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Mike Hufford Poem
Out of the mouse hole of my childhood,
made your first impression
on this sprouting brain,
enticed by the endless wonder
and entranced by the majestic splendor
of your colored two dimensional tales
that filled this void of a heart,
endings carved out
of the most intricate dreams;
splendid beauty never gazed once upon before.
just a friendly, peppy mouse
frolicking jubilantly,
ready to befriend this winsome psyche.
A Wonderful World indeed,
embedding wishes upon stars
before these fabled eyes,
dreaming of a happier place
painting unbreakable magic over toil,
longing to rid my existence
of the clouded nightmares,
far greater than Bald Mountain,
fantastic follies were never met with such welcome.
zip a dee dooh dahs
echo softly,
fostered child delivered a glossy, coated package.
A faint princess and her seven miniature men,
a puppet who ached to be a real boy,
fairy godmothers, Never Never land,
fantasmic fantasias,
one Walt's waltz of fancy
and a spirited little mermaid;
all spellbinding stories that leaped
in this impressionable spirit,
like a bouncing tiger pouncing
on a silly ole' bear;
giving weight to my blossoming imagination
and giving this adolescent emerging hope.
wishes upon stars
burn blazing,
giving this burdened soul whimsical optimism.
Back into the mouse hole
thirty five years young,
fireworks dazzle this now grown orphan
able to visit these fantasy destinations
and embed these heroic tales
on new impressionable egos,
never loosing the impeccable power
and growing in this vessel of flesh
like thorns over a guarded castle,
never escaping,
never fleeting,
burning brighter than mystical candlelight;
fiction and life joined in the humanity.
Be My Guest
chants gingerly,
all from the magic of one mouse.
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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Mike Hufford Poem
He stood beside me,
Wading in the waves of dreams
And in childlike pose;
Drifting on that fall day,
Above the sinking sand
And below any care of pretentious doubt.
I stood my back to him,
Hearing his laughter
Dance to ocean's wind;
Keeping my heart afloat
And my mind at bay.
I can still see the waves.
We were children then,
As close as two kindred spirits
Could be.
Now in our dormant thirties;
We are strangers,
Mere castaways on the beaches of time
And strangers
On the island of productivity.
Too busy for a phone call,
Too idle for a visit,
Too shallow for forgiveness.
But I can still see the waves.
I wonder,
Does he remember?
We were thick as two washed up
Sandollars;
Stranded,
Linked,
Hidden behind the rocks.
As close as two seagulls;
Hovering,
Gliding,
Riding the breeze of paradise.
How I miss those days,
Those memories,
Still paintings in the shadows
Of my mind;
Im not sure he if can recall
Those thumbnails of time,
Those pictures framed
In the attic of our frozen
heart.
Im sure he's blinded by hate,
Still drowning in pain....
But I can still see the waves.
11/14/2015 Mike Hufford
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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Mike Hufford Poem
Manufactured, made up parts
flow into this mechanical heart.
Beat-
And I will transform
Pulse-
And i will morph into
a man,
a machine,
a synthesis of void emotions.
Battled hands, wounded mind
these are a few tricks of mine.
Pump,
I will retaliate
Attack,
I will defend
all my senses,
all my traits,
my weapons of destructive choice.
Im not primed,
to function human...
But Im not machine enough
to lose my manhood...
I just continue to transform.
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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Mike Hufford Poem
I was not there the day my father died. Father's shadow deported in the heavens's light, toddler memories do not recall when he ascended, never heard his wafting echo. Missing, fragment pieces of an incomplete jigsaw puzzle, scattered about my blooming existence. Wading in a bathtub the night he passed, to never remember his touch but to know in his fleeting moment, we were both in water, both in motion. Synchronized in time but separated by nature's
calculated undertow.
Rubber duckies dance
As an icy graveyard forms
From under below
Years before I would know these fixed moments in time existed, a lifetime of riddled questions plaguing my faded childhood. Mother remarried, a pattern of dreams spiraling to my now withered, beaten thirties, never speaking, keeping mum. Never painting detail with the paintbrush to my defining canvas, greedy with the abstract colors. Only she has chosen the color wheel, keeping absent any knowledge that would characterize the blood flowing in my stranger veins.
Child bruises slowly heal
venomous mother scars
both wounds yet to scab
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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Mike Hufford Poem
IF I may approach the bench;
Do not hold in me in comtempt,
Do not judge me with your plantiff eyes,
Ive sworn to the truth
And married the lie,
Ive given the facts;
Proclaimed my innocence.
You threw the book at me,
Too soon.
Im too late,
Let your bitter judgement rule...
Why am I on trial?
I plead only on the basis
Of this hung jury,
You've made up your mind
And I cant change ignorance...
I can just appeal.
There's no justice in doubt,
No doubt the in the truth;
Bang your mallot,
Hang up your robe;
May I suggest a plea bargain?
We agree to disagree....
But you've already cast my fate:
CASE dismissed.
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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Mike Hufford Poem
In the calm of white,
I find sweet serenity
As the winter rain
Beats my frozen brow,
Like Joan Crawford and a dozen wire hangers.
Natures's confetti,
I dance in the shower
As I drop all my insecurities
That plague this sweatered heart,
Now free to find my hidden inner child.
Frosted ice cakes,
Cocca wishes,
An ivory parade of December dreams.
Mountain of joy,
Cabin of smiles,
This time of year I truly come alive.
Snow angels,
I pray to the heavens
I never lose this smile
Mothed in the attic
Of corporate obligations
And nine to five demands.
Winter Jacket Paradise,
Racing down the hill
Like a herd of artic gazelles
Frollicing in the wonder
Of mitten kisses
And snowman hugs.
Snowflake dishes,
Yuletide pancakes,
These were days my heart would soar.
Melted heartaches,
Frozen memories,
Why cant everyday be a Snow Day?
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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Mike Hufford Poem
Ive got 5 minutes,
12 seconds
And a only marlboro menthol
To make this decision,
This universal riddle
That plays like a broken fiddle
In the orchestra
Of my nicotine soaked brain;
How do I fix my life?
Ive punched in,
Ive punched out,
Ive sought therapists,
Prayer,
Religion,
Nicotine patches
And self help books;
Ive yet to solve the problem.
3 minutes,
2 seconds,
And 4 puffs in;
How do I find peace?
Is there a chance
I can redeem myself?
Thirty something
Aging like a withered stone,
This inertia,
This forever pause....
(Cough)
I need to cut back on these
Cowboy killers.
1 minute flat;
I have no clue.
How to rebuild,
To start over,
To create a new life;
More fulfilled,
More satisfying,
More accomplished.
3 seconds left.....
(COUGH)
I just need to Quit.
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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Mike Hufford Poem
Putrid hatred forming like a snail slinking to the mossy ground below,
Leeching to disgust that drains the emotion from my still life face.
I am a canvas of anguish,
Colored by tension raving in my veins like
A lucid teenager,
Unaware of the angst
But no fear to the tide of idiotic chaos
Married by rash, hasty decisions.
Mark your calendar, my day of dread is near.
Macabre thoughts twisting like a coiled snake hidden by a cave of lies,
Slithering with the scales of dishonesty that masks this next door neighbor personna.
I am becoming a cabinet of rage,
Liqoured by the fumes of aggrevation
Like a teething toddler,
Unable to communicate
But screeching with an infant banshee cry
Only to be coddled in the carress of maternal love.
I do not know this reflection of this man in the mirror.
Copyright © Mike Hufford | Year Posted 2015
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