horror
forest
HOME  ABOUT  FICTION  POETRY  ART  SUBMIT  NEWS  MORBID  ZINES  ODDITIES  BEWARE  CONTACT  WITCHES  GHOSTS  MARK.LUKENS  BOOKS  FILMS   HELLBOUND  STAFF
Christopher Hivner

The November Featured Poet is Christopher Hivner

Please feel free to email Christopher at: ragnar65@comcast.net

christopher

DEEP FOREST SHADOWS

Deep forest shadows
pulling strings of the light,
fading the day to eventide.
Behind the sighing
of the leaves,
a slight sound,
a desperate mew
from the depths
of the void
searching for a knight
to slay the dragon,
dreaming of escape
from the thin-fingered grasp
of the elder darkness.
But there are no heroes,
not here
in the deep woods,
where the trees play sentinel
to all they survey.
Here we play games
to keep the downtrodden sunk
and the winged clipped,
to keep the water rising
over the heads
of the struggling.
No, there are no heroes here
in the shadows
of the forest,
only the wretched,
the scrounging,
the least of the worst,
looking for a way out
that has never existed.

WHITE AND RED

Strokes of paint,
not on canvas,
but the cracked flesh
of a human totem,
the bands of war colors
connecting the invested
as much as the pike
speared through their bodies
anus to mouth.
Swipes of white and red
forming symbols
of a forgotten people
to reach the gods,
a plea for revolution,
a message to the sky
that they are ready to fight,
an offering to the earth
for the blood soon to be spilled
on its sacred dirt.
White and red,
in bold chevrons
connected by spirit,
honoring the sacrifice.

FLOATERS

Floaters
fill the sky
black on blue
white teeth
stained red
our wounds
no time to heal
before the next attack
they approach slowly
but our eyes
can’t track them
which direction are they coming from?
Surrounded
I swipe at them
but never catch one
they come in waves
gliding, bouncing
swimming at the edges
right before they bite
then they ease away
replaced by others
the nips keep coming
until our skin
is pock marked with holes
that leak
where do the floaters come from?
and when they’ve had their fill
where do they go?
I’m covered in scabs and sores
at least I survived again
I need to sleep
but I’m afraid to close my eyes

Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Monomyth and Black Petals.

His website is HERE