................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Kenneth P. Gurney..........................
Sheet
Cotton wicks
the translucent plasma
as it separates
from dying
white strands
transporting D N A.
Three Day's Beard
In the tired curve
of the shadow
of a slumped shoulder
I recognize myself
walking sadly
across the playground,
the swings removed
for the cold season,
the merry-go-round
rusted, immobile;
the x-rated trees wait
for the department
of public works.
A body calls out,
refuses to be forgotten
along with the red scarf,
the hooded snow suit
and black rubber boots-
the boy who asked to be saved
from the beguiling angers
of school yard children,
the cold stone voices
of a loveless house,
the snowdrifts of sorrow
obliterating known paths.
A tingling touches the spine
from more than the drip
of an icicle laden branch.
Time blurs so I may stand
beside myself
in the conflagration
of the words let go,
but the body refuses
to burn off the memories
painted on cellular walls,
forge again my DNA
for future generations.
Hushed
The voice that says
I love you
when I am dreaming
turns out to be
the tide water's rise and fall
in the membranes
of my cells.
The truth is
I cannot speak that voice
when facing a mirror,
water running, soft soap
in hand for washing.
The truth is the sparrows
huddle in the junipers
as the heavy snow falls
to cover the stubbled fields
long empty of maize.
The sky is a color
my paints cannot name
and no matter what combinations
I mix, the shade of grey
is not quite true.
The tide of sparrows rises
into the snowy backdrop,
then falls back into the junipers.
What is more a prayer
than the song the sparrows sing
for the release of Spring?
What says I love you
more than living
through the hard times?
Main Page
This site sponsered by
|
<![CDATA[<xmp>
<body>
]]> | | |