"huck" poems
Snapshot memories of are past
having so much fun with the hope that it would last
To my best friend Nan,
a beacon of light to a hurting world in need of love
To the truest friend I ever had
those memories by the stonewall
Started playing together as friends
She had blue eyes & long blonde hair
I had brown eyes and brown hair
roller skating on the sidewalk with the attached rollers with a key
Went down by the brook to catch poly wags
we both went to the same school
Having sleep overs was a blast
a secret passage to get to her father's soda shop
Taking ice cream and delicious candy
everything nice and dandy with Nancy
Yours was are youth to be captured with a precious smile
Cape cod trips when Nan would drive
going to a trip to Provincetown
watching the folks dive for money
Big ships coming to dock
the men would get the money in their mouths
The island we used to go
in a row boat along the beach
Looking for young boys and we found them
went to dances at the Bristol Boys Club
Doing the latest dance craze the Huck Buck
Boys wearing pegged pants and girls wore skirts
To cherish those lasting memories of a time ago
getting married
Nan had three children
Ann had six
To raise and cherish the family united in love
Today we are in are eighties
both with medical issues
Yet remained best friend's after all these years
Mar 15, 2017
Mar 15, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
aerial ladder truck, amok, amuck, awestruck, bad luck, black buck, black duck, bruck, buc, buck, by luck, canuck, chuck, cluck, cold duck, collet chuck, cruck, dabbling duck, delivery truck, diving duck, donald duck, druck, duc, duck, duk, dumbstruck, dump truck, dumptruck, fire truck, fish duck, fishbach, fluck, fslic, garbage truck, garden truck, get stuck, give **** gluck, good luck, grucche, guck, hand truck, hockey puck, huck, hucke, icing the puck, ill luck, kachuck, kluck, kruck, kruk, kuc, kuck, kuk, ladder truck, lake duck, lame duck, laundry truck, luck, lucke, luk, mandarin duck, megabuck, moonstruck, mruk, muck, musk duck, naugatuck, nuque, panel truck, pickup truck, pluck, potluck, puck, queer duck, raybuck, roebuck, ruck, ruddy duck, schmuck, schtik, schuch, schuck, sculk, sea duck, shmuck, shuck, sitting duck, smuck, snuck, sound truck, starbuck, starstruck, struck, stuck, stucke, suc, **** suk, summer duck, thunderstruck, trailer truck, truck, tuck, tuque, unstuck, vhsic, wild duck, wnuk, wood duck, woodchuck, wruck, young buck,chuck-a-luck, yuck, yuk, zuck, zuk
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 4:16 PM UTC
I recently had the great privilege of editing Mike Essig's latest poetry collection, THE BIOLOGY OF STRANGENESS, and I'm honoured to have been entrusted with such fantastic material. Putting together a book like this is every poetry geek's dream.
It's a beautifully textured assortment of poems, earthy yet lyrical, narrated by a voice that's uniquely grained with experience. There are pieces that will make you smile, think, wince; there are pieces that hit you in the gut out of nowhere; there are pieces that welcome you into them like old, worn-in shoes; there are pieces you will remember late some night when you're by yourself, and remembering them will make you feel less alone.
This collection of poetry makes you look at the banal and the everyday afresh; it finds magic and mystery in the mundane, and even Hawaiian shirts are poem-worthy when Mike Essig's writing about them.
The Kindle version is already available through Amazon.
A paperback edition is due out next month, and I can't wait to have a copy of this book on my shelf as well as on my e-reader.
Mike's previous poetry books, Never Forgotten and Huck Finn Is Dead are also available through Amazon and are excellent.
From his author profile on B Star Kitty Press:
"Mike Essig is a veteran of Vietnam and a retired English teacher. He’s also been recruited by the muse as a poet, like he hadn’t already been through enough."
Sample poems, links to sales pages and more info can be found at the B Star Kitty Press website. www(dot)bstarkittypress(dot)com.
Please do support this very talented indie author.
Mar 22, 2016
Mar 22, 2016 at 10:46 AM UTC
Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Bought herself a ticket, first time she’d ever been on a plane.
She sashayed down to Graceland, closest she’d ever been to the king.
Every gaudy jumpsuit, jet planes, and all those diamond rings.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, lick your wounds and feed your head.
Beulah went to Memphis, feelin’ just like ol’ Tom and Huck.
All 5 foot and sassy, struttin’ like a Peabody duck.
She’ll be in "Blue Hawaii", long before the crack of noon.
Right where he shot his TV, in that jungle room.
What you gonna do, now that you’re king is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, feed your mind and lose your head.
Beulah went to Memphis, didn’t see where the King was slain.
All caught up in Vegas, she didn’t hear His sad refrain.
She was takin’ care of business, while the Angels sang, “We Shall Overcome.”
Didn’t hear the message, dazzled by the pandemonium.
What you gonna do, now that their King is dead?
You better get on back to Kentucky, rest your mind and feed your head.
Beulah went to Memphis, just to see where the king was laid.
Poor ol’ girl, he rocked her world, and then he went away.
Jan 19, 2013
Jan 19, 2013 at 10:39 PM UTC
she spoke to me, on the daffodil sweetness of the pasture
while the grasses, waving, muttered their moist message on the wind
of rot, and renewal,
(but hold your lips, be still for an explosion of intimacy, for a moment)
'Are those a constellation?' she asks.
"The Pleiades."
'You don't know that.'
she doesn't care where the car begins, exhaling gently, to stop
and she commends its forward motion
(the keening love of a sodium light
and forgetfulness in every bone of my body)
I love the thrum of it, below my feet,
murmuring vibrato in the pedals.
They have a Huck Finn cave display at Disneyworld. In Adventure Island, or somewhere, or one of us, deep in the vastness of spines and fingers.
Its fiberglass walls are a portrait of America -
the glean of dew a reflection of that spirit
that drove us over the borders, the rivers, to Oregon,
so we could love under a naked moon,
and renounce our lives of glee, and security
for the bright unsettled plantation of the starless fields.
'You don't know a constellation from a cloud of dandelion seeds.'
But oh, my relentless pioneer love, I do - I know a constellation
is made of stars, and rough determination, and I know that,
love is a today thing, and we are yesterday people
that pain is tomorrow, and we will always be children of the dusk preceding
destined, dear, to find our love receding
Are you prepared, or will the wilderness this time swallow you?
Feb 23, 2010
Feb 23, 2010 at 10:46 AM UTC
The speckled puffer fish was a greedy scavenger
a greedy thing with no agenda but to grab the hook
I used to hate to touch them.Big black eyes staring
Huge gopher teeth bare and sharp.
I was Huck Fin Carribean
Bare foot and rural as heck
Dirt ring around my neck
The dusty roads
humid.
The sweltering heat and the river would meet us
in the mangrove Forrest as we walked the
Picado road to river's edge.
A cranky dory sat tied of
for our convenience with a paddle or two.
We pushed of and fought the tide
to get us safe to the other side.
Aunt Doris would stand with'
arm akimbo a cigarette burning
between index and middle
a tiny smile stayed put.
The Muttruce , as we named it
Flourished because no one would eat it
so the river teemed with catfish and puffy.
we did not eat catfish either some cultural bias. Lucky cat
but that bias died when the market for him found Belize.
Scary little blacked eyed buck toothed *******
Dont know if they are on someones menu now.
They seemed a bit scarce last time i fished.
high priced export on the orient express I guess.
Price of popularity is no privacy
eaten to extinction.
Head up , eyes open
mouth closed.
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 10:57 PM UTC
1. I want to be able to write a poem on a brick. And then huck that brick through my enemy's window and drop to the floor laughing because the brick was not only a physical metaphor, but it was also a poem that literally broke windows.
2. What if I wrote a poem on a leaf? Watching photosynthesis weave its way around ink and make sun its life source poetry. Word on nature, and art in word.
3. Oh, how about a haiku on a pillow? Like a short bedtime story for those up at 4am and down at 5pm, you need just a few more words to hug your dreams tight.
4. I'd really want to write a poem on a steak... And then put that steak on a grill and taste poetry that I wrote with a steak metaphor... Which is cool because it's a steak metaphor cooked on a steak that I'm eating which tastes like the steak metaphor I wrote on the steak...
Yes...
5. I'd like to write a poem on a helium balloon. Maybe sending up poems to the sky like weary prayers might make me feel hope again.
6. I wanna put a poem on a lock and key. Representing tragedy of a girl I knew. She kept her friendship with me under lock and key... Probably because when we went to France I gave her that lock and key and she didn't care.
7. I'd like to put a poem on the underside of the blinds hanging in my window. That way I'd have more of a reason to keep them down other than wanting to keep my room dark because I want to sleep longer.
8. I want to write a poem on an iPhone screen in permanent marker for no other reason than that I think it would be kinda funny.
9. I'd love to write a poem on a vinyl record. I hope some famous artist does that and get that thing preserved. But if they do end up doing that, I deserve all the credit.
10. How about a poem written on the inside of a sweater. Something so sacred, and so close to you. That it really does have to be hidden away?
Feb 26, 2018
Feb 26, 2018 at 6:42 AM UTC
I'm raw my flow consumes dextrose
Tell peta I do the most
Loud sounds I'm out in the public
Friends with Lions we close like cousins
I'm cooking ..in a gourmet kitchen
Chicken is my opposition
Sweet and sour
Predator I'm not a scavenger no coward
Blood falls I need a shower
Drip drop dew mornings
Don't sleep on me like comas
Consuming beats down to the bone
I sip the marrow for a bonus
I am clean like an infants first wash no rap sheet
Walking thru the market
Like shouldn't food be free
Didn't God give us the same control he gave Adam and eve
I am sorry my mind at times goes on a spree
A spree of thoughts
My brain is heavy plus it kicks bass drum
My thoughts run miles
I need pennies for my thoughts
Must be properly endowed
Watch what you eat fool check your food
Fool check your spoon
Food poison
Nasty now you vomiting fluids flowing a fountain
To that server you should have watched how you spoke
Face timing yourself
Seeing your mouth move
Saliva crashing into the coast of your tooth
Yuck images social products
Dislike that dislike you
Keep it true
Tom sawyer and Huck
Instafriends
On instagram
Madoff money instascam
The Poets Lounge go to www.youhavetolisten.com
Every Tuesday 6pm-8pm
Oct 14, 2013
Oct 14, 2013 at 3:53 AM UTC
you ever feel like we’re too connected?
like everything is so crowded and jammed up that we don’t notice each other
the little things, the stop to smell the roses moments pass us by
and we are rushing from here to there
to and fro
ants in an ant farm
squished unknowingly up against the glass
the sun glares down
like a hungry beast
we scurry into our holes and hideouts
communicating in ones and zeros
but always missing the point
we seek meaning and passion and excitement
but complain we have no courage
our lives move and move like rafts on the Mississippi
But I had better things to do than read Huck Finn
hours of mindless entertainment
and then no inspiration
endless desert of desperation and depression
hop from one city to the next
no end in sight
run from problems
hide from anything that could make life exponentially better
callous and fearless and crude
joking about life and death to cope with grief
take everything for granted
burn bridges, never let them see you cry
let the status quo control you
go to college, get a job
don’t be a burnout, dropout, failure
let them define happiness
and let them measure my success
overweight
sunburned
living in a garage
if that’s not success
I don’t know what is
the adolescent american dreaming of easy money
can’t even drive a car
I need glasses and new pants
bought running shoes
but I’m only running from my problems
bury my anger and depression
nervous laughing
crack a joke, as long as you don’t crack
you’re fine
talk about your goals
but only half-heartedly pursue them
like a cop who wants the donuts more than the punks he chases
I want a wife, a life, of happiness with kids and a house
a degree and income
talk about religion and philosophy
read books, but never bother to finish
inconsistent, and never complete
talk when you don’t know what you’re saying
never admit “I don’t know”
count your friends on one hand
but don’t let it know what the other hand’s doing
my mind has a mind of its own
I never bother to follow through
like a tree that is uprooted by the storm
struck with wanderlust I fly away
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 3:42 AM UTC
Strange, the one crying rigged election, is the one in office.
**** the numbers just don't add up.
What the huck?
With no political experiences and prone to head action.
The fools decided on less of the two evil.
Or maybe just decided the evilness of hate should be promoted?
He might not be a racist?
But used the fools that less educated and hunger to get in.
Somewhere, somehow the numbers of truth will emerged.
Rigged elections, always get investigated and point out the wrongs of injustice.
Brave talk about taking care of enemies of other countries only works until body bags build up.
Than it's a different story.
Surround yourself with idiots and you find fools using the head.
When the tail isn't aware of being used.
Like many prophets has predicted.
Time will tell just what mess we created?
Nov 20, 2016
Nov 20, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
Twain with his wit, to some, was an ear pain
Mark, a pen name, his words to heed, no disdain
Samuel Clemens, the humorist man was a gifted teller of story
Penned, Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer, innocent boyhood glory.
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 11:48 PM UTC
By nine, trucks old and new
line the street, spilling into the yard.
Jim Beam and George Dickel
lubricate the chord progression.
Drinks go down, volume goes up.
I’ll be reading in the backroom
as Pap raises a glass to Hank Sr.
When the last burning drop of homage
trickles down his chin,
he gyrates across the floor,
flat-top in hand, looking for Jim.
Some other picker takes his spot
by the fireplace and bellows
about a cheatin’ heart.
One Saturday, I rescue Huck Finn
from under the pale, bearded face
of a picker who stumbles into my room,
collapsing across the bed.
His dreams of Ryman Auditorium
go without interruption.
I slip to the floor,
settling down on the raft.
A slow, steady current carries
us downstream to another shaded
swimming hole.
© 2011 C.T. Bailey
Apr 9, 2011
Apr 9, 2011 at 7:25 PM UTC
The weathervane slept high above with a lolling head.
Clouds were holidaying excessively in Spain.
Sun was lost in a haze after chain smoking cooling towers.
A lethargic wind, moseying low with cat-like whiskers,
I hear it complain “I’m tired” in child-like whispers.
My hands are sweat-sore with callouses
And salty enough to summon the call of gulls in numbers;
I find shade, imagining myself as a cartoon Huck Finn.
When I put dry grass between cracked lips and think of dustbowls
In a zoetrope of sun-stroke, I vanish through my buttonholes.
This is now where one would rise, wake or come to.
Nothing I recognise, else the world is enveloped in storms.
I strain my sight, blink repeatedly to force myself awake,
The angels are listening, I hear wheezing, see fingers in my dreams
Gripping tightly to milk thistle stars, bursting at the seams.
Amongst the angels, whispering too! Did the stars imprison you?
Free-spirit like mother, but I slept our childhood through
Sustained by knowledge gleaned from canteen floors—
My eyes feel somehow sharp, heavy, like spears more than eyes;
I thought I saw the weathervane spinning madly, unraveling the skies!
Nobody talks about the weather.
There is a good chance of wrought nerves.
This is a time of stillness and dwelling on doorsteps,
In doorways where death sits among us, resting his eyes,
An end to the ration that was harmless reminiscence
As memories go up in the heat like celluloid;
Now the stars are a steely prison
Heaven’s lustre is lost, missing.
Through the angels I have seen that this is a time of living -
Through our dreams I have seen that this is a time of living -
Outside the confinement of the Holocene.
—I have dreamt of drowning...often. I always seem to wake up out and breath and feel I can taste the salt in my mouth but fear does not play any part in these dreams.
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 7:20 AM UTC
If I were a writer
I’d actively seek
A mild patina
A mad mystique
I’d write about death
As something good
I’d sign my name
Edgar Allen Atwood
If I were a writer
There’d be Tom and Huck
A great big world
That didn’t give a ****
Bout the little guy
Floating down the main
And I’d call myself
Charley Dickens Twain
If I was a writer
I’d have a golden plume
I’d write about
That day of doom
I’d write about
Laughing at fear
And I’d call myself
Mordecai Shakespeare
If I was a writer
And I had a page
I’d write about
The good old days
‘Bout what I’d ‘ve done
On a day with you
And I’d sign my name
And I’d sign yours too
Aug 3, 2011
Aug 3, 2011 at 7:51 PM UTC
The World of Make Believe
he was not a real doctor
but he played one on TV
in the world of make believe
you can be anything you see
you can be a poet
or a cowboy or a king
and with electronic tricks
you can pretend that you can sing
you can be stronger than an ox
and fly up in the sky
stand up on a old soap box
yell and scream and cry
you can be the judge of man
the protector of the world
a guy can be a pretty girl
with his hair so nicely curled
you can be the Queen of France
a mailman or a lawyer
you can pretend you know how to dance
or be Huck Finn or old Tom Sawyer
the mind is the only limit
because it is fantasy not real
in the world of make believe
anyone can make a deal
Gomer LePoet ...
Jul 22, 2013
Jul 22, 2013 at 1:09 PM UTC
Mom loves the huckleberries
Picks ‘em up in the mountains,
Says it’s her therapy.
Swear she can sniff ‘em out like a bear,
Got a snouzer on her or something—
Always knows where they are hidden
But she says,
“Dad guides me.”
Always thought that was funny,
But he loved those hucks
Almost as much as his kids.
Maybe that’s why she goes up there…
To say hi,
Hang out with Dad,
Pick some berries,
******** about life,
Tell him his girls are doing just fine.
Huck heaven is what we say
When we find a good patch.
Can sit in there for hours…
Mom loves it.
Love this about mom.
Mom my rock.
Nov 12, 2015
Nov 12, 2015 at 1:33 PM UTC
Huck Finn is dead.
Some say
he died alone
in an apartment in Tulsa
during a Swamp People
marathon
body discovered
three days later
after neighborly complaints,
face somewhat gnawed
by his trusty cat.
Some say
he died in Montana,
struck mute by space,
rigid with terror,
dreaming of The River,
beside a trout stream,
eaten by a jealous grizzly
with a taste
for southern cuisine
and fame.
Some say
he died in Arizona
rattlesnake struck
and shrieking
beneath
a pellucid sky
seeking
to glean current events
and unlikely meanings
from ancient petroglyphs.
It does not matter
where or how;
only that
Huck Finn is dead,
and with him
the lights of the territories
gone black.
~mce
Jul 1, 2015
Jul 1, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC
Huck: a perfect example
Of the effect bio-mechanical
Protocols have on the human mind,
Saludos, amigo!
“Hats Off to Larry!”
DEL SHANNON- " HATS OFF TO LARRY " (W/LYRICS ...
▶ 2:03 www.youtube.com/watch?v=nXpJVmxHXc8 Nov 7, 2009 - Uploaded by rwells47 LYRICS: “Once I had a pretty girl, Her name it doesn't matter; She went away with another guy-- Now he won't...”
(That’s right, another commercial ad right in the middle of a freaking poem. $Ka-ching, Ka-ching!$)
Or, “That's Some Bad Hat Harry.”
“Ever notice at the end of shows there are those cards that fill the screen with names of bizarre production companies, sometimes animated and sometimes with sound (“That’s some bad hat, Harry.”)? Those are called vanity cards. When writer/creators form their own production company (and they all do) they’re entitled to a vanity card.”
Case in point?
Forgive my self-promotion but
The sheer freaking brilliance of
The character that is HUCK,
Simply overwhelms me
Now, there’s a secretive dude.
It took us 5 freaking seasons to
Get his real freaking name.
Diego Muñoz:
What else don’t we
Know about you, Huck?
Huck, you perfectly twisted,
Psychotic, psychopath
I’ve grown so fond of.
Of course, you have always
Been acting a part,
Playing a role,
To wit: Guillermo Diaz.
You’ve come a long way,
A very long way, from Jersey,
Memo.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 5:03 PM UTC
My love your hangover takes me to taste
I do know haunts me your being chaste
Let me embrace you to take in hands waist
Please take my heart in your palm to paste
Your sweetest image till the time I am alive
Let be frank and straightforward to shrive
Let beauty to take my love in ***** to thrive
Be my heart and soul be in arms don't deprive
My beloved my sweetheart my life my luck
I love your fragrant flowers let me to pluck
Allow me to take your fruits in hand to ****
To test my hospitality please hug and huck
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jan 5, 2017
Jan 5, 2017 at 3:26 AM UTC
You wake up every day, and the world will say you hey.
They wanted you to quit, they wanted you to stop.
But don't give up.
Go and rise e the sun
Let you heartburn
Take new oaths, take w birth.
Go and fight to make your place on earth.
You'll see faces all around you.
But who will stand with you are very very few?
Go and fight, to take up your right.
Don't wait for your luck go ride in your huck.
No more violence.
Work in the silence, let success be your voice
Don't give them choice,
Hard work, a little more bit
But don't stop, Don't quit
Oct 10, 2020
Oct 10, 2020 at 8:12 PM UTC
Tom and Jerry, Laurel and Hardy,
Batman and Robin, Fred and Barney,
Frodo and Sam, Bert and Ernie too,
Tom Sawyer and Huck, adventures anew.
Lone Ranger and Tonto, Snowy and Tintin,
Chip and Dale, Snoopy and Woodstock grin,
Archie and Jughead, Holmes and Watson wise,
Lucy and Ethel, their antics arise.
Larry, Curly, and Moe, a comical trio,
Mutt and Jeff, Luke and Han Solo,
Lois and Clark, a super pair indeed,
These bonds of friendship, on screen we read.
But as the credits roll and the pages close,
A question lingers, as doubt grows:
Are these friendships, so perfect and true,
Reflections of bonds between me and you?
Real friendships are messy, they ebb and flow,
Not always in sync, not always aglow.
Yet in their imperfection, we find
A beauty that's real, one of a kind.
So cherish your friends, both near and far,
For in life's story, that's who you are.
Fiction may inspire, but reality's test
Proves true friendship is earth's real quest.
May 17, 2017
May 17, 2017 at 6:31 PM UTC
How could it not happen?
Olivia the Fixer.
Mellie, poor perpetually crapped-on Mellie,
Married to that ***** boy president, Fitz.
Fitzgerald Grant: like his Dad
Having trouble keeping it in his pants,
Bent on a spectacular exit strategy
An escapade so outrageous that
Even the liberal media can't spin it.
And potential musical numbers?
Huck singing: "Happiness Is a Cordless Drill."
VP Sally: "My **** Husband."
Eli Pope: "It's Above Your Pay Grade, Babaloo!"
Jake: "I'll Take a Bullet & Your Mistress."
Abby: "Season Three Dark-Eyed *****
David: ****** Again?"
Mellie: "First Lady, Last in Line."
Fitz: "I Dig Colored Chicks."
Olivia: "Making Jam in Vermont."
And lest we forget,
The real star of the show,
Cyrus: **** Me, Lick Me, I'm the Chief of Staph."
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 4:01 PM UTC
/// ;;;
/// • |||
<>
\
They lynched Negroes here
Sailing down the river
With Huck & Jim
••
Counting the centuries
What do you see?
Butterfly!
••
Naked !
The naked girl !
The stream is bathed
••
Young warrior !
High mountain dominion
Little child in the shadows there
Jun 4, 2014
Jun 4, 2014 at 11:34 PM UTC
Sam Clemens had room to complain.
I'll givem that.
However,
lyin' in wait to confuse little boys,
that's cruel.
which is why I waited to say
I learned my meanderin' ways from Huck.
I never learnt a thing good fromnerabout that Sawyer kid.
I thought well o' Jim, and felt I knew
colors well, I knew
Uncle Tom well, when Jimmy *** portrayed him,
at the Ministrual Show
at the high school gym, where the Globetrotters play.
Mr. Clemens, had room to complain...
I can't say I know why nor how, but he lost
all he held dear,
he did,
after that some later
however,
he died in the presence of a loving daughter
who was first to read his dying words,
Give me my glasses, which he wrote while smiling.
That eased my boy's confusin', when I
made that smile worth a wait this long.
Wait'n'see.
(btw my grandma was born mar 6 1910. It comes up on a test)
Mar 8, 2019
Mar 8, 2019 at 8:29 PM UTC
dracula likes to ****
Tom Brady likes to tuck
Twain writes about Huck
Irish all about that luck
hard to find this gem of a poem through the muck
when they tell you at a hockey game to duck
it's most likely a flying puck
Feb 20, 2018
Feb 20, 2018 at 8:14 AM UTC