Park

Sundays, after breakfast
we go to the park instead of church.

The park did not invite us
and felt put upon.

Its interest was in birds
especially flocks.

Enough of us responded
to meet-up text messages

that we began to resemble
a flock of geese.

The park complained
our outfits were not uniform

and the girls should not be wearing
manly bright mating colors.

In an effort to appease the park
we began singing

love songs to attract a mate
though none of us

intended to nest
where the park could observe

eggs hatching
or the antics of fledglings.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Family

I caught Serendipity by the tail.
Now I am a flea thrown mid-wag

by seeing the car pull up
to disgorge seven children

at the rubber band snapping age
infused with floating dandelion puff wonder.

Thrown mid-wag I double somersault
into the sequel of the Sunday sacrifice

of a half gallon of ice cream
and two jars of chocolate sauce

which has become ritualized
into a weekly event

after rediscovering the great outdoors
in a park totally lacking suspicion

while lined by sinister houses
on the opposite side of the street.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Traffic Rumbles In The Background

A thrasher knocks a bumble bee out of the air
and duels with it until the bee is dead and eaten.

The grizzled Russian men play chess
and grumble about their stale fortune cookies.

Someone’s young daughter places an origami crane
on a stray dog’s nose.

A bus lowers itself with a great whoosh
to ease sidewalk access for the elderly with canes & walkers.

A yiddish accent recounts her loss for words
when she first saw the Grand Canyon from Bright Angel Lodge.

Two navy officers talk about a war
three hundred years in the history books.

On my park bench, I wait for my father to come along.
He is twenty-seven years in the grave.

Punctual as always, his ghost arrives.
We chat corn futures and the trade war’s effects on farms.


copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney