Three Poems by Christopher Hivner

One Morning, After it was Over

 

Stop asking me questions,

the lies will float

until dusk,

other worlds in other words.

The sun is shining

but it's still gloomy here,

the sun is shining

through the plastic over the windows

on the hand outstretched

touching the third finger

illuminating the ring.

Stop asking me questions, please,

I'm tired.        

 

 

 

Early Morning Gray

 

Twenty different trips

enclosed in a metal box,

close enough

to smell the soap

in your hair

and to steal a kiss

or a private touch.

Rolling down the highway

through tunnels

of early morning gray,

getting slapped open-handed

by the wind

to keep us awake.

Songs from the radio

play as backdrop

to our silly prattle

of a week alone

amidst 100,000 others

and love

in the time of youth

and revelations.

 

Easing into

the ocean city

with the sun's eyes

just opening,

each time

became rote,

until it

wasn't quite the same.

We talked the talk

and walked

hand in hand

not noticing

the sand shifting

beneath our feet.

 

At first,

it was swimming

in water that felt like a cocoon,

greeting each day

like Centurions,

making love

when the spirit moved

and floating

with the rhythm

of the time and place.

From the start

we suckled

to one another

feeding from

the same breast.

 

The fade began

as we tread

in water that

bit but never

drew blood.

We wouldn't

open our mouths

to talk about it

for fear

of swallowing

ourselves.

So we stayed out

drying up

in the sun,

letting our shades behind

to wander

the boardwalk.

 

Twenty trips

down the coast,

each one

meaning less

than the one before

and we're too lost

to figure out why.

In the end

there were no kisses

stolen or given,

the smell

of your hair

only left me longing

and the songs

on the radio played

to eat up

the empty space

between us.

  

 

 

Another Last Night

  

Drink down

the wine of the day

and let the thickness

coat your tongue,

a jacket for

a better night.

Now the moon

kisses your cheek,

a flirtation,

before dancing commences

along sidewalks

dirty for their art,

around buildings

that try to cut in,

and cross-town traffic

laughing into dangerous curves.

You're drunk

and lost

in a city

of drunks and losers,

trying to stop the sun

from rising

and the day

from calling you home.

Where are my friends

and that last bottle of wine

you wonder into sleep

as the taxi driver

starts your fare.

 

 

 

 

Christopher Hivner lives in Pennsylvania, usually writes while listening to music and enjoys an occasional cigar outside on a star-filled night. He has recently been published in Eye on Life Magazine, Dead Snakes and Illumen. A book of horror short stories, "The Spaces between Your Screams" was published by eTreasures Publishing. You can connect with him here: website, facebook, twitter: @your_screams, Goodreads.