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Archive for the ‘Depression’ Category

RIVERS AND CANYONS

Copyright Feb. 14, 2012

Gordon Kuhn, Poet in the Rain Productions

All rights reserved.

 

I don’t know which way to go

When the river starts to flow,

As canyon walls begin to rise,

And I hear my neighbor’s painful cry.

 

A bottle full of forgetfulness might be a needed share,

It’s temporary pain relief with all its contents on a dare,

While memories and ghosts slip slowly past,

Sharing moments that haunt and forever last

 

I just don’t know which way to go

When that river starts to flow

As a whirlpool surfaces and draws me ever near

It’s the sadness waiting there that I fear

 

I crossed this river yesterday, when it was dusty dry,

Laying beneath an open, peaceful, friendly sky;

But now the river has begun to grow,

And emptiness I begin to know.

 

There is no place left for me to go.

As the water starts to spread in its growing flow.

The canyon walls begin to rise

And clamber for the open sky

 

I don’t know which way to go

As the river begins to flow

I crossed the path when I thought it safe

Now shadows about me form to drape.

 

The canyon walls look as brown glass might

When lying next to that which is empty in my sight

And I hear my neighbor’s lonely cry

And I feel so thirsty with a throat most dry

 

I crossed the river when I thought it safe

But learned the river has no escape

There is no place left for me to go

The water knows and so grows the flow.

 

And I hear my neighbor’s lonely cry.

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THE FUNERAL PYRE

THE FUNERAL PYRE

5/20/2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn “Poet in the Rain”

The following is a poetic reflection on

All the Beautiful Things

written by author Andrew Meek.

====================================

The flames licked and sucked upon the food,

T’was fed the crackling heart of fire lent;

As papers, memories, laughter, all the beautiful things, loves past mood

Orange, red, and curling grey rose and ate until all was spent.

Nothing there was to be kept.

All there over each had been wept.

A slender hand fed food the glowing, hungry, naked beast,

Which ate so hungrily the memories stained with fallen tears

And, how oddly, she, the igniter of the flames, not in the least,

Came to realize, burning memories set her free, reduced her fears.

Nothing in memory or tangible she brought there was to be kept.

All brought there over each had been silent wept.

That all that had been or was to be, had come and gone now with the ticking of passing time

As memories had failed to stand with her neither strong nor true

Alone, now, she watched dreams reduce to ashes, and heard a distant church bell chime

And then, in deep and stark awareness knew, she had stood true to herself and seen the issue through.

Nothing else in memory had been for her that day was kept.

All that was or could have been over each had been silently wept.

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SWIMMING ALONE

5/4/11

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

He reached out to the world,

And found he was all alone,

Alone in a sea of blind humanity.

And he crumpled to the floor where,

He lay painful in a ball, curled there.

The world passed by where he lay.

Where he in silence, sang a song he alone did own.

No one heard the words he did try to share.

Not one took note where he did stay.

No one saw him there.

No one seemed to care.

No one stopped to say a prayer.

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UNWANTED TRESPASSING

5/3/2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

What is this place I’ve come to stumble on?

Where others, hitherto my arrival by happenstance, left footprints of their        passing;

In dust where shadows lay thick made of nonporous stone,

And, I feel I might, on some holy ground be, in some profound way:        unwanted in my trespassing.

While a labeled, sealed bottle sits on life’s workbench and at me stares.

Light brown liquid silent peering out of clear cut glass at me.

It would be easy to make a slip, to simply take a single prolonged sip

To feel it burn, running river wide, down my throat——but then, my       friend, nothing is free.

To forget the past, will not, in liquor, in permanence stand to last,

Neither will the pain be swept clear this night from yon-scarred table

Memories of lifelong stains come rushing at me all too fast

It is hard, so very hard at times like this to remain so composed and stable.

What is this place I’ve come to stumble on?

How came I to create such hell as this while through my life I’m passing?

Heavy burdens placed alive upon my heart,

And, in truth, I feel, I might, on some holy ground be, in some profound way:

unwanted in my trespassing.

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ANTIQUE THOUGHTS

4/25/11

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

T’was twilight’s gentle waking hour.

The day bird sought shelter in its leafy tower.

Came the scent of an approaching shower,

As light creatures sought safety each in their respective bower.

But antique thoughts did in shadows restless roam.

Beneath streetlights, they did seek an easy home,

And focused on a blooded painful zone,

Where they drove their poisoned daggers to the bone.

They circled, and moved in for the kill.

I felt the closeness of their lonely chill.

I walked alone, for from them I had no safe lane or home.

Antique thoughts on darkened wing did in shadows restless roam.

They walked, and flew so close to me,

Remembrances that haunt and chide. Those no one else can ever see.

The ghosts that stood watching near my side,

As antique thoughts upon the night wind did restless ride.

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LUCKY SOME

12/19/11

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

The lights go slowly out

as neighbors turn to rest

if rest could truly come

it matters not who might be suited best

for in shadows to succumb

but only for a lucky some.

But not for me.

for I am not free

not truly free

 

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WISHING

View from the Edge. Alderley Edge: the Pennine...

Image via Wikipedia

 

WISHING

2/19/2011

 

 

Stillness comes my way today and is well put to stay

and how I wish it could

how I wish it would

how I wish that it should

but linger in its way

on its way.

 

But while I wish it would

how I wish it could

how I wish it should

in softness would linger throughout the day

linger while the clear blue of day ascends

while clouds pass by as cotton wisps of candy made

while the hand of an immortal is held, is made to stay

from encroaching, from directing the human play

for sadness cannot in this day pretend

when as truth it fails the post, fails to host

no rain drops from it shall fall my way

and yet, and yet

the stillness does not stay

does not linger on its way.

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BUTTERFLY

I DON’T EVEN KNOW YOUR NAME

2/8/11

Copy Write 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Who are you?

Where are you?

I spent the better part of the day fighting for your life

do you understand that?

Yet I don’t know you

butterfly.

I and others dealt with the strife

you dropped in our lives this day

and we worked to help you in life to stay

and yet we know not who or where you are

tell me,

butterfly,

are you close or are you far?

Have your wings found the burning match?

You tumbled out and left the door to your soul standing wide

your fragile wings took to the air

and left us to stare at the empty spot

where you left an opening to read your thoughts

of which in ache you confide

the transformation cocoon you left behind

and your poetry screams out in pain

and now in anger I stand and yell at you.

Damn you!

Damn you

gentle butterfly.

Christ, pills scattered across the table top.

A woman drowning reaching for the surface.

Your video of  your daughters left behind

in memory of some happy time.

And mentions abuse and being left and leaving.

It all leaps across the electronic page

stumbles drunkenly across the stage

rushes headlong towards and ending I know not when and

of life and touches deeply hearts you don’t even know.

Do you not even care about the damage you’ve left in your wake?

But the final deed of selfish intent upon us you now bestow

you say

good by

and

good night

as  though going out for a walk

and leave us here now with our fright for thee

as the shadows lengthen and the trace of you is growing thin

as we unite and fight and pray for you

but we don’t know your name

butterfly.

Is this to be the last bit of fame?

Is this the end of your flickering flame?

Is this where ends your last song of another’s shame

that left you battered, bruised, too weak to give out your name?

Am I to be your helpless pall bearer?

Am I and the others simple pawns in the fight against death?

Yes, and my anger grows hot at this error

you’ve placed so many of us in bewildered terror

you wish to somehow drop without any shame

yet you stand and cry out in pain

and sweep us up along with you

and I don’t——damn you——damn us

I don’t even know your name.

Is our fight, our battle is it in vain?

Can nothing stop your onward rush

to meet death with out a blush

without a hush

without a——

Oh God,

oh, butterfly

I don’t even know your name.

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IT’S FOUR AM

It’s Four AM

2/3/2011

Copy Write 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

 

It’s four AM

Captain Morgan knows my name

He’s aglow with fame and standing just behind

The cabinet near the floor nearby the office door

Where the liquor hides from public view

But through the wood the voices pay their due

To invite the weaker of the men to forget the oath not to sin

If sin it is to imbibe in a holy ritual to subscribe

And thus the men stand in complete divide

As one they cannot cope with the other there

And neither wishes for the other’s irritated stare

But both must truly in thought explore that which divides

For nothing can separate but that which hides

And neither the other wins when one the other chides

And once the glass is lifted the two become the one

And the one wishes the night to continue and not see the coming sun.

 

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