Dora drains the ocean
with her fountain pen
and a page thirsting for blue ink.
She thought to write an epic poem,
but her haiku contains so much more
with so much less.
Dora masters storms and strong tides,
but fails the calm
for her patron gulls and fishes.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
My sleep is a long line of unconnected sentences
mismatched to dream images,
pushed forth by an idle, small-case god
attempting to prevent teeth from grinding
some not-forgotten, full-color shame
that fattened itself on my sugary silence,
while maintaining righteous illusions
found in Sunday meetinghouse glasswork,
based on blurry wisdom
inside a bible recently arrived
from across the salty ocean’s incoming tide.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney