Where You Are

We seek each other out.
We are not hard to find.
You in your studio.
Me in my poetarium.

We speak something akin to religion.
We speak something to raise our spirits.
Our incantation of togetherness.
I love you.

The words paper the walls
of every room in the house.
They dot the backyard
like birds pecking the seed we spread.

I did not give up
on the search for home,
but accepted I found it
where you are.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney


Antiseptic romance.
A celibacy celebration.

A scratch without an itch.
Unscathed by complications.

No matter how little sunshine
there are shadows.

Precious freckles.
Glasses askew.

Childish voices set aside.
Repair to the confidential quarter.

A conversational flush.
A rash of old fears.

How to make love’s underbelly
as good as new.

Yes. The scars remain red.
Day old at best years later.

Look at the stars.
Choose one and wish.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney


My moss-laden tongue
confirms my muleheaded silence.

We share porch-swing condolences.
We share a pot of licorice tea.

Dora crafts mud figurines.
She rewrites formulaic principles.

She references Hawkeye in one-sided conversation.
We observe the exact instant the tide turns.

My careworn vocabulary lines up for roll call.
I love you survives a forlorn hope.

We view the next world’s separating membrane.
We swear mutual fealty.

Dora summons a sun-steeped red sky.
She performs Buffalo Nickel magic tricks.

We harvest heirloom stars for new wishes.
We store them in a sweetgrass basket.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney


forlorn hope is the first wave of an assault into the breach of a fortified position and usually sustained extremely high casualties if not get wiped out. I applied poetic license to this meaning.

Expectation Met

I am a star falling.
The night sky refuses to catch me.
The moon refuses to catch me.

Please lift your eyes from the ground.
I need you to catch me.
Your eyes predict my arc of descent.

I ask that you employ courage.
I am made of fire.
Please hug me to your chest.

When you feel the bump and burn,
press me past skin and bone.
I glow inside you.

This merger is beyond your imagination.
Nothing explains it.
You feel our oneness.

As you glow from inside
your friends see and they ask
if you are a promise delivered.

You know love.
Its pain. Its joy.
Your eyes never close again.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney


What a good night.
Stars blurry through a frosted window.
Me with you under the blankets.
I hear you whisper.
How will we remain in love
without hard times binding us?

Habit. I whisper into your hair.
Plus, I love you beyond the end of time.

You squeeze me. Your face shifts
from my chest to my shoulder.
Your kiss presses upon my cheek.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney


We met under a full moon
reestablishing itself in the night sky
near the end of an eclipse.

Each full moon we marry anew
month after month
and this is enough.

The courthouse archives no paperwork.
No church congregation heard our vows.
No broom was jumped. No handfasting.

We feel a composed sense of fitting,
of joining in love
with the fullness of light.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

On My Own

A woman becomes a jail cell.
Her hiked skirt is not a gateway metaphor.

She has nothing to do
with the disappearance of Saturn’s rings.

If only the bad guys grew tusks
to reveal their true natures.

I left upon realizing there is no lock,
no key to hold me in this five foot eight confinement.

I insist my incarceration
was a case of mistaken identity.

I am not really sure who I am
to this very day.

A woman wobbled
like a large bell at the first rope pull.

She prepares to ring out Freedom
or ring out Emergency.

I failed to blow out thirty-seven
of my sixty-two birthday candles.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney


I was six foot five . Gravity is winning as I get older. I am a smidge under six foot four today. I never dated a woman who was five foot eight. In fact most of the women I dated in my life were five foot five or shorter. Once, I dated a six foot one woman, a blonde Valkyrie many years younger than myself just after my midlife crisis struck me. As you can guess, I did not go well. (It did not go badly either.)

I have never viewed dating or living with a partner as a jail cell. So I have no idea why that image popped up in this poem. Creativity is a difficult thing to place into definitions and parameters. Creativity is oft born of chaos, so expecting neat fitting boxes is silly. If I ever meet a woman who can make Saturn’s rings disappear I definitely wish to have coffee with her to see if any sparks take flight. But that will remain only a wish, since I love Dianne too much for infidelity to be even in a flicker of a thought.

That brings up the question of why do I write dating or relationship poems that are not directly connected to Dianne. I do not have an answer, except the notion that they are fun to write. Like musing on some event from youth whether joyous or traumatizing.

Tangent: once when I had a bit of writers block, the NYC poet Jaxx in conversation suggestion I go out and date the most opposite to my nature woman to get the creative juices flowing. I did not take her advice.

On my sixty-second birthday I did not have a cake with candles. Nor ice cream. I did have chocolate. But if having chocolate declares a day a birthday, then every day is my birthday. 72% dark chocolate is my favorite, just in case any of you feel inspired to gift me some dark chocolate. While on holiday in November, I dropped into the Kyya Chocolate shop in Fayetteville, Arkansas. They have a wild kosher salt 72% dark chocolate which must be placed on one’s bucket list as a means of experiencing rapture.

Oh. I got off topic. Chocolate does that to me.

Love & Light. Tree & Leaf.