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Well, I came across an interesting site that contains links to other interesting sites and I highly recommend this site to all of you who are seeking such sites. Dear me, is that a run on sentence? Anyway, it is a Twitter Site: https://twitter.com/StuartABarnes?refsrc=email

You will also find there a link to another site that has caught my interest: https://twitter.com/TinctureJournal?refsrc=email

If you are a writer, a reader, or alive then I suggest you visit the Tincture Journal. If dead or barely alive I suggest you also go there as you might find some therapy waiting in the words that will drag your butt up out of the doldrums and infuse you with the energy to go and write a block buster of a novel or, at least, a reply to my note here.

There was another one there but I have let it slip away. I’ll have to get it back and send it out later on.

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Hi!

I have not used this site for a while as I have been focusing on THOUGHTS. I am going to become more active here and am trying to link the site to the others I use. Thanks to the 14 who have subscribed and I will be doing my best to update and save this site.

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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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  So, I have managed to add the picture to a post. Woo hoo….I wanted it separate. Cannot figure out how to do that.

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This is a test

This is just a test as I am messing around with the header.

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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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To Facebook

Someone broke into my blog and sent a viagra message out. I did not send it. You’ve blocked my blogs, two of them, please release them. I’ve blocked the person or company that infiltrated my blog. I’m an innocent party.

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DON’T MESS WITH MY COFFEE

A photo of a cup of coffee.

Image via Wikipedia

DON’T MESS WITH MY COFFEE

2/18/2011

Copy Write Gordon Kuhn

 

Coffee in a plain blue cup

dark brew, restaurant knew

ah, cream to the side, I think

but blink at the suggestion of sugar

need not sweeten the bitter biting taste

to do so would be such a terrible waste

of coffee bean and water made in water hotter

leave out all this other stuff

and, why, for God’s sake all these names are strange I think

but don’t destroy with special crap poured in my coffee

a frothing mess sprinkled with cocoa dust?

for that I would surely frown and my lips would shrink

away from such a polluted mess

and confess I would hate to waste it all

this drink the seller called out is tall

tall?

what happened to the simple cup

now abused by steamed milk and a chocolate machine

a biscotti to the side maybe someone else’s dream

but not mine

please,

just pour the coffee in a plain old eight ounce cup

let me make the choice of if I wish for cream

regular, cow cream, please, not colored, not flavored

simple, savored.

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IN NINETEEN-SIXTY-FIVE

IN NINETEEN-SIXTY-FIVE
11/13/2010
Copy Write Gordon Kuhn 2010

Two whores passed by on a walk
I, one other, we observed and slowed our talk.
His face, I’m sorry, I don’t recall.
His name, my wretched memory, doth forestall,
but both wore uniforms that day of the Corps,
so long ago in the month of June
twelve months past the one in sixty-four,
we both proudly stood tall
in the summer dress we wore
while they in their costume of the night
time bar moved past as if we were not in sight
to one whose distance surely was not too far
from where we walked in opposite directions
each seeking from life some equal perfections
each aware of who and what we were
and neither party wished the other to stir
from restful passing, each thinking we knew who we were
thinking thoughts and wondering what life yet held in store
while strolling along on that cemented shore.

I have no idea about the subject of their talk,
most animated, private, as they did walk
as they went about their daylight walk,
and neither they nor we were out to gainful stalk
the other for professional services of basest means
just walked past, walk past and talk
of financial means or for some small comfort
closing in on some nearby location
dealing with life’s all to violent frustration
lips moving in too old young flesh
artful makeup painted over bruised flesh
going for a talk somewhere
perhaps in truth to nowhere
just then no moment need for one to strive
to be other than what we were that day
in nineteen-sixty-five
.

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