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Poetry

Christopher Hivner

Volume: 

3

2019-04-01

Issue:

2

Carry the Day 

I called to you 

in a dream 

while you walked through walls. 

The sun lay 

in the palm of your hand, 

ravens circling your head 

on watch for 

what’s to come. 

I called to you 

in a voice drowned by 

the heart beating 

in the corner of the room, 

my words empty 

on the air. 

I wake minutes later 

staring at the ceiling, 

my own heart 

thumping in my throat 

while crows 

pecked at my eyes. 

I called to you 

as you stood in the doorway 

arms pinned by solar flares, 

you called back to me 

with the voice of the night, 

naming me 

as the one who tried. 



Every Daybreak 

There are remnants everywhere 

I look, in every 

daybreak and twilight’s onset, 

the lyrics of songs 

and poetry’s rhymes, 

the faces of strangers and the 

questions they ask.


The spin of the Earth 

shifts me off-kilter 

until I stumble down 

a hillside 

of jagged jewels 

waiting for extraction 

or extinction. 


At the bottom 

I am even, 

legs under me, 

leaving the detritus behind 

for a path to spring 

and beyond, 

to leisure and 

apres-noir phantasm. 


Walking through a field 

of left-behind wishes 

the speed of life 

blurs my vision 

so I move in clouds, 

picking and choosing 

my path 

by the acid in my gut 

and the tunes in my head. 


There are remnants everywhere, 

they don’t beckon 

or push, 

they’re merely reminders 

of where I’ve been, 

cautionary trailheads 

bending my light 

in another direction 

so I try a new path. 



The Real Thing 

There were pieces of us 

in the wind 

after the accident, 

traces of humor, 

lashes of fear, 

testaments of labor, 

all that made us strong, 

all that shaped our legion, 

heavy is the crown

for attention 

from the woman 

of the artful seat 

and the man from 

the other side. 


We gathered back 

forward front, 

an effort to 

hold our past accountable, 

I believed, 

you tried, failed, 

there was no way out 

that didn’t end 

with smoke 

from flames 

created in your eyes. 


They found enough 

to make a shade 

of two people 

that could have been us, 

pale eyes staring, 

lucent hands 

wrapped in one another 

for a show of love 

while the wind 

takes away the real thing. 



Yeah, Yeah, Yeah 

I’m ok 

I tell myself 

each morning, 

the reflection in the mirror 

a mask of doubt, 

skepticism riding high 

in my arched brow. 


I’m ok 

I reassure myself 

with a virtual

slap on the back 

and an atta-boy smile. 


I’m . . . not bad 

I mumble, 

confidence slipping 

like the hairs from my

nearly bald head. 


It could be worse, 

I think, 

as I brush my teeth, 

a collection of 

bone and enamel 

infiltrated by fillings 

and the remnants 

of a lost crown 

all surrounding a lonely, 

empty spot 

where my favorite tooth 

used to be. 


It is what it is, 

the catch-all 

of philosophical musings, 

easier to understand 

than Nietzsche, 

happier than Kierkegaard 

even in its measured apathy. 

I shrug my shoulders 

and turn away 

from my reflection. 


I’m ok, 

for now

About the Poet

Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Anti-Narrative Journal, Record Magazine, and Weird Reader. He has had 5 chapbooks of poetry published, the newest is “When Science Collapses” published by Writing Knights Press. website: www.chrishivner.com, Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams.

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