Three Poems from Kevin M. Hibshman

Kevin M. Hibshman, Poetry

Bio: Kevin M. Hibshman has had his poetry, prose, reviews and collages published around the world, most recently in Rye Whiskey Review, The Crossroads, Drinkers Only, 1870, Synchronized Chaos, Yellow Mama, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Literary Yard and Medusa’s Kitchen

For Wm.

There is a black river.

We have been rowing against it.

The wind howls your name.

The current clamors for your flesh.

I must keep our little boat safe from the falls.

I will not let you drown there.

Not not.

I Want My Happy Ending

After accepting small-town alienation before I even knew I was queer.

After losing my religion.

I’m not southern.

I’m not talking about my temper.

After the partial meltdown of TMI which was only miles from our home as children.

After coming down with a cute little virus called “Guillame-Barre Syndrome” that did god-knows-what to my nervous system.

After having to learn to walk again at age sixteen.

I want my happy ending.

After working menial jobs with marginal humans for too many years.

After HIV and the suck-ass Reagan Era when we all lost something or someone.

After the stolen elections of Baby Bush and the horror of 9/11.

After my best friends in poetry all died in rapid succession.

After watching America lose the war for decency.

I want my happy ending.

After learning that my partner had been diagnosed with a chronic illness, leaving him debilitated, age thirty-nine.

After surviving the many scares and dares of the calamitous 90’s only to wake up bewildered in the new millennium with willful ignorance on the rise.

After being locked down and shut in due to a global pandemic that spread faster than the government’s lies.

I want my happy ending!

Cerulean

a widening pool.

a hue so blue it robs

the ocean of all innate splendor.

I wish to lay my head there forever.

I found, to my surprise,

the color once trapped by a pair of eyes but abused

by circumstances that forced a gray surrender,

turning the azure blaze a milky white.

heaven is a blue sky,

empty, therefore open to endless speculation.

I have witnessed imagination committing suicide by jumping

into the sea of mediocrity,

hoping to swim with the biggest fish where money spells complacency.

the sirens surrendered to the johnny one-notes who

whine incessantly about a death they labor to prolong.

a well-rehearsed dirge their only attempt at song.

their much- vaunted blues a shade too pale to merit my interest.

kevin m. hibshman