Who will captain the skiff
and helm the passage over the rift
when Charon’s eyes wear copper coins?

Tied to the mast, four ordinal carolers
sing for their supper
and sound the depths of the ether.

What will the god’s say
when I deliver the first canine cargo
to the far shore?

And what about the parts?
Folks so broken by their lives
their souls splintered?

What of terrorists
promised heaven and a count of virgins
not held in angelic warehouses?

What will the god’s say
when I deliver a forest of fallen leaves
and ruptured hollyhock petals?

I learn deliveries go both ways.
The hold is never empty.
The newly born disembark.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Stealth Mode

You are
the twenty-seventh
coming of the Christ.

No one prophesied it.
Unlooked for
you quietly do good.

You learned your lesson
the first time
and do not antagonize

the church into seeking
a political remedy
for your anti-establishment leanings.

You wish to be
under social media’s radar
not particularly desiring

the world to appreciate reincarnation
or that there are
more than second chances.

This go-round
you present yourself
as non-binary

but continue to live and teach
the Golden Rule
and its platinum variations.

I am saddened that something happens
each time you turn thirty-three.
A car accident.

A drive-by shooting.
Some cross or another
to come down from.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney