Poetry

An archive of my poetry on Medium

Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle

4 min readJul 30, 2016

Introduction

My poems can be vain, inane, a game: or a way to tame the swirling, whirling vortex of my mind.

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A Brother’s Lament

An elegy

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Wandering Words, Querulous Questions

An octogenarian prose poem

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A Child’s Rhymes from Other Times

Quatrains from a boy’s notebook

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Cosmos

An alliterative admiration

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A Solitary Solipsism

Can I know you? Can you know me?

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Prostrate in Puerto Rico

Metaphorically speaking, that is

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A Tropical Thanatopsis

Light verses on leaving

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By Hook or by Crook

A poem for the birds

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Nuit Blanche

Ode to a sleepless night

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The Sleeping Place

On breathing free

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Thank You, My Friend

A poem of love

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Mourning a Luddite Friend

In memory of Vincent Jubilee

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Me and the Mot Juste

When words escape me

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Coitus Interruptus

A love poem

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An Amaranthine Love

That lasts a summer’s day

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Evanescence

We appear and disappear

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Joy as a Boy

A love poem

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On Visiting a Graveyard in Scotland

Joss, Loch Lomond, March 2019

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Nocturne

A love song

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Death Wish

My brother died today, It was no surprise. He was so ill for so much time That his death was pre-announced, As all…

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Nocturnal Admission

Apologies to Seneca

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In Commemoration

Another birthday just went by Unremarked and unremarkable, Except to note the achievement Of the one who gave me birth…

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A Time of Watching

Will I sleep? Or will Agrypnia guard Like the hound of Hades The door of unconsciousness?

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Penumbra

My thirty-third straight sunrise (Yes, I keep count,) But it is the pre-rise that moves me From my bed To watch stars…

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Not Forever

I rush headlong, No, feet first, Through life, Like every day Is an everyday, And there will be more Where that one…

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Somnus

Sleep, The repose of death.

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Two Minutes to Midnight

There is no button Big or small Just a single card Inserted by a single hand into a single slot (Like taking cash from…

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Somniloquy

“Mierda,” she said, or I think she said: It was not a sound she’d make By day when wide awake, Nor any time before.

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Waterfallen

The waterfall was small And the tree devoid of odd debris, As if the storm willed me to see Its trunk and branches…

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Photoluminescence

To photograph Is to paint with light An infinitesimal Fraction of a moment.

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No Love Lost

I hold no hatred But sing no songs For the progeny Of wolves That lap and drool In droves and dens Upon the lonely…

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Memory is a Mysterious Master

Or: ‘Ah, yes, I remember it well’

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Witch’s Song

Soon the moon Will run and hide. The sun will bide Its tide upon the earth And warm, or charm or harm The child upon…

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The Faithless Latin Lover

Tranquilo, she said, and I said no, There are doors through which I cannot go. The earth is firm beneath my feet…

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Powerless on Christmas

It was the week before Christmas And the house was a mess. It wasn’t the cleaning, Of that I confess

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Not My Presidente

It is not for want of voice that I stay silent, my tongue tied to keep it from licking your luscious (illusory) liberty…

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Impression

Poem by Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle

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Obituary

A poem by Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle

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A Peacock Oratorio

Poem by Ronald C. Flores-Gunkle

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Sudden Storm

The sun, a moment ago vainglorious,

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Idiolect

“It isn’t my goddamned language,” I said, after tripping over dipthongs during dinner.

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Skyhigh

How much does it cost to know how soon the sun will set? Is there a charge to view the moon? Or must I mourn the…

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Endgame

A pier, a path, a life, that leads, follows.

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Nightfall

The banks upon the scene go dim then fade: indigo, magenta, tangerine.

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Glorioso

Why is it wine returns in kind what one expects of it?

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Which Me is Me?

A Meditation in Verse

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Supine

“I am flat on my back,” he said, Although he stood upright And looked all right.

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Fragment

In my photograph, you think you see a salt-pitted sentry box, or a rain-slick fiddlehead in a cloud-enshrouded forest…

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On Being and Becoming

Who am I? You are what you are.

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On Visiting Autumn

Autumn, nature’s culmination, The relentless greens of summer gone, An end-of-season fireworks finale.

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Do You Care?

Do you care who cuts your hair? Does it matter whose hand slips down your back and grasps the firmness of your soul?

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