The nameless track
of old wagon wheels
accrued no virtue
as the prairie
grew to hide
this blight upon its grasses
and the deeper ruts
old schooners
left without tack
when faced with wind
carrying thistle
and dandelion seeds.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney
We misplaced our shadows in the night
as the house turned.
The dry creek bed filled with sky—
a wash punctuated
with thistle heads
softened with rabbit brush.
Weak things were swept away
by water impregnated with ash.
I stood above you.
Silent.
A being crouched slightly
then stretching the universe itself.
copyright © 2022 Kenneth P. Gurney
Paul regularly checks
that his shadow remains
attached to his body.
He is sick in a way
that he hides his face
not wishing to be recognized.
I mean at Flying Star
the cafe
where we meet
to discuss why some words
freeze our tongues
into cold silence.
He prays for trust
and a sharp eye
for all his human interactions.
Paul’s shadow
wandered off last Tuesday
but we found it before nightfall
among the bright purple
thistle-heads
up the arroyo in bear canyon.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney
Paul stays
foggy and drizzly
all day long.
Hot chocolate
does nothing
to alter his forecast.
Somewhere
far away in Europe
the hills echo
with World War II
as old ordnance
claims a milk cow.
Paul drifts up Taos’ Paseo
to prospect the sky
for three hundred thirty days
of brilliant sunshine,
magnificent sunsets
and light that entraps artists.
The purple thistles
seem out of season
but opportunistic
while climate change
performs its namesake duties
pressuring mercury.
Adobe Bar electrifies wooden music
and a spontaneous round
on Guinness pints.
The Hum contemplates
who hears it and who does not
separating the struggling Paul
for another day’s distraction
of journaling on rolling papers
and retreating into that fog.
copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney
I am your rainy incident
that catches you
without an umbrella
so you order a second
double espresso
and write
your autobiography
in a chicken scratch code
on a brown napkin
sending all of your emotions
out to right field
during the World Series
with the hypothesis
your emotions
had one game-saving
over-the-wall catch
left in its marrow
before a field
of thistle seedpods
burst open
like clouds
that cause delay.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
Umflop 