One year of collected poetry of all types.

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Stephen Huff’s
REQUISITE COURSEWORK
Friday, April 21, 2006


Silence, the pregnant bane of “what’s next?”
the eternal blame of “what’s done”
the unforgiving shame of “who?”
Silence, the stagnant discourse left unsaid
the poignant call to mourning for hopes undead
the dissolute quest for belonging we all dread
Silence, the ultimate end to all beginnings
the stingy purse that pays a loser’s winnings
the aghast that allays much from many
Silence, the unpleasant pall of bridges burning
the unenviable thrall of all denied yearning
the requisite coursework for human learning
Stephen Huff’s
SLIGHT GOOD
Saturday, June 17, 2006


cold water in a deep draw
safe harbor in a wild storm
black labor in a bad cause
slight good in a vast wrong
Stephen Huff’s
WHAT I WANT…
Sunday, July 23, 2006


I want to write something beautiful,
something to last.
I want to do something wonderful,
something that stands fast.
I want to build something excellent,
something to remind.
I want to make something immaculate,
something to stay behind.
I want to be a heart’s throb in the darkness,
the pulse that sounds to fear-
I want to be a hand’s shake in the evening,
the grip that repulses tears-
I want to be cold comfort at the sun’s rise
that promises the dawn-
I want to be a harbinger of the wayward soul
that beyond death yet lingers on.
Stephen Huff’s
THAT LAST DEFEAT
Saturday, July 29, 2006


everything fades, everything fails
the shipwreck on the bottom
once rolled beneath its sails
everything is doomed, everything expires
every machine succumbs
victims of their own stripped wires
because all is undone, all on borrowed time
and the clocks are ever ticking
you know they never unwind
since I am a hasty breath, a nervous heartbeat
a sad victim of my birth
I await that last defeat
Stephen Huff’s
DO IT
Monday, August 14, 2006


marry your mouth to the shotgun’s muzzle
mate your flesh with a rope’s knotted noose
single your veins with the razor’s reflection
you have nothing to gain and everything to lose
yet burry your bones in the crush of the surf
throw yourself down from the tops of the towers
step into the street to make love with a tractor
squander the month, the day and its hours
be of a mind to raise pistol to temple
know yourself right in the twist of a cap
swallow a fistful of God’s righteous poison
surrender the fight and be quit of the crap
cut your own throat with a knife from your kitchen
drink down the lye you would use on your drains
lay yourself out as though ready for slumber
smother yourself or blast out your brains
Stephen Huff’s
GOD IS A DRUG
Monday, August 14, 2006


and God is a drug
for the desperate
for the ignorant
for the dumb
a promise in the dark
a fabled reward to come
for God is a drug
God is a currency
God is a meaning
God is a cause
a steel rail in the evening
a greater right to all wrongs
as God is a drug
‘neath steepled stories
atop oaken pews
a restless breath
that, hallowed, speaks to some
that, hollow, denies the rest
Stephen Huff’s
HIS PRISON, HIS SKIN
Monday, August 14, 2006


wherever he went
whatever he said
his prison followed
inside his own head
nowhere a locked door
nowhere a cell
nowhere a warden
save his own wicked self
all streets going nowhere
all windows black
turned to the nightmare
and no climbing back
no matter his wishes
no thought for a sin
he never escaped
from his own rotten skin
Stephen Huff’s
THE DEVIL HIS WORK
Monday, August 14, 2006


in a grip of knuckles clenching white
the chain that chokes
dogs that hunt
bay and bark and beg for water
lathered jowls
track hereafter
while demented men
in consternation curse
to break the day
and the devil his work
though hot the sun shines
and the air still death
tugging steel chains
they beat the grass
mobs of juries, a single judge
bad fists of justice
lead dogs that hunt
while taut the leads
train the neck that jerks
muzzle down the devil his work
as a trail of wicked
as a back that strains
to claw the earth
and drag the chains
glares of hatred
scowls of cunts
and white the grips
urge the dogs to hunt
Stephen Huff’s
THE GRAVE’S GRAY HUE
Monday, August 14, 2006


you measure me while I measure you
through wooden faces I hack and hew
that spilled your sweet things
that thrown your joys
make treasures of pennies
in sacks of spoils
while I never knew death like I knew you
through marble headstones, hacked and hewn
you speak of someday
you hint forever
that your epitaph in curses
warns breathless never
where sweet grass meadows there lies you
a gamble of bones in the grave’s gray hue
you whisper longing
you moan the winds
such voices of sorrows
leave much that ends
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