Lay To Rest

A bagpipe’s call
wends its way
through cedars
and fog
to my porch
where I cut my hair
with clippers
and a quarter inch
guide.

Forgive me
my selfish interests
and petty happiness
both of which
passed through
the shredder
this morning.

Draped
over a chair
my white shirt
does not signal
surrender.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Long Low Notes

The fog plays its horn section
over the woodwinds.

A ghost emerges wearing only
my memories.

She wraps a moonbeam
shawl around her shoulders.

She traces my body
with murder scene chalk.

Against my will
I cry myself out of sleep.

My hands reach out
to pull her close.

The fog plays its horn section
over the woodwinds.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Cipher

In the indigo time,
between sleeping and waking,
the dream of love
feels the first manipulations
of the conscious mind.

During indigo
the conscious mind slides
out of the shadows
like a pilfering thief.

The whole message
slips through the thief’s fingers.
The sacred text of the sub-conscience
blurred and sullied.

Absorbed like rain
back into the fertile dreamscape
as energized thinking
rises like the sun
burning off the ground fog
of dreaming.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Empty Sky

This morning, the gray fog
snakes upward from the harbor
and the Strait of Juan de Fuca
to en-coil and squeeze the rain
out of the clouds above.

The snaking fog opens wide
and swallows the weakened clouds whole,
then retreats to a cedar filled valley
and curls into sleep
along a stony creek
until hunger stirs it again.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney