Poetry: Selections from Phil Huffy

Neverland

 

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.