No he said she said.
No ping pong either.
No! Table tennis
is ping pong by another name.
Not fair of you to try to slip one by me.
I am tired and U. S. Grant’s migraine
infects my left hemisphere.
Yes. The brain. I feel blurry.
So now you think
we are a few hours from surrender.
Oh, how Appomattox of you.
This bedroom is not
Wilmer McLean’s parlor on April ninth.
Good night, dear.
Roll over and fall asleep
with your arm around the dog.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney
I like my dramas on the page.
I consume my life writing poetry.
I pinch the dead when they come to talk to me.
U. S. Grant chews cigars in my poetarium.
He admonishes me for calling him Sam.
His head sags when I mention Cold Harbor.
So many of the dead come to visit
I mix cultural references
while Grant blows smoke.
copyright © 2019 Kenneth P. Gurney
On my November holiday, we stopped at Grant’s historic home in Galena, IL. The Illinois State Park service does a good job presenting the house with an informative tour. I had been there once before, maybe 30 years ago. It was nice to refresh my memory.
There are times when I write poems that it feels like the dead come to visit. I find it interesting how I can be both myself as interviewer and the dead visitor being questioned. Since I have studied so much of the Civil War, it is not surprising that figures from that time come to my poetarium.
Love & Light. Tree & Leaf.