Eyes Closing

Night tends the stove,
chars the hours.

We eat it like licorice,
black lips and tongues.

A distant sun, not our sun,
goes dark in the blink of an eye.

We debate if it was ever there
or an idea that fell out of our heads.

If black is the color of mourning,
so night is its time.

Like children we tick off finger tips
as we recite those things we mourn,

though neither one of us
comes close to tears.

As silence comfortably darkens the room,
we slump into each other.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Medicinal Beach

There is no hope
for black licorice
turned into swizzle sticks
to stir up old radio songs
with crushed ice
replacing screaming teenage girls
held back by the thin blue line
of the occasional blip
on a seismograph
that cannot account for hours
of waves depositing
a hundred thousand
boxed Star Wars action figures
on a medicinal beach
where Dora likes to sit
reading Prospero’s books
under a staged confession
to setting the shoreline afire
so it would carbonize
into a coal-black stick.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney


Just me having fun with language. Enjoy the penultimate day of 2019.

Love & Light. Tree & Leaf.