eschewing love 

it's hell is in the Heaven's above 

But still it breeds 

a silent slither 

calls young, weak minds 

come, come hither. 

The media calls it a pagan queen 

but it is less historic, and more obscene. 

Answer: ISIS 

Kiss This Poem Goodbye

Kiss these words farewell
as I throw them on the fence
my troll escaped his cell
to rob my every presence.

What I shall write herein
will quickly be erased
because of his thin skin
my work must be effaced.

So it goes ever onward
Posts-Reports-Appeals
Till trolls turn to kind words
Or Yahell's freeze congeals.

These words will not grow wings
But removal prove their stings.

The Empty Mirror

I am not writing poetry

the moondog doesn't howl 

why call it a new moon

if it can't be seen?

The sun has gone, 

I have nothing to reflect 

the talent has moved on 

leaving pedants 

whining old ladies and pedos.

Reflected light has cycles 

and shines in new and hidden ways 

not every night can be a harvest 

but hope of it ignites our days.

Can we diddle around with poetry while the Ukraine burns?

Standard Bearers

Inspired by Chuck (I wanted to fix it in other words)
The bear has unleashed her claws;
do you face her down
or blink,
or pause?
Can you weave your way to neutrality
or will you face the storm
throw back fury for fury?

Do you toot on the trumpet or answer it?
Are your martial words a prelude
or sh!t?
Can you stand behind one more Neville Chamberlain
or stand at the bulwark
with your resolve plain?

Yahoo Now Hates Poetry

Ghost-Post Town 

Settlers gone

fields fallow

the grass overgrown

roads are narrowed.

Sign is rusty 

population one 

the corn tastes nasty 

wanna get me some 

and throw it idiots who say

marketing plans like thus:

"Run the rail through Yahoo A,

it will help this place so much"

Speak To Me of Friendship

If my friend is betraying me in small things

It is better for me to just look away

Friendship can move Everest I've heard it said 

So why let mole hills hold the slightest of sway?

Competition vies for the truest of hearts

I'll stand firm as Atlas at the interchange 

You'll think I'm a fool, as blind as any post

Still I remain though it may strike your as strange.

Friendship is the rock on which my patience stands

Kinship is a lock though tampers make demands.

Modified from a post by Roann

25% of this piece I cannot take any credit for. this rhyme-game was modeled on a conventional poem by Roann.

Pick-A-Path Poem

(At each choice pick one couplet or the other)

------------------------------------------------Stanza 1

I lay down on a sandy beach,
And lazy, closed my sleepy eyes; (Pick 1a or 1b)

 1a. A thund’rous rumble broke my sleep

And storm clouds muddled my surprise (Go to 2a.)

-or-

1b. With the wild waves just out of reach,
Under the baby blue bright skies. (Go to 2b.)

 

------------------------------------------------Stanza 2

2a. Then ocean roiled and drenched the sand

And rain-filled clouds threatened the same (Pick 2c or 2d)

2c. I found a hut that was at hand

Seeking to skip the violent rain. (Go to 3i.)

-or-

2d. But with some urge to escape land

I hid from the rain in the surf’s mane. (Go to 3j.)

 

2b. A dolphin called out, smiled at me,
Beseeching me to come and play; (Pick 2e or 2f)

2e. I waved back and swam out to sea,
On that glorious gold summer’s day. (Go to 3k.)

-or-

2f. Binoculars I took to see

Sharks, not dolphins, teeth in array. (Go to 3l.)

 

------------------------------------------------Stanza 3

3i. the hut was dark and strewn with weeds

Yet it had long served passersby (Pick 3g or 3h)

3g. Though it appeared to meet my needs

I quickly chose to leave the sty (Go to 4g.)

-or-

3h. A step inside, and my toe bleeds

Stung by a jellyfish fling inside. (Go to 4h.)

3j. Under the waters, sky so wroth

Was pickled and gingerly mute (Pick 3c or 3d)

3c. The water’s safety, warm and soft

Guarded me from storms abuse. (Go to 4c.)

-or-

3d. Till thunder pierced from high aloft

Shattering me down to the root (Go to 4d.)

3k. We chased the waves, beneath the sun,
And searched deep for sunken treasure; (Pick 3a or 3b)

3a. We found a jewel golden spun
We found pure fun and pleasure! (Go to 4a.)

-or-

3b. But ocean games are not all fun

All face the end of child’s leisure. (Go to 4b.)

3l. Furious teeth sped up my step

Fleeing from the empty beach (Pick 3e or 3f)

3e. I called a cab to end my trip

The very first payphone I reached (Go to 4e.)

-or-

3f. I heard the screams from echoed depth

And saw blood on the ocean’s crease. (Go to 4f.)

 

------------------------------------------------Stanza 4

4a. My soul rejoiced, joy brimmed my heart,
And then I woke up with a start...

4b. My soul rejoiced, joy brimmed my heart

Despite watching the waves depart.

4c. Mother Ocean serves her children best

When they reside in her den.

4d. Half dead, my mind was vicious smoke

Then with a startle – I awoke!

4e. Dolphins can be a lot of fun

But when you see the shark  -- its done!

4f. Not one word – believed the police

They claim three murders – first degrees!

4g. the sky cleared up, the sun returned

And fear-clad memories were spurned.

4h. I thought my time would end too soon

Help brought ammonia for my wound.

 

The original from Answers

Happy Hiram Is poetry real or is it just dexterous exercise?

In the Poet's magic kingdom
Readers read their works
And a hush falls on the battle field
the stanzas are just like church,

In the Rhymer's fantasy lands
Every response is praise
They write about their navel lint
Watch muses as they graze.

The Poets room is a basement sublet
And his job is toilet cleaning
He thinks about white puffy clouds
And leaves the bathrooms gleaming.

The Rhymer's reality is
That he is quite unknown
And writes about great birds of prey
But he has never flown.

Cinder Claws (They turn everything to ashes)

They bleep you when your guilty
They bleep you when your pure
They know when you've been very good
and they bleep you even more....

O you better watch out
you'd better not cry
better not pout (I'm telling you why...)
Cinder Claws reported your Q

That curly haired doll
that bobbles and coos
seems like its chat
so REPORT -- there goes you
Cinder Claws reported your Q.

(Poems about:)
Elephants, boats
and Kiddie cars too.
Aren't all about
poetry. soooo...
Cinder Claws reported your Q.

The kids in Yahoo Poetry
Will have a jubilee.
Their gonna make a wax figure
and burn Claws in effigy!

O you better watch out
Don't claim innocent
At Claws do not shout (can't help it, he's bent)
Cinder Claws reported your Q

Marred With Chilblains

What is it that draws me to the inane characters
That makes me feel they are real and sure
I watched the final episode of Married With Children
on Youtube and now I wanted more.

So I flipped right back to episode one
and I started to watch it again
when the actors were still so stiff in their roles
My reaction is hard to explain

It was as is Al and Kelly and Peg
were they, but not fully formed
and the solace I took in their reality
was chilled when I wanted it warmed.

If Bud and Peggy are not real
then a little piece of me is fake too
the show falls apart and my universe dies
though its hard to describe to you.

Standing on the edge of a precipice
where imagination leaves sanity
searching through YouTube episodes
trying to respark my humanity.

Try as I might, when I went to sleep
all my sugar plums were sclerotic
my sky and my stars were on cardboard
and my psyche was nearly psychotic.

Dawn arrived in the usual way
as I stared at the walls in my room
suddenly something appeared to me
out of the early gloom

It was the box of a DVD set
with a picture of Al's puerile grimace
reminding me of the feelings that it inspired
and that THAT reality is in us.

So I shook off the coil of solipsism
and stared at the rising sun.
Married with Children is long gone
but my love for its just begun.

A blast from the Past

Sycamore Days

I've spent a whole lifetime

in the branches of trees

looking down on the world

with the memory of an elephant.

Trees take the long view

change is all about water

the seasons are a haircut

future – a long adolescence.

My mother was young, my dad old.

Planes flew over every 3 minutes.

The farms were shrinking

and the strip malls growing.

A boy looks like a speck

hidden by the camo-skin

of a fifty foot sycamore

in the green, green youth of spring.

It seems to be Earth Day in Yahoo today (6 months early)

Mud

Who makes a meal out of mud
who vests in soils and sand?
When did carbon replace blood
and dirt get measured by the hand?

All things being equal
Earth would be a better place;
but what is high is tall
and what is low debased.

It's all mud -- you, me, Zuckerberg!
We're all on a one way trip
so save a gosh-darned iceberg
I won't give you much lip.

S’macintiosh

Words that are the pear-fruit of my mind
The zest of fickle trickledown
churning in the belly vocabulary
usurps the usual sensible vegetables
seeking freaky twerking of verbiage.
Neologism -- a shiny apple, hovers;
I pick one and go on for a bite.

A prayer to the thinking man's God

We, who know our insignificance, call out to You  
Though too small to see even the decimal point above us, we shout with longing into the night.  Though too faint to even hear an echo, we are sure that our message gets through.

We, who know our significance, call out to You 

Like a dog who sits loyal at the foot of the bed, we share in the great godly gift of observing. To see the world around us is, in some small way, to be one with God.  YOU see the world with an all-loving all-knowing eye, while we watch the world with a glance of the more educational variety.  Teach us how to see. Make us worthy of consciousness.

We, still searching for our place, call out to You

Our future, dark and puzzling to us, is laid out clearly by you. You are our rudder and our star. But we can only right ourselves with you here and now, by offering you our pains to see. You know them already, and in seeing them you challenge us, but we can only change when we remember that you are seeing – and when we see you in all things.

We, who know our place, call out to You

Let our prayer be a healing fire that burns away all barriers between us and Your Will. With our hearts, minds and spirits we pray to know your path for us and what use our small gifts can be in the vast world that is our connection to you. We serve others in the hope that it will bring us ever closer to understanding you. And we pray to remind ourselves of our significance, our insignificance, our search for and our place in
Your Will.

Amen
 

Poem for a Friend who needs a Critique

A poem about being a troubled kid,

Voiced by a vain and confused young man

Some gibberish nightmare garbled and hid

Buried in Mickey Mouse dreams and flim-flam.

Obsessed with medievals  he cannot sort 

Throwing on words for the rhyme each earns

Using ideas as a Malaprop's tort

Phrased vaguely, tangled and bald by turns.

I feel there's a message here wanting the stage, 

But the poet is afraid to hear his own voice

To withhold may be wise, to reveal may be brave

But halfies and halfies is never a choice.

Write something else or give all that you've got 

All you get is crap by sitting on the pot.

I put the Mirror Poem that goes with this in Rants because it is a bit harsh 

Fly Paper

I wish that I could be there   to celebrate the season   but oceans and continents   are broader than reason   Still I'd like to be   a fly upon your wall    sharing a taste of your day;   that is all. I've no more to say.

Have a Scary Happy October!

Poetry from August 2013

 ALL Poems by Happy Hiram

copyright HGL 2013

-------------------------------------------

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

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.

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.

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

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.

Nine digits represent nine strange minds
Poking about in a world sublime
Seeking as only thin fingers can
Thinking kinesthetics once a happy band.

 

-------------------------------------------

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;

        Obama's on Syria, "Let's go then..."
        (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 torn
         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.

-------------------------------------------

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.

-------------------------------------------

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.

Ohio Cadence

Fortune Cookies

Seeing all, saying much with a helpful hand and a sardonic laugh, critical judgement was never so kind as is hers. The smiling sun and peeking moon of our adventure.

He plays his cards so close to his chest you'd think he had none,

but for the gleaning that he takes from every action at the table.

An open hand, looking for the right curve, to give again without ending up empty; a great spirit masquerading as a small one.

Her thoughts compete and her caution too often wins, giving us only a portion of her compassion, wit and insight.

He wades to the center of the lake, takes off his clothes and conducts traffic. He is the center, the network, the gravitas and the court jester.

The little boy who could, Mozart of dreamland, chain saw of reason, chain saw TO reason and will want to know (in detail) what any of this means.

Hapless, helpless and easy-going hides a poker face and a will to good that can move mountains as soon as she chooses.

He wandered into the wood looking for spores and was frightened by the Munchkins he found there. Grand life constrained by the budgie bailiff.

Sadness, madness and innocence in a dervish dance of puns and theories. A child, an intellect, and a satchel full of stories playing king of the hill in his mind.

Coda

I woke up in my own bed 

smells of Cochocton still in my head

Bonfire hair, water swirled toes

Keeping a secret that everybody knows 

Tilting my phone like a magic eight-ball

trying to make it load or call

Imagining the other people's road

And what baggage they have to unload.

Bonds are elastic but memory is finite 

I can't keep the moments

But I will use the insight;

When I am eighty four

this hope still extends:

My capacity for making friends.