In the stone chapel
winter presses white
upon colored windows.
Monks liberate their voices
eyes looking up
at corbeled vaults.
Their prayers do not pass
the snow covered roof
until they sing.
The chapel liberates its tongue
from millennial stone
and issues granite psalms
that presses the monks’ ears.
They vault to their feet
and flee the achingly lovely melody.
copyright 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney
A minefield replaced the lawn again.
I told the kids not to play dead.
You told me to learn snow.
I salted your lips before drinking a kiss.
The lawn leaped into a pile of pine needles.
The kids cleaved the wind running.
You told me to blanket the yellow sailboats.
I printed your eyes shut with ellipses.
The lawn knelt in prayer reciting psalms.
The kids recited a failed fable left out of the final draft.
You told me to dance standing still.
I built a shelter to protect us from the sun not the night.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney