As I Age

As I age
my skin fits looser
like my belt at forty-two
after losing
sixty-two pounds.

Gravity’s constant pull
has pressed weight
on my feet long enough
that my size thirteen narrow
is now thirteen medium.

At least age has forced me
to slip folded poetry pages
in my hatband
to fill the space
my ego once occupied.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Cache of Four

My sleep drifts.
I wake unintentionally slanted.
I walk all day at an angle.
Lean in my chair.
My cursive handwriting improves.

Each Christian meme
reinforces the proclamation
I am not saved
and heaven rejects me
at the river’s edge
because I do not claim
Jesus as my savior.

Just south of Albuquerque
the green farm fields
contrast the desert land
above the flood plain
and though the Rio Grande
does not appear swift or deep
the current will drag
you under for the fishes
and bull frogs.

In places God seems readily apparent
and those places have nothing
to do with humans
and their destructive constructions.
I cannot claim to know fully
how Ego skyrocketed
apartments and business buildings
into right-angle canyons.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Love Constructed

Love is constructed of the affable sense of infinity.
Of egos on a diet.
Of opposites coming together and fitting like puzzle pieces.
Of the five distinct qualities the tongue tastes.
Of some mystery scent of the olfactory process.
Of songs less than twenty years old.
Of singing those young songs in unison.
Of snakes and tree fruit and how they both rattle the world.
Of sonnets quoted from memory.
Of cresting the continental divide.
Of the new territory to be explored called intimacy.
Of moms’ gun sense in America.
Of dads’ medal-of-honor sense in the world at large.
Of a fast approaching deadline.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney