Wednesday, July 31, 2013

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
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.

No comments:

Post a Comment