KENNETH P. GURNEY

WILD FIRE
 

On a cold night
a woman treats a man
like kindling—round stick
rubbed between two hands
spreading sparks.

In this overcrowded brewpub
the problem is sparks landing
on a tinderous floor
of an old growth forest
suffering from long years
of drought.
 

RUNNING WITH IT
 

Being God's children, made from dust
and mostly composed of water,
our collective name should be Mud.

Hardcourt Fenton Mudd,
character from a Star Trek episode,
maybe two, keeps notes
on the state of humanity
on Hollywood's walk of fame,
handles the filmsy ghosts
of faded fortune as simply as he
pays for coffee with a one dollar bill.

I don't know where ashes come from;
how could we be made from ash?
(the residue of burnt, organic material)
Maybe, our name is Tree, Rose, or Grass.
Maybe it explains our lyes.

I don't think it matters much
on the playground
where the kids do what kids do
and their parents are off at work
worrying about the bills, instead of
monitoring what is going on here.

Chance. We leave a lot to chance,
though not as much as in pioneer days
when it was not unusual
for a family of five or more children
to be left in the competent hands
of a twelve year old for weeks at a time
while parents were off doing what-ever.

Maybe that is what is wrong
with our youth today—
not enough responsibility.
I don't know. I just see the kids
at the playground covered in dirt.
Dirty faces. Dirty hands.
When they are washing up
they'll be mud for just a moment.
Maybe, that keeps them in touch with God.
 

MY WORDS STUMBLE ON A
FLEETING IMAGE UNDERFOOT
 

In this perpetual September
leaves turned shades,
grains anticipate the harvest,
dawn's low fog clots
the rows of corn,
a fallen black hat
tumbles backwards,
the colors limp
without a breeze.

The fettered grass, sparse as it is,
has no choice but to accept
what gravity bestows upon it—
painful light soaked red
in droplets splayed.

A raven clutches
a fragment of dark, blue cloth,
a brass button attached—
eagle embossed—
a bone fragment splintered
through the tender weave.
 

Kenneth P. Gurney lives west of Port Angeles, WA on the Olympic Peninsula not too far from the end of the world (ok, continent, but it feels like the end of the world sometimes). Over his ten year writing career a fair percentage of his poems found their way into websites, magazines, reviews, anthologies. Favorite poets: Harjo, Mead, Collins.

Some people claim he is editor of the website Tamafyhr Mountain Poetry (and he has received good review of his editorial ability), but Ken considers himself a snobby, non-editor who accepts into his website only those poems that catch his interest. (He's pissed off a couple MFA canidates who are still clueless as to why he didn't accept their stilted, boring work and filed their angry retorts in the trash.)