The Fox in the Florette
I’m a fluffy little red fox
furry tail and four white socks
I went to play beside the lake
stopped to chat with a long green snake beside the rocks
We told some tales, soaked up the sun
we lingered ’til the day was done
we didn’t have a single need
but at the end we both agreed, the day was fun.
Hike in Julian (to get in shape)
hag bumbling
crag crumbling
knees crying
trees dying
sage slowing
age showing
crone alone
alone crone
showing age
slowing sage
dying trees
crying knees
crumbling crag
bumbling hag
When I Say, “Me, Too”
When I say, “me, too”
don’t mansplain about how some women dress
go into anatomical detail about what shows and doesn’t
insinuate they are asking for it?
Do you know what “me, too” means?
No matter where a woman goes
She has to
decide when to meet eyes, and when not to
feel guilty if she wants to dress pretty
maneuver to keep out of reaching distance
avoid an elevator
an airport shuttle
the parking garage
listen for footsteps behind her
Do you?
You have a brain between those ears
someone taught you right from wrong
that brain can overrule hormones, you know
Do you remember Mom saying,
“Just because all the lemmings
are jumping over the cliff
doesn’t mean you have to join them”?
You don’t have to participate in lewd talk
body shaming
joke that her clothes are asking for it
touch what she does not want touched
require a bribe or payment for that job, that raise
assume her silence is consent
When a woman says, “me, too”
she may shake and cry
reach into the pain
she has tried to bury
remember the stranger, the babysitter,
the boyfriend, her brother, her uncle,
her father
When a woman says, “me, too”
she is your mother,
your sister, your grandmother
your wife, your daughter
don’t make a joke
don’t make excuses
don’t shift the blame
and if somehow my words cause you to
reach inside your dark places
and grasp your own uncomfortable recollection
then hold that dark memory up to sun
examine its razor edges
Its cancerous warts of excuse
place it on your alter
as a sacrifice
When I say, “me, too”
will you repudiate the perpetrator
stop making excuses?
Will there come a day when my daughter
or granddaughter won’t have to say,
“me, too?”
What I Fear Most
What I fear most
is a lack of collaboration
mind, body,
spirit, if it exists,
bowing out at different times
Dad did it right
sang me a song
the day before he died
mind still clear
walked and talked
and only lay down
to give us a heads up
it was time to say
so long
I fear being unable to
talk or walk
when my mind is sharp
unable to say,
I love you
Take care of each other
Feed the dog
Think I’ll die now
Or worse
to exist in forgetfulness
to grieve my missing mind
not knowing if the person who says
“I love you, Mom,” is really my child
or an imposter
to strike out in anger and frustration
at visitors who don’t want to be there
or the caretaker who changes my diaper
I fear wanting to die and being kept alive
I fear lingering until friends and family
members hate themselves for contemplating murder
I fear there will be no partner to pull the plug
What I fear most
is a lack of collaboration.
What to Say (Version 1)
Sometimes when I write a poem
it feels I am pulling my own entrails
out through my pen
Sometimes I am Loki or Robin Goodfellow
dancing through a meadow to discover
where I can stir up the most mischief
Sometimes I prepare compost
pick peel of banana, my own skin
crush the eggshells of hope in my palm
pulverize them with coffee grounds in today’s damp filter
anticipate sweet soil, nurtured green tendrils
of a perfect poem
But then, without warning,
banana peel, coffee grounds
crusted shells, putrid but unaltered
vomit from my pen
and before I can stuff them back to ripen
you say, “your poem reached my rawness.”
Sometimes when I write a poem
pain and tears exhaust me
and as I lie face down, empty
my poem peers up
complete on the page
crumpled and red
from when I used it
to staunch the blood
But always, if you type, “Good poem”
or “I liked this part.”
I feel a fraud, an impotent imposter
and yearn to reply,
“Oh, this old dress?”
Then I stop
read your words again
restrain excuses
that fly from brain to flighty fingers
smile to myself
and just type
thank you
What to Say (Version 2)
Sometimes when you write a poem
it feels you are pulling your own entrails
out through your pen
Sometimes you are Loki or Robin Goodfellow
dancing through a meadow to discover
where you can stir up the most mischief
Sometimes you prepare compost
pick peel of banana, your own skin
crush the eggshells of hope in your palm
pulverize them with coffee grounds in today’s damp filter
anticipate sweet soil, nurtured green tendrils
of a perfect poem
But then, without warning,
banana peel, coffee grounds
crusted shells, putrid but unaltered
vomit from your pen,
and before you can stuff them back to ripen
someone says, “your poem reached my rawness.”
Sometimes when you write a poem
pain and tears exhaust you
but as you lie face down, empty
your poem peers up
complete on its page
crumpled and red
from when you used it
to staunch the blood
Then, if someone says, “I like your poem”
do you feel a fraud, an impotent imposter
and yearn to reply
“Oh, this old dress?”
Stop
Read your words again
restrain the excuses that fly
from brain to flighty fingers
smile to yourself
and just say
“thank you”
Prayer Flags
Sometimes my words
flap and flutter like
the prayer flags
above my deck
Though torn and tattered
they prevail and welcome the
hummingbird who
rests on their ragged rope
Wayward Mind
When I wrote that sestina
it made me feel mean-ah
corralled by its intricate form
so I think I’ll write verse
that might make you feel worse
but will help me revert to my norm
I need a new pen
I’m fenced in again
and though it might sound quite polemic
I’m back to bad rhyme
it’s rebellion time
against poems that sound academic
Sometimes I like to Imagine
Sometimes I like to imagine
a garden of infinite joy
a friend to share a stone bench and a cup of coffee
As tree leaves twinkle below the clouds
we listen to the sweet bass drone of a plane
birds sing their soprano music
Our voices join their music
and as flowers fall from the tree we imagine
colorful parachutes drifting from the soaring plane
butterflies dance with joy
swirl up to the clouds
our day scented by lavender and rich coffee
Ah the coffee
We lean back to savor it and the music
yearn to sleep on soft clouds
dare to imagine
releasing colorful parachutes of joy
from our benevolent plane
We gaze down from our plane
see ourselves, contented with our coffee
savoring the joy
the breeze and the birds’ mellow music
can you imagine
floating away on the clouds?
Will there always be new clouds
people on another plane
others that linger in the garden to imagine
while they chat over coffee
listen to nature’s music
relinquish themselves to joy?
Oh the joy
Deep blue sky and scudding clouds
Nature provides enchanted music
drone of plane
scent of coffee
When they see a plane what do birds imagine?
Sometimes I like to imagine we increase the world’s joy
as we sip our coffee below the clouds
watch the soaring plane, beguiled by the birds’ music
Alexa, Play “Hall of the Mountain King.”
When it’s almost Halloween
want to dance
want to scream
start out barely tiptoeing
pretend that I’m a troll
Music starts so soft and slow
feet feel beat
arms just flow
Evil creatures down below
but I’m in control
Now we’re creatures of the night
moving fast
scary sight
feel the creepy dark delight
merging into one
Music’s faster, keep the beat
jump and leap
move your feet
breathing hard, can’t take the heat
but it’s too much fun
Heart is thumping, I won’t last
can’t keep up
way too fast
Crash!
Stop!
Look!
Jump!
Leap!
Scurry away before they catch you
Hah!
October 10
Why won’t the warm October breeze
release my grief as easily as it
dispelled last night’s chill?
Why can’t I laugh
as the hummingbird rants
to retain its right to three nectar feeders?
Why only a brief smile
as finches jockey for thistle seed
while pairs of Monarchs spiral ?
Alone on the deck I return
to this day
seven years ago
shattered serenity
hope, hospital
eleven days later
his death by nursing home
Yet still I surrender to October’s power
hold sacred time suspended
before the inevitable grief
The Poetry and Prose of Barbara Huntington 