Thursday, August 12, 2021

Entire days go by
where I don’t think about you.
I wonder if you feel it                       
when you’re not on my mind?
Does your brain itch?
Is there a chill on your skin?
I feel tantalizing relief
that, fingers crossed,
it will lead into
a second day
without your haunting memories
besieging my countenance,
and if I could stretch it
into a week,
well, put candles on the cake
and let’s celebrate.
Thinking of you
seems to be a chore
I can never scratch off
my to-do list.
Maybe next year
when I get a new calendar
I won’t have to
pen your name in anymore
or at least limit it to
a few sticky notes
on particular days
without you on my mind,
and I hope
you feel that.
Days in the Past
My restive mind
fights with the
soft music
for control of
my emotions.
The low synthesizer
soothes my veins
enough for me
to lay my head down,
but once on a mountain of pillows
trenchant thoughts
spike the calm
like bullets from a sniper rifle,
pinpoint accuracy
I never see coming.
A restorative voice sings
like a lullaby
so I can close my eyes,
trying to dream
of lazy days on the river
and her tan skin
under the sun.
I can always feel
the darkness lurking though,
a blind-alley trap
to keep me insomnolent.
A piano starts from the stereo,
keys pressed with a light touch
and a heartbeat bass
behind them,
and finally
I drift away,
the current taking me back
to the days I need.
Now I Know
And now I know
where the river flows,
down stream
around the bodies
at the edge,
the ones who
took a chance,
got too close,
play the songs
in their honor,
write the stories
to enshrine them,
but don’t blame the river
for defending itself.
Roam the land
of white plant sticks,
deep in the ground,
roots soaked in disillusionment,
leaves stunted as buds
trying to bloom and failing.
Fields everywhere,
sowed, watered, fed,
watched over
by the universal eye,
languishing in the sun,
rotting under the mud of the past.
We drive the roads and paths
searching for growth,
hoping for an omen
but would accept
a sheepish look
as a beginning.
Roaming, looking, searching,
time narrows,
the universal eye blinks,
pledges from the stalks
crumble to dust.
Sex Guitar
In song, Muddy Waters
once wished to be
a catfish
to have beautiful women
chasing him
through the sea.
When his records spin
I can hear
the desire in his voice
and the sex
in his guitar.
Out there in the ocean
among the pop stars
and punks,
the rock ‘n rollers,
country boys and
dance hall disco queens,
the girls

swim after the bluesman.

Christopher Hivner


Helpless I do not know if good intentions prevail among the elected, among the appointed, leaving me apprehensive that the fate ...