Poetry: Selections from Phil Huffy

Never a voice of kindness heard
nor any gaze of love beheld,
with aching hearts
in an empty place
on a barren shore
have the lonely dwelled.
Never a warm, embracing touch
nor soft, felicitous requite,
as time goes by
and all hope is lost
and despair pervades
an unending night.

Way Down Sixties Town
Though infrequently airborne,
there have been a few times,
as landing gear emerged
and velocity slowed,
when I looked at my hometown,
finding landmarks in view
and neighborhoods neatly
and carefully arrayed,
pondering that well known song
about little boxes,
mocking conformity
in the post war milieu,
and recalled that Tom Lehrer
had found it to be the
most sanctimonious
song that he’d ever heard.

Beatles  Shindig!  1964

Girl in the front row,
I’ve wondered where you were
and how life may have unfolded.
I glimpse you, in black and white,
there with your young friends
as the camera pans by.
The Fab Four plays briskly,
almost careless
as Lennon’s low notes betray him
and your image thrills me,
in that moment of screen time,
moving neatly to the music.
If your clothes were at a museum,
I would welcome the display,
like the King’s Coat or the Ruby Slippers.
To picture you as a grown woman
requires some imagination,
yet the template is there before me.
How your charms must have blossomed!
I envy those who have known you,
wishing I could have been among them.
Yeah, yeah, yeah

Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table, casting a wide net as to form and substance. Recent placements include Orchards Poetry, Bindweed, North Dakota Quarterly, and Calliope.