Tuesday, June 5, 2012

A.J. Huffman is a poet and freelance writer in Daytona Beach, Florida.  She has previously published four collections of poetry: The Difference Between Shadows and Stars, Carrying Yesterday, Cognitive Distortion, and . . . And Other Such Nonsense.  She has also published her work in national and international literary journals such as Avon Literary Intelligencer, Writer's Gazette, and The Penwood Review.  Find more about A.J. Huffman, including additional information and links to her work at http://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100000191382454 and https://twitter.com/#!/poetess222.

Cyber Kisses

[Flutter flutter flutter] *sigh* MWAH!
wink (blink) one-eyed smiley ;)
So many ways to send expressions
of emotions.  Tangibly flying over signal
streams.  It’s a wonder we ever come
uncrossed.  But I guess desire
always finds its fort.  Write and with
unmuted vibrations:  There is more
than one way to touch . . .

Imprinted by Thought[less Fingers]

I am hollow.  There is nothing

left inside.  I have been gutted.

Disheart[en]ed.

Helpless.  Insignificant.  Disregarded.

Disposed.  I have no lungs.

I cannot breathe.  I have no mind.

I cannot process

thoughts of continuation.  I have

no heart.  I cannot feel

anything.  Not even the empty I accept

is there.  I want to blame.

You.  But it is my fault.  I trusted.

Cared.  Loved.  Believed

in the serial untruths I was fed

daily.  I followed your dots

to a make-shift world.  Thin as paper,

it fell at first light.  Or was it first sight

of another shinier shell?  You left me

wrapperless.  Candy in the pennystore.

Tested and tasted.  And wasted.

Now I am broken.  Pieces

still on the floor and your shoe.

Scrape me off.  Sweep me up.  Or just leave

me to melt away.

Framing Mine

I can breathe here.  In the dark forest

behind [the glass of] your mind.  I am

clearer in this lightless unbox.  Without labels

and strings, I dance.  The perfect butterfly:

broken and wingless.  Yours.  Without any need

for the prick of your pin.

On Pedestals Labeled Home

You worship such strange gods here.

In this room.  Here

in this bed.  [You have] Short-sheeted

devotion.  Its stiffness scars my skin. 

Was I not what you intended?  To bleed,

purity is required.  I passed that inspection

(just barely) and yet you are turning

toward a better sacrifice.  I am

already open[ly failing].  What better fantasy

to feed the clouds.  Willing is always superior

[to wanting].  At least when there is a hunt

or a hunger to feed.

A.J. Huffman

Sunday, March 4, 2012

His Garden That Grows

His garden, expanding
side-by-side,
vegetating
in a medical hothouse

sprout nurses
weeding out
bad habits
from each host plant

making room for
seedlings
to blossom

tiny vegetable sprouts
kicking
accepting internal care-taking
from
ripened, flowering
grandmother roots

His voluptuous
breeding patch

His pride

seasons slowly
freeze purpose
virile roots reach
menopause

He
who granted purpose
destroys it

gathers
His remaining gifts
leaving each once-
thriving plant empty

to die.

Mr. Love And His Bass Guitar
Dear Mr. Love,

I have that precious
Guitar of yours here

singing a
sad piece of strain.
It misses you,

it misses silent exchanges,
honest eyes,
intimate interpretation,

it misses the glide of your thumb
on its glossy body,

your long delicate fingers softly wrapped
around the back of its neck,

the gentleness of your fingers lightly
pulling its strings,
rubbing knobs

learning composition,
size,
shape,

every radius
every marker.

It misses
your sensitive
attention
to its proper tuning,

it misses
your
protective embrace
and meticulous care,

it misses you.

You mishandled it,
plucked hard at its strings,
played the wrong chord,

frustration
led to
graceless skill,

you became clumsy!

I have your precious
Bass here,
Mr. Love.

Do you want her still?


The Fraudulent

Thousands of feet above
barbaric bolts,
above jagged strikes

she strikes
hard, hammer
head on

ice nails deep
through, a blanket of security,
a bridge,

a thin refuge under
her feet, thin
skinned, alive,
barely walking up -
right.

A fraud approaches,
grayness builds, bolts
strike, heavy voices open

a man,
a fraud with blank checks
promises, firm
sure ground
as ice
trickles
down,
down,
down.

The Girl In The Corner

Mr. Love
carries precious, healthy equipment.
Fresh strings.
Fine tuned.
Sealed. Protected.

Every Wednesday,
he walks through
slab doors
to
mask his tragedy
in performance,
in music;
secretive, but not

in secret.
A
ready bar-tender slides
a wink

in his direction;
a “Love-fiend” throws
rose scented
gyrations at his feet.

Small,
hungry Venus’ have been
enthralled by
his capacious skill
with rhythmic equipment.

Like, Sara,
a small attachment
constantly latching on
to his jeans
to his art,

his vulnerable walnut
masterpiece, a rare piece
that delicate,

clean hands
dream about caressing
with saturated
intelligence,

an explorers kiss.

The Girl

I want an extra heart for
her

the girl with the fertile palms

she has dripped
a thousand colors on
logic

decorated
dark nights to
match
the sentiment of her
soundtrack

she recorded a day for me
showing me
the anatomy
of a
footprint

she measured sounds of
crickets and
caterpillars

set them to soothe when
it was time
for me to listen

I wish I had an extra heart
or that my single
heart would
share itself

I would give it to her

the girl with
the colors
the sights
the sounds

Maggie Mae