Sample Poems by Tom C. Hunley
Still, There’s a Glimmer,
a strand of sunlight
striking the torn
pages of us, glitter
on the thawing
lake of us, and yeah
the newspapers will keep saying
what they’ve been saying,
and we don’t deny
the thick darkness of us
where the smarter part of us
tries to hide,
and we don’t pretend
that on a summer day,
a whisk of perfume
can’t thrust us into
an inconsolable grief,
until part of us floats away
never to return,
while another part,
pitched headlong
into the gummiest of circumstances,
seeks asylum,
and we don’t try to tune out
the thrum of the chafing
orchestra of us,
but oh there are new wonders
smeared on every sidestreet,
dollar bills to find,
outbreaks of pine cones,
birthmarks on the cheeks
of pretty faces, and the sound
of babies kicking reminds us
that for each one of us
breathing dreamers,
there are billions of cells
that never got the chance
to be even a little immortal.
Enough is Enough
“He who realizes ‘Enough is
Enough’ will always have enough.”--Lao Tzu
We’ve done time in jails, in
nut wards, airtight warehouses, and in
anxious classrooms, watching the clock which
never had time enough for us.
We have too many first dates,
too many interviews. We make conversation
but don’t say enough. We make
love but don’t love enough.
We’ve known our brothers and sisters
but not well enough. We have
patiently tried to understand our mothers.
We have tracked down our fathers,
smudged their footprints, overtaken and overthrown
them, because their love wasn’t enough
for us, it wasn’t for us
enough. We’ve seen God, but always
from the back.
We have descended into Hell
and dug our way to Beatrice
but she wasn’t fair enough. We
have climbed Pike’s Peak, had peak
experiences, written fat checks and traded
pecks on the cheek, but it
hasn’t been enough. We’ve seen God,
in our rear view mirrors,
and it didn’t look like He
was close enough.
We spend our days working without
seeing any change. We bring home
paychecks but they’re never enough.
We have eyes but not enough
to see all the swallows coasting
outside our windows, the blue moons
reflected in ponds. We think
we see God, but it’s just
a nuclear blast.
Our cities swarm with lonely breathers
who have pagers and cellulars but
no one to talk to. Now
It’s time to remember our dreams
over coffee, and they must be
clear enough, strange enough, wonderful enough.
It’s time to remove ourselves
from this stark starless desert, time
to scour dictionaries, seeking words enough
for the thrill of wearing snowshoes
in July, eating pizza after two days’
dumpster diving. It’s time to get drunk
on poetry, for only this will
ever be enough.
Curiosity to Apathy
I got to wondering how you’ve been,
so I thought I’d look you up.
You never bothered to get an email account
or a listing in the phone book.
A history book told me “Apathy
was considered by the stoics as
the highest condition of humanity.”
But knowing where you’d been hardly
satisfied me. It only piqued me more.
I remember how we first met
when I began experimenting
with marijuana. Me, I was just
Curious. I had to know how it felt.
But you, you were deeply involved
in the drug scene. You said haircuts
were “for losers” and called bathing “a drag.”
You didn’t care about geometry or football games
or getting into college or even about girls.
So I thought I’d find you at arcades
or skate parks, hanging out with today’s youth.
I found Anxiety there, and Confusion.
Ambition skipped freely, unchecked
by Frustration and Despair.
But I couldn’t find you there.
Asking around, I learned that you had bought
a Ford Excursion and driven it past the voting booth,
past Boeing strikers with “Don’t thank us—pay us!”
signs,
past the unshowered and unshaven on Second and Pine,
with their palms held high and heads hung low,
past an art opening and a mugging.
I found you, sunk in your leather couch
surfing the Web and the 180 channels
on your Satellite TV.
Apathy, you are indifferent
to all feelings, including yourself.
The rest of us, we feel for you.
Apathy to Curiosity
You’re rubbing off and filling me with questions.
For instance, what did you do
with the cat after you killed it?
Did you bury it, just as we feelings
get buried when people can’t handle us?
Don’t answer. I don’t care.
I never did care. Hey, do you recall
garage grunge Seattle, circa 1991?
I helped launch that scene.
Pride is here. He made me mention that.
When Pearl Jam won their first Grammy,
I put Eddie Vedder up to saying
“I don’t think this means anything.”
It didn’t. It still doesn’t.
As I once told Nirvana, “never mind.”
Now, look how you affect me, Curiosity.
You’ve got me wondering
about the suicide of Kurt Cobain.
What was it that brought all those kids
to his memorial service at Seattle Center
and made them tattoo both our memories
with rhythmic groans? Was it true Concern,
real Grief, or just plain-old morbid you?