The Poetry Of.
Kenneth P. Gurney.......................
In the bottomland
In the bottomland where the creek
spreads out in spring
the marsh rails need no posts.
The man who bare foot walks the line
mending, cleans his feet in the tub
they bob for apples in come Halloween.
The lyrics of Peggy Lee
filter through the glittering leaves--
his wife's wash day voice loud.
The thread she uses to repair
his work day clothes is so green
it plaits the grassy knoll to his vest.
He sits in Whitman's lines
a long time; so long
his callous hands wear smooth.
In the bottomland where Yule
brings a deeper shade of white,
the snowbirds sustain vitality.
Tube White
As winter approaches
in white tennies,
Saint Vincent De Paul's
asks for athletic socks.
Two soles each to save
from peeling skin
with a regular change
and a spare for washing day.
Register
The names of the stillborn
are not recorded in the obituary pages.
Or a listing of whose arms
are more empty than ever before.
No paragraphs report causes,
fond memories or collections.
No one counts the lost hours of sleep
or the second guesses
or measures the chasm that forms
in a bed, before vows lose
their power to bind.
It is with great pleasure, I provide a link
to Kenneth's Website.
Kenneth Gurney's spoken poetry is among the finest I've ever heard. A joyful, accomplished, precise army of words given out in a careful midwestern charming accent. Treat yourself and listen. These are wonderfully structured gems~ well read, always surprising.
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