I think I am over blogging...

I used to go to my blog several times a day to check to see if anyone I follow had posted. I do that at facebook now. I have been writing most of what I write outside of cyberspace for a while. You can't really expect to publish anything that has been posted on a blog. That counts as "published in any media" in the fine print.

So I guess I am going to slow this down to a trickle. Most of the folk I follow are facebooking and I get their updates to their blogs that way. If you want to friend me, just go to Cynthia Huddleston and send a request.

If I write any poetry that needs to see the light of day, I will still put it here.

Thanks,

Cynthia

Something in My Dreams of Him

I dreamed my father sat struggling for breath
looking up at me asking for something
in the look in his eyes.

I gave him something.

I don't know what he wanted. I'm not sure what I gave.
But I did give it. And for once he was not my nightmare.

Encased In Silence

It's a nice church,
they sing nice hymns,
there's usually a good sermon
and the seats are comfortable.

Stolen, lock stock and phrase from Gabriel Byrne on 4/30/2009
Fresh Air with Terry Gross

http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=103651864

H1N1

Here is my last poem for April. I posted one (unedited, wow, some of those need work) poem every day. It was fun and gives me hope for more daily poems. Now, I stop typing this and go right into whatever hits the brain...now...

H1N1

Swine oh nine-
Bird dee enn ay, some pig, too.
What do we call you?

defining the cut

I keep the blades sharp
antiseptic handy
It is control I am after
I cut

dilute or adulterate the pain with pain
refuse to recognize it socially
absent myself from attendance to it

I stop
halt the running, but not the bleeding

then I edit by omitting parts
detach as if with sharp instruments
separate from the main body; lop off

make or fashion it into a jewel exquisite
produce a pattern by grinding
intersect. cross.

Happy Blogaversary to Me!

I'se jus free years olt an I kin wite my name.

Send Happy Thoughts

I want to be able to do my senior thesis next year as a Creative Writing Thesis at my college. I don't even know if they will let me. I am just asking now and just thought of it yesterday. If you are a praying person, would you be in prayer for such a thing. And if you are a think happy thoughts person, would you do that? And if you don't like me, would you sleep late tomorrow and not send any bad ju ju my way?

'preciate it,
Cynthia

One Happy Fellow

Mockingbird
sings his entire repertoire.
It rained in Texas.

Caution. Loose Rocks.

The doctor says I have calcium carbonate crystals
deep in my inner ear, which, when functioning
normally, respond to the movement of my body,
keeping me oriented in the world, balanced.

They have gotten loose. I am dizzy.

I have this boyfriend whose quirky smile connects
deep in the left ventricle of my heart, causing
me to catch my breath when I see him, and
when he is near, I find myself losing my upsides.

He is smiling at me now. I am dizzy.

I don't know if the doctor is right about my crystals.
He seems to know these things, but I suspect it's just
the boy that's doing this. The doctor says I have loose
crystals. My girlfriends say I have rocks in my head.

My First Book of Poems

it will be about you
because of you
your violence
your disdain
the way you drove
all of us into the night
shooting at us
my first book of poems
will be your book
your story
and the way
you wrote the words
into my flesh
and seared the scenes
into my eyes
giving me life
should have given
you place in mine
but you are
limited to the page
and the burning
in my eyes

Essay, Dear Poem

will never be you

may take my time
coming between us

secretly, I count meter
every so often
and sneak a little of you
into him

that's a little dirty,
and a little hot

Angels at the Point

angels dancing on the head
concerns the philosophers
and the mathematicians, I suppose
theologians
census takers

I wonder about those at the point
skewered to some lapel
like a living corsage
or mounted on a display board
with a little label, curator angelus

how many have stopped dancing?
still alive like immortals must be
never to tango or twist or tarantella
I wonder that they were caught,
perhaps with eyes closed in ecstasy

trapped by demons who never dance
colateral damage in the wars for souls

poema en español

En la celebración de la terminación de mi examinación oral en español hoy...

me encanto una lengua
en cuál vienen los adjetivos por último
permitir que los sustantivos eviten sus ojos
evitar el desconcierto o la vergüenza


Mi comprensión del español es rudimentaria.
Lo siento para los errores.

So You've Killed Yourself

pain all gone
you are still
I am alone

still all alone
you are gone
I am pain

He Couldn't Have Done It

When someone is arrested for a horrible crime, the wife or fiance is left as the person who must wipe up the mess.

He Couldn't Have Done It

Like a glass of milk
teetering on the edge of a table
her life is liquid potential.

She has kissed this man,
he has run his hand under her shirt,
catching her breath for her
and holding it in his grip.

And the milk is gathering
for a rush to the far side of the glass,
taking with it the fragile container.

It looks like him in the picture
and he called her at the moment
depicted on that security tape
and told her he loved her, see her soon.

And the inevitable weight of it
takes the whole thing over
and she is puddled on the floor
crying over what has been spilt.

a haiku for today

warm breeze blows
the sweet scent of new mown hay
as hungry cows bawl

Where is the poem today?

Where is the poem?
Did he leave in the night
without waking me?
Perhaps he kissed me
fondly on the neck,
turning to shake his head,
a wry smile on his lips,
before leaving my room.

Was there business to attend to,
or could this be a getaway
to places I am not prepared
to visit or even know about?
He will pull up his collar and
dig his hands down into his pockets
and hop rails to camps by rivers.

What made the poem leave?
Did we quarrel, poem and I,
and perhaps I have repressed
the pain? I am left just the same.
Is he gone of his own accord
or did I send him packing?

Manifest Desitiny

Manifest Desitiny

there is a tiny tyrant in the house
the condition of his bottom
is of prime concern

no one can sleep when master
wishes an audience
with two inferiors in his thrall

he has conquered the frontier
of spare room, den or office
that land where adults ruled

he has pushed them to the limits
and then to the reservation
of a steaming shower, where they cry

Lord, help them when he is hungry
or unhappy or bored or sees his shadow
forbid it, that he get diaper rash

they will search the cabinets and bags
that mark their former happy land
in search of Desitin, a peace offering

those he conquers will never be the same

Jesus Saved Her

(I know someone who fits this a bit, but it is not me. My husband never raised his hand except to wipe tears of laughter from his eyes. And no one would think me a fundamentalist.)

When he stopped beating her
he got down on his knees
and he begged forgiveness.
He's been on his knees ever since.

One of those rare people
for whom the treatment works,
he gave it all to God and
never went back for it.

So don't you tell her that
her fundamentalist faith
is not scholarly or deep
that she is taking the Bible

too literally.

Because Jesus saved her
and her kids and
she is grateful for the miracle
and her reborn marriage

and her life.

Memo to My Government

Re: Gonzales Memo 10/23/2009 page 24.

"First Amendment speech and press rights may
also be subordinated to the overriding need to
wage war successfully."

Due to the fundamental nature of free speech
and my right to write, I consider that it would be
an act of patriotism to disobey any agent of my
government when faced with that agent's
attempt to curtail those rights.

If I can't type,
I will tap my toes
a diddy bop
of freedom.

If you tape my mouth,
I will sign with my hands
and it will be my banner
of freedom.

If no one will take my cause
I will walk with the ghost
of Thomas Paine, a companion
to freedom.

If professional journalists
do not call to account
the militia will blog and tweet
in freedom.

Due to the fundamental nature
of free speech to the maintenance
of any government of the people,
I write.

The OhNo-mance Genre of Films

You've heard of Romance Comedies and Bromance Comedies. Now get this...

I have decided on a name for those films where there is a quirky, unhandsome man and he wins an absurdly beautiful woman (like Knocked Up)...

OhNo-mance.

As in...she tells her girlfriends and they say, "Oh, no!" Or, to be fair, he says he's getting married and his appalled bros spit Bud Light all over the foosball table. "Dude, Oh No!"

These films seems to have a place in our lives and the sitcom has been of this genre for a long time. King of Queens, Everybody Loves Raymond, etc. As long as Seth Rogan still makes films, (and please, God, let it always be so, for I love them) then we need a name for this thing.

Please feel free to spread this world-wide so I can be famous for something really important, seeing as how this poetry thing is not making me a million.

Need!

There is no such thing as comfort.

Macaroni and cheese or chicken soup
are the foods we eat when we need it
and we need it
because we don’t have it,
brothers and sisters.

I tell you that we all try
to cling to a thing
or grab for someone
or return to a place
seeking that which is
not possible.

Just as soon as we get, we begin
to chafe against the wool of the sweater
or get gas from the banana pudding
or see nose hairs in his gaping nostrils
‘til we just want to plug up the holes
with our fingers and try to get a little
peace inside.

Am I Poisoning Me?

Do the streams of thought
that I produce
leech toxins into my body?

Have I sprayed my fields
with defoliant
so that there is nothing
left to turn sunlight into life?

What I produce in my head
has come downstream to
taint the well. Manufacturer
of my own undoing.

I feel so unwell
because I feel so bad.

Consequences

Written from a prompt, and not my own life. I don’t smoke.

Consequences

Cancer doesn’t scare me nearly
as much as Aunt Lola,
who always thought I would
break the snow globes or
drop the babies or
make the cakes fall.

It’s not the long-term consequences
that are perfectly laid out
for me in a satin-lined casket
on the other side of this very wall
that keep me jumpy.

It’s the drooping lines that will form
at the corners of Lola’s mouth
and that tiny sound,
most writers say is “Tsk, tsk,”
but I know is “sick, sick,”
that will slip through her
two gappy front teeth
whe she sees me here,
cigarette hidden in my cupped fist,
hiding from the consequences.

Let's Make ATP

you are the eukaryotic cell
and I am the mitochondria

in some stage of evolution
you ingested me whole
but did not consume me

now I survive, in endosymbiotic
relation to you, the host

anerobic before I joined you,
I am your emotional powerhouse

in the presence of oxygen
the love we make provides
energy for the both of us

People Who Like Sushi

all of my favorite shows get cancelled
for lack of audience

I ask for non-standard condiments on a sandwich
horseradish, not mayo

if I like it
most don’t

it’s no wonder I sit alone at lunch
peerless at 50 in a college of coeds
and enjoy it

I am not like you
or if I am, you are sitting alone right now
reading
perfectly happy
wishing for a Vienna sausage sandwich

Poems, Like My Panties

You will never see most of what I write.

Like Top Secrets, and my panties, they are Eyes Only
and the eyes meant to read them
do not need the words on a page.

Love poems
in code
written in my all over my face.

Dreams, Too Sweet

no feathers in my mattress
don't cradle me
let the swing be still
and the sheep graze
earthbound and uncounted

may the hammock come unknotted
the pillow stay unfluffed
no high threadcount sheets
no down over me
my comfort unkept

espresso shots for my nightcap
horror shows, my bedtime tale
spice and tension and restless legs
and all manner of things that
no good mother would wish her babe

I don't crave sleep
that pharoah's tomb
daring to enter, I am blessed
with dreams that are sweet
then full-waking sorrow of truth

I forgo the treasure, and thus avoid the curse.

Conflagrare

I want to be burned
consumed by a thing for once
all in and no holds

I crave vaporization
and refinement down to
the rarified essence of me

I yearn to be stirred up
and sifted through so that
no part of me is hidden

I seek to be prayed over
and have all lips murmur
perfect intentions and blessings

I desire to be flung
into recesses of earth that
want nothing more than to consume me

I want to burn

A Good Breakfast

Whole Wheat Pancakes with Turkey Bacon
Chunky Cinnamon Applesauce
Fat-Free or Low-Fat Milk

I remember their faces
eyebrows raised
eyes a little sunk-in
they took the milk cartons
and went to a table

they ate lunch
we all do
except those who don't have any
and this is so large a thing
that the tray could not contain
the sheer weight of the fact that
this would be their only meal

for so many, that was true
and you could smell it on them
as you could smell the wood smoke
from the fire that was their only warmth

Scrambled Eggs with Whole Wheat Toast
Pineapple Tidbits
Fat-Free or Low-Fat Milk

it would have been Brownsville Tennessee 1972 when I
passed out the milk cartons to those little ones
big girl of thirteen, who had seen her own share
of unhealthy circumstances but I always had a meal

I looked at them in the mornings as they floated
onto the bus like the wood smoke from those fires
and later as they hovered over their chairs like
dead little angel children waiting for that first meal

most of the hands that took those milk cartons
were brown or black, but not all, some were like me
the hungriest among them did not refuse the milk
could not imagine doing so, just give it to someone
who wants it, someone wants it, I would say

Yoghurt and Granola
Assorted Whole Grain Cereal
Banana
Fat-Free or Low-Fat Milk

there was no free breakfast in my day
and 11:30 can come too late for some
not able to grasp the intricacies of math
or english, too busy with the studies of their own
social problems, like the ache in the stomach
or the hair that is falling out, not to mention
the loose teeth

I made a point to go to Ariane's school
Montgomery Alabama in 1995
and watch the children eat breakfast
tears fall down my face now as they did that day
watching impish brown boys and bouncing blonde girls
tease each other with orange peels in their mouths
bright orange smiles hiding solid teeth
and they spit them out quickly and slurped up the milk
and went off to memorize poems or study the rainforest

so my vote for the best invention of my lifetime is not
the computer that kids use to investigate life in Kenya
or the microwave or the cell phone
it is free school lunch and breakfast
a little grain,
a little protein,
some fruit and milk
in a full belly

Mrs. Hay

I remember Mrs. Hay
had gray hair
and I was in fourth grade
and she told me that
purple does not go
with yellow for spring flowers
and she gave me a C.

I have loved pansies ever since.


















Print and color your own. Go ahead. You should. Any color you like.

Equals Husband

It takes at least 3 of you
to equal my husband.
He is without guile.

It takes more than 12 of me
to equal my husband.
I have plenty of guile.

This may be the truest thing I've ever written.

Neurotransmitter

It was not the particular song,
but the music of the time,
the way the synthesized
beats carried the smooth voice,
that made a trap door in a closet
open up into the attic where I found
remnants of my time in Germany.

I caught the smell of air fresh
from the wild swing of the jet stream
down from Nordic lands even though
I just today wiped Texas sweat.

Thishappens more and more.

Just the other day, I heard a certain
kind of jazz and thought of days
when I was not old enough for school
and spent my time wiping dark
furniture with Old English Oil for
my grandmother or vacuuming the
rug for quarters. I could smell that, too.

There is a portal in my brain from
music to smell which nostalgia yanks
open.

I am falling through to yesterday.

Church Days

inspired by Rach

I was a church-goin' girl.
Wednesday night and twice on Sunday
was pious enough for most.

I was a Saturday church girl.
Screamin' and throwin' things
made the quiet a balm.

I was a Tuesday mornin' pulpit girl.
Dragging a chair to see over.
Delivering a sermon to the dust motes.

I was a Thursday afternoon under the pew girl.
Old tile cool to the face, imagining the legs and feet,
wandering in my mind.

I was a summer day altar girl.
Do this in remembrance of the intended you
and for who you will become.

Breakfast

I learned to drink coffee
from Granddaddy.
He made it early
4am
on a wood stove
in a perk pot without a cord
or a clock.
He wore no watch.
Just sat up in bed
knowing the time
and went about making biscuits
and coffee
both of which aged until we got up
with Tommie,
our grandmother,
and drank the coffee strong
and ate the biscuits toasted in a pan,
mine with sorghum molasses.

We thought ourselves civilized
for the late hour of eight.

Cancer of Memory

When I am forty-nine
my cells don't regenerate
fast enough on my face
or my arms or any place
I want my love to see.

It is as though my face
wants to stay the face that
broke a smile the first
time I saw him, so that
he won't fail to see me.

When I am forty-nine
my cells regenerate at
lightning speed in places
deep within that I am
hiding from everyone.

Memories race to replicate
against forgetting, invading
places where they have
no business, causing havoc
no one could ignore.

I pray for amnesia by fifty.