Feathers In Your Hair, by Christopher Hileman

Feathers In Your Hair
by Christopher Hileman

Something has happened.
It shows on you like feathers
in your tangled hair.

I wish to devour
your soul salted and peppered,
braised to medium
rare and sliced thin on
a garden salad with lime.

I hope you take this
dream in morning’s light
as I fondle you awake
and raise your heart to
full maturity
in the long sweep of all things
possible and true.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

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Ulysses Bound, by Christopher Hileman

Ulysses Bound
by Christopher Hileman

Passing the siren
rocks in the fog of present
circumstance and strapped
to the white white spar
replacing the mast broken
by last spring’s torrent,
I call out, respond
to your naked misty shape,
take the leather stripes.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

True Magic, by Christopher Hileman

True Magic
by Christopher Hileman

It all rests on thought
but not my thought and not yours.
All the world jitters
in small round orbits
around millions of black holes
in any seen heart
and unseen dream life
as we utter charms of filled
up sacs and dewlaps
hung pendulous, pale
and damp, hoping charms will work
a true magic soon.
The desperate ones
declare trueheart devotion
and try for lost love.
I hold you even
so, in the face of these things
and all that will come.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Tuesday Morning, by Christopher Hileman

Tuesday Morning
by Christopher Hileman

I’m guessing you fly
in your dreams, flapping feathered
wings, and your breasts bound
tightly in mohair
that lets the wind pass on through,
chilling your heart’s blood.

I’m guessing you’re right
for me though no one else thinks
that and tells us both
to steer clear or else.

I lie back down when you’ve left
for work, wrapped up
and taking it all
in – all the signs, all the smells
you leave behind, shine
of a party line.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Lover’s Anxiety, by Christopher Hileman

Lover’s Anxiety
by Christopher Hileman

I caught you sleeping,
mid-dream I suspect, sweetie,
and in your green nest,
your spooning repose
calling for me to join you
my front to your back
if only I could
figure how to silently
and feather light do
such a delicious
thing keeping you from waking
to my ungainly
and ugly presence.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Metamorphosis, by Christopher Hileman

Metamorphosis
by Christopher Hileman

My dire skin flakes off
and lands in piles on the floor
as if in the song
she sang yesterday.

The fresh binding shines, toughens
as I stretch my thews
and show my new bluff.

Here I stand astride it all
and pump my new blood.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below.

Getting Away, by Christopher Hileman

Getting Away
by Christopher Hileman

Things evolve, she said.
Makes me want to peek under
rocks and seek causes.
Or else get away
quickly, ducking low and tight.

I hoped to head out
by now – on the asphalt road
only so long as
is necessary –
then across the ripe wheat fields
to the south of town.
But I keep going
back for stuff I think I want
knowing all the while
I’ll dump half of it
in the heat of the damn day
and the wheaten dust.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Prompt 330.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Life After, by Christopher Hileman

Life After
by Christopher Hileman

If my heart then died
I would be free to lift off
and take the angel’s
flight, along the lines
laid down in clear air long time
past the start of things.
Immune now, standing
in the wind fully drenched, light
bathed, I radiate
immortality.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

Motivation, by Christopher Hileman

Motivation
by Christopher Hileman

I’m certainly not
one who gives two fucks about
who likes poetry
and who doesn’t or
even care much who might read
some scrawl of my heart.
Very few acknowledge
passing through my collections
and that’s fine with me.

I write because there’s
no freaking choice. My heart aches
if I don’t write some
most days and my brain
starts spilling out my damn ears,
staining my tee shirts
on my left shoulder
above the hole where my heart
used to lurk before.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 329.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.

A Lonely Man, by Christopher Hileman

A Lonely Man
by Christopher Hileman

A sense of the end
dogs me all around the slope
behind my log house
as I pull slivers
out my dad-blamed body parts
and hear the rooster
crow in his cage built
by Jose for him last spring.
A fine black fellow
is Leo, with eyes
that pierce the hen perfumed air
and his hens stay close.
I have no hen, me.

Note: Written in response to Red Wolf Poems, Prompt 320.

Christopher Hileman moved to Oregon in 1973. He has retired to live on the volcanic bluff overlooking Willamette Falls in Oregon City, Oregon. He ascends the stairs from his basement digs to improvise on his Yamaha keyboard or the house Playel grand when the calico cat releases him from below. The part-Irish Wolfhound here likes him.