Catch

I look up
to the glittering
close woven
white net
of the heavens
and feel it cast
by an unseen hand
to haul in souls.

And I wonder
if it is really
many nets
held by many hands
like the fishermen
I have seen
a little off shore—
the steady ocean
brushing
their knees.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

No Matter Where

Paul finds a way
to sneak into heaven
unrestrained by the Bible
or the Pearly Gates.

Paul’s sneaky way
steals from another mythos
and he crosses at Bifröst—
the burning rainbow bridge.

His entrance
is the one blind spot
in the all knowing Christian God’s
omniscience.

It turns out Heaven
always had many gates—
one for each of the world’s religions
and each religion’s sub-sects.

Paul did not sneak
but boldly crossed over
because there are no check points
at the boundary.

Imagine his swift walk up the mountain
through the ponderosa and aspens
and by clearing a ridge
he entered the Valley of Heaven.

All it takes to enter Heaven
is a longing for peace
and human belonging
and the path opens up before you.

copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney

Superpositions

The pre-dawn dark
enclosed the house.
The first light I turned on
intruded and deepened
the surrounding darkness.
There was not enough moon
for illumination
and I did not think
to turn on the blue flame first
then fill the kettle.

Out the window
the absence of stars
marked the mountains line.
There. That bend.
That indentation
which will be white soon
is where you are.
In the litter of leaves
and pine needles
that now cover
our thoughts of you
where we spread
your ashes.

And not where you are.
You believed you rejoined the whole.
God is the word we use
to define the whole.
Our solar system equivalent
to a single atom
of something infinitely larger.
Eternally.
Atoms trading places.
Always in motion.
Your water, by fire, evaporated
into the air then clouds.
Your ash when the west wind kicks up
moves your carbon toward Kansas.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

We Formed A Quintet

We offered our shouts to the sky.
It was all we had that would rise.

I said it was shouts
but it was a very loud song.

We wished to reach the heavens
to let loved ones know we do alright.

We sang from a mountain top
to make the distance shorter.

It was not the tallest mountain in the state
but the tallest we had close by.

Being autumn enough
elk bugled in accompaniment.

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

Hoist

The dead
who did not tell
every story
they meant to tell
drift about
murmuring
sounding like
the wind
passing
through leaves.
They hope
the thin strands
of their stories
enter ears.

Paul sits
under a tree
tilting his head
at different
angles until
he catches
the threads
of several stories
that he believes
work like tethers
and will lift him
into heaven
come the day
he dies.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Filaments

An idea turns my head
to the night-dark sky

and I ask, Why is Heaven
placed in all that emptiness?

I lost myself looking up
and fell into simple easy breathing.

I move to relax
under a late Autumn elm tree.

I notice how its slim branches
connect stars

the tips plug into the sky
and channel Heaven into Earth’s soil.

I reach my hand up, fingers spread,
to accomplish the same.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Shelter Receives No One After Five

We stood outside
the First Church of Christ.

It was one of six by that name
in the city.

We wanted sanctuary.
Our pandemic eviction was complete.

No one was home in the church
after dark—tale end of twilight, really.

Our boys and girls
played ring around the rosary—

a game they just made up
while clicking their tongues.

One of the boys argued this building
was the house of God

and God should let us in
to stay dry from the approaching storm.

One of our girls argued
God dwells in Heaven with the angels

and Heaven is in outer space.
She could not name the nearest star.

When the rain started,
one of our girls suggested

Fairies should kidnap all the children
away from us.

The youngest boy started crying.
He suffers from night terrors

and the night closed in
all around him, claws exposed.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Afterlife

It is the matter of heaven.
And what it will be.
Is right now.

For you
whatever you think
is how it will shape itself.

Those people who have returned
from the white tunnel
to hospital beds confirm this.

If you expect family,
family waits for you
with a hug upon arrival.

If you expect rolling hills
with fields and farms—
voila!

Harps and clouds.
Only if you truly desire them.
And wings.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Lead

On a string
tied to Lori’s wrist
a bee flies
taut circles.

She winces
from the sting
of critiques
and cast stones.

Those bible thumpers
see only Lori’s placid mask,
not the new hurt
layered upon the old.

She refuses to let her injuries
become her heart.
She fears
the bruised flame’s blue heat.

That evening
Lori frees the bee
and ties her string
to the north star.

Each night thereafter,
the dead locate Lori
and follow the hemp lead
to the heavens.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney