Distant blue seems close.
Top cover.

Farther than
the descending sun.

This mesa solitude.
This waining.

My love brings them closer.
My love dances.

No steps codified.
Silly human.

Emulates the curl of smoke.
Emulates the miles.

Hears the orchestra—
adagio in thrasher alerts.

Cadence comes and goes.
Cholla stuck.

A single needle removed.
Released from its former self.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney


Merry Christmas to all the celebrators of the holiday. Merry Saturday to everyone else.

While We Are People

Poetry is a sign of my ancestors
interacting with my great grand children
none of whom I have seen or met.

This Now is a timeline
twisting into rope.
And untwisting as well.

This instant is a binding
and an unraveling
that affects the beginning and end.

Poetry is a fathomless orange
marking a reconstruction
of innermost perception.

Not some wild guess.
Not some flock of geese rising off a lake.
Not some infants index finger pointing.

I asked for your raw emotions
instead of a mask—
but the crowd scared you thirsty.

The orange sunset
tossed the edge of the world high—
with no sign it will return to earth.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

Change of Pace

The sun rose.
The sun zig-zagged across the sky.

Paul traced his finger on the air above him
tracing the sun’s unusual path.

Where his index fingertip brushed the sky
a dotted mapping line appeared.

The path hung suspended in the air.
At the proper angle it appeared to be a black line.

Paul postulated that dark matter
congregated on the far side of the sun

and shifted positions to create
this visible wobble.

The sunshine vibrated
the earth’s atmosphere upon entry.

In places the sunshine had gaps.
In others it was doubled up and twice as bright.

Paul noticed none of the birds
chose to fly in this unusual light.

The gaps in the light created a flicker.
Paul recognized silent movie cinema.

He chose to keep quiet to honor this effect.
He thought up a SciFi crime novel plot with perfect aliens.

Paul bumped his head on the tracing he had made.
He took his sleeve to palm and erased it from the sky.

The sun set.
It set seven minutes late.

copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney

Sun Falls

The sun falls again.
It clangs a church bell on the way.

Horses gather at the white fence.
Their discordant tales swish a unified prayer.

In the hollow, crickets speak vespers.
In the hollow, a cow lingers with one last grassy mouthful.

At the church, a divorce ceremony concludes.
A rubber stamp for last Thursday’s decree.

The neighborhood is now whole again.
The diminishing metaphors cease.

A mugger bypasses his next victim.
The slanted light of a falling sun

made her too beautiful to approach. He treasures
the moment too much to abandon it for money.

copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney