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

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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

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.

 

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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;

        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.

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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.

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.

In Answer to Cassie58's poem

August Reigns

Serendipity prefers months 
That end with snow or thaw
But oppressive, steady heat
Has got me in its maw.

The month was ripe for picking
No valentines or marking days 
When it crept in, I didn't catch
The addiction in its ways.

Now I am an August child
Basquing in its steam
Thinking of crocuses or fallen leaves
As some unwanted dream.

August languorates my words
The sentences turn legion
And my heart is a little bird 
That wants no other season.

My new friends are the reason.

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