The fire’s smoke:
so much red-orange tinsel.

Atop the chimney cowl, ravens
warehouse rising heat.

Our walls murmur
yesterday’s conversations.

I received from you one dozen kisses,
so much like pink roses.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

If It Bleeds It Leads

The street corner journalist
with her cell phone held high
records two policemen kicking
some spilled recycling cans
as they walk from their squad car,
how the wooden stairs bend
under the weight of their steps
as they approach a turquoise painted door
and knock three times.

Three more knocks nail the eviction notice
for non-payment on a mortgage
to the left of the door’s peep hole
and starts the count down
of a thirty day clock.

One of the two policemen stops
by the fading rose bushes,
pulls some burger wrappers
away from the highest blooms.
He pierces his finger on a thorn,
but continues to remove the other trash
to the annoyance of his partner.

The street corner journalist
with her cell phone held high
records the two policemen entering
their squad car, starting it up,
and strapping on their seatbelts.
The driver checks all directions,
pulls away from the curb
to leave the scene.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney

Seven-Twelve is Seven-Twelve Again

Hours ago, the sky stopped rotating,
but the earth kept right along.

Bees swirl around a bruised peach
like electrons around an atom’s nucleus.

The magpies attach towropes to the sky,
attempt to catch it up.

As we wait the magpies’ return,
the mistletoe consumes a cottonwood.

When you are barefoot,
bees harvesting clover blooms are tiny landmines.

This is the year the roses go on strike,
middle grey petals, a repellent metallic odor sent forth.

The bees refuse to pollinate the roses this season—
an unintended consequence.

The magpies return, pleased with their group effort.
The sky and earth synchronized with Swiss timekeeping precision.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney