................................................................................................
The Poetry Of...
Kenneth P. Gurney.........................
Course
Orion. Lines drawn in pencil.
Bullheads snap flies
off the surface.
Boots, wet inside, print
the sky, stick-legs standing.
Roots, the willow by the shore,
knot, tangle--your hair difficult
to brush.
Swallows dart right angles.
Rembrandt light.
You lean into me
studying for your degree
in Warmth.
I crush laurel berries
upon your crown,
inhale their bitter perfume.
The river bank is not married
to the water, but how is there one
without the other?
I am at rest with you. Us.
After your commencement,
stay.
The Hunter
Orion searches the woods
with his big dog
a short ways away.
In the distance
the drumming circle
expands its influence.
You are late, lost maybe,
down by the summer heated
swimming hole. We fear.
As I listen, I realize
I�ve not determined which rhythms
mean joy, which mean war.
Near the river shoal,
the hot girls wear
only the sun.
Orion expects to find you there,
eye popping unconscious--thirteen,
overwhelmed by surging manhood.
As I listen deeper, remove the drums
from the forest sounds,
I hear joyous feet dancing green circles.
You are red baseball cap, freckles,
a fist full of wildflowers for your mother,
a short distance from the woodshed.
Orion�s big dog leads you home
long after dusk, long after we phoned
the homes of all your friends.
At the door, you hide your eyes,
not afraid of a whupping for rule breaking,
but not ready to tell us you kissed a girl.
Value
Sweet gold
array of finches
invest the purple
haired thistles.
This woodland
house is worth
every mile
it is from town.
Main Page
This site sponsered by
|
<![CDATA[<xmp>
<body>
]]> | | |