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Archive for the ‘Emotions’ 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 GAME AT SIX

THE GAME AT SIX

7/4/2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn “The Poet in the Rain”

He was six,

I think.

Six is such a young age

To die.

To die when the world is young.

So young and fresh.

Playing baseball.

The bat came back,

Freed from hands

Whose grip was too loose.

So young and guiltless,

And memories now still fill,

Of the sound of the strike,

Against your best friend’s chest.

Just a game, they said.

Just a game.

Three days later,

Standing in a cemetery,

That stretched

To the end of the earth,

Or so it seemed.

On a bright, warm, summer’s day.

The sky so clear and so blue.

Where was the rain?

Shouldn’t there have been rain?

Shouldn’t there have been angels there to cry?

They laid your friend away,

In a small white casket,

Flower covered it was.

But wasn’t he allergic to such as that?

Could he sneeze?

Did someone pack tissues

In his pockets?

He always had tissues.

And a minister spoke of heaven,

Of heaven and hell,

And redemption.

And did his best to assure

Everyone there that

A special place there was for those age six.

And those living age six

Stood in mild confusion.

Was he really in that box?

And the rain then came

In tears

It came in streams

Amid sobs and shaking

As those age six stood and fidgeted.

It came as a torrent would.

If only the sky could.

But the sky!

The sky, so clear and so blue,

So distant, yet so near;

The sky stayed blue and cloudless.

Blue and cloudless on that fated day.

For clouds there were enough,

There among the living!

There for the one whose heart,

At six, had stopped its beating.

Forever young.

Forever six.

Forever dead.

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FACES

5/9/2011

Copyright Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

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

Traffic slows, and I, in major working thought, do then suppose,

To try, while the world is in passing, amid birthing, dying throes,

and life’s loves and hates, like ocean waves,

come crashing upon a waiting, aged, and battered shore.

But——for this my curiosity grows,

But for this, but for this, and nothing more;

To introduce questions about issues, life, and things that which

No answers for them can be found, yet how they in power bewitch.

And therefore, in the surrounding still,

as stubbornly my soul will allow, I do question and propose by strength of will,

Else in discontented pleasure of a mixture of regrets would collapse and drown

Would but sink neath the folds of life, and disappear beneath the waiting ground.

Oddly, then, in thought, I am passing the vision intact, and unmasking,

A moment——a spotlighted vagary, licensed to catch up my mind,

Profound and electric as it starts, begins to compose,

While driving and looking out the windowpanes of my car.

A thousand images spring forth at once from both near and far.

Nevertheless, it is the faces in the vision quest that occupy my whimsy this night,

And will haunt my pathway into the coming dawn which, then ablaze in splinters of light,

Will break across the sparkled obsidian garment overhead interrupting the stoic archer

Who, in a locked position, defined by patterned star

Has never let the arrow loose, but then the archer is no true marcher

And from another position in the sky the archer is slain

For such as frozen is when viewed from the top, the bottom, the left

For such the right, the front or the back the original does not remain

And such is the case for changes made to the faces of man and woman cast in light, shadow, or darkness, in the sun, and in the rain.

Those laughing, singing, those sleeping, awake, birthing, dying, dead, and——those in pain.

I find them looking back through the glass from the future, the present, and the past, from up and from down, from side to side

While in my car I do drive as the driver and as a passenger do ride.

Does that matter in the end? The changes along the way?

Are we all so changeable from close and from far?

From birth to death, from smooth to being marked by scar,

I see faces along the path, along the lane, each a centerfold,

Each a separate light, each from a broken, shattered mold

Birthed in liquid we come as chosen to the waiting fold

And with a cut we are set free from the suitcase carried in that we all call: she.

Our mother, our vessel from darkness to light

chosen by some miraculous test of wills that for life will fight

But, I pray thee, think a moment, what if in the fevered search another egg or sperm were there

And they instead had formed a singular conceptive pair

Where would our position, our world, our own star be then?

And what of that pesky problem some like to call “original sin”.

Our birthright in cell chosen made from some divine process we all suppose,

But do you truly know, do the faces really show what was taught,

And what was learned before in death we all repose?

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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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Tee Tyson does a fantastic job reading my poetry. And, at the very end she does a surprise reading of one her teenage poems that I think is incredible. She doesn’t really know the strength of her talent. Her poem is striking and her reading of both hers and mine is majestic and done far better than I could have done. Thanks Tee!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nd-qQIBNetU&feature=share

Enjoy.

Gordon.

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THE VIOLIN # 2

Violin after Jakobus Stainer 18th. century

Image via Wikipedia

THE VIOLIN

3/18/11

Copyright 2011 Gordon L Kuhn

http://www.Poetintherain.com

 

Once,

years ago

I felt,

I touched

a violin!

Just the once.

It was gently placed

within my hands,

and I was shown

a single note,

and how to play

just the one note.

Once,

years ago,

and as I touched the bow

to the strings

which lay silent waiting

waiting for the barely felt touch,

and

as it sang out

as the bow crossed lightly

over the tightly stretched

and silent waiting strings

I was seduced!

My soul was lifted free

to dance alone in the sky

swept away by the single note

above where no one could see

and as the one note pierced the evening air

it touched me so soft and so gentle fair

as would a lover’s fingertips follow curves

and brought joy beyond belief

the first love

the first kiss

Once, just the once

I found myself to have been seduced

So gently taken

So softly led

to a waiting bed of music laid

so many years ago.

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PASSING

Passing

2/23/11

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

I pass each day in wonder of the love I found

when soft summer winds came to visit on a winter day

and loosed my frozen heart from the mound

of ice had formed and believed would ever stay

but does now dance beneath a warming sun

upon the sandy altar shore beside where the frothy, tossing sea does run

and I walk with the one from whom love for me had sudden come

had sudden come on an icy day, on a quiet winters day.

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