Contributor: Phil Huffy

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As I looked up
at Hardwood Hill,
I saw a branch
sway in the breeze.
Except for that
the earth stood still
and granted time
to take my ease.

When winter days
compel the wood
to waiting out
their frosty reign,
I’ll find once more
that place I stood
and if it snows
shall not complain.


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Phil Huffy writes at his kitchen table, sometimes during meals. With nearly 150 published pieces, his method seems to be working.

Contributor: Phil Huffy

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I walked the old street last night
and found our former stoop now claimed
by other sweethearts.

The man was smoking. Well, the boy, really.
His squeeze seemed not to mind.

Mom told me, years back, and unguarded,
how attractive my dad had looked out in their skiff,
rowing away with a Camel in his mouth.

I don’t know if she regretted sharing that.

Quit smoking myself when they went to
a buck a pack.


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Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table in Rochester, NY.

Contributor: Phil Huffy

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He ran from her
like a dog from a blender.

The shrill frequency
and inescapable volume
presaged pain
from which there
would be no respite.

All that remained
was to express his regrets
in a sensible
and unoffending way,
so as discourage repercussions.


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Phil Huffy writes early and often at his kitchen table in Rochester, NY.

Contributor: Phil Huffy

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Slow is the mood I know tonight
so can we view the moonrise
and witness any stars the clouds may spare?

Slow again perhaps tomorrow
to sit and watch the grass grow;
when to its supple softness we repair.

Yes here I go again you see,
I’m humbly recommending
a pace of quietude with thoughts confessed,

and if you join me in such things
as don’t require hurry
our time together will be subtly blessed.


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