The Poetry Of...
Kenneth P. Gurney.......................................
Beggary
The poet
on the stage,
a woman
pondering
why she
is loveless,
fails to hide
how life
beat the romance
out of moonlight,
candles, scented
oils and incense.
Outside,
the transformer
blows a shower
of 4th of July
and decapitates
all of the street lights
for blocks.
The numerous
applications
for the word maybe,
as in maybe some-
one loves me,
stack up
in Morpheus'
in box—gods
do not process
prayers as fast
as once upon
a time.
In the glow
of the exit sign,
bar patrons
bump into
each other,
continue to drink
as votive candles
in colored jars
expect fire
any moment.
Modern Isolationist
I stopped calling people
when I realized
while I wasn’t looking
they all became
appendages to
recordings devices.
Trip
I am stuck
in the middle
of a story
not knowing
when she'll
arrive
or whether
my bouquet
will fade
before the train
pulls
into this station.
How do you
unlock the future,
change the image
of three separate
dandelions growing
among the grasses
that sprout between
the rusted tracks
and turn
the dull, grey boards
of the platform
into a knot
of colorful clothes
shifting through
motion
and emotion.
Watch checking
does nothing
to confirm
that it is good
to be human
and in love,
nor does it quell
the instantaneous
stab of fear
that somehow
she is not
on the diesel
drawn cars
passing through
the mountains.
Sometimes
the only thing
you can do
is imagine
your favorite music
and dance,
ignoring the soft
whistle of the wind
as it passes around
the station house
and the squeak
of the dull, grey
platform boards
as the weight
of your heavy feet
depresses them.
