School Bus Zone

Thirty small children
in blue wool coats
rank and file
march into school
first day
of September
post Labor Day
heads full
of Summer’s last
memories
while leaves
remain green
before the change
as if orange
should be a color
that announces
school’s resumption
as if orange
announces
the construction zone
for building young minds.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Lichen Crusted Stones

At seven years old
I imagined
the Bad Behavior Cemetery
was where
the school principal
buried all the wicked kids
he hit too hard
with his wooden paddle.

I placed it next to
the post office
where parents
sent postcards
and letters
to their lost children
who waited out purgatory
for judgement day.

Early All Halos day,
after refusing
to collect candy
trick-or-treating,
I snuck in there
to search
for my brother’s
headstone
since my mother
did not know
where he was buried
and I wanted
to see it.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

In The Running

I hate reading.
How the letters keep changing places.
How some words move, then say, Boo!

I love math.
When sixteen refuses to be sixty-one.
When divided-by retains its dots.

I color outside the lines.
My cat drawing has bat wings to fly.
My family drawing is a headstone in the rain.

School brands me Stupid.
A red-hot iron word applied daily,
by twenty-three classmates’ tongues.

Though I fail to outrun ridicule,
I win every footrace at recess.


copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney