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Archive for the ‘Writers’ Category

  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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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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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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TO LET THE MUSIC FLOW

April 4, 2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

It’s one AM, the dogs are loudly snoring at my feet.

My wife lies peaceful dreaming in a nearby silent room.

But——but, I am glued, held fast by unseen forces to this seat,

While words, lyrics, verses paint pictures in my head that loom,

Larger than life itself, and I could never hope to contain.

I try to focus, to keep the moments clear and maintain

In rational form to understand, but the position, I cannot sustain.

As they dance, dip and sway, for they simply carry me away.

In a sudden rush, in a momentary hush

Where the sounds that I hear become so rich and lush

And, I know I cannot force them here to stay.

I have no right to try to retain

but let them freely pass, to go.

To let the music simply flow.

 

It’s one AM, the sky is black outside.

The stars are there but doing their very best to hide,

As worlds of words swirl about my head,

rich images of distant places my thoughts are fed

I hear the music of distant lands and find my thoughts are gently spread,

In rapture, between heaven and hell, and beyond the gates of each

And I wonder what the muse is trying me to teach.

I know in my heart, I cannot hold the dreams in place

Only memories of the music can I ever hope on paper to trace.

I must let them freely pass, to freely go.

I must learn to let the music flow.

 

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CROSSING

April 2, 2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

 

T’was a soft and loving summer’s night

that stood close and kissed a winter’s dawn

the warmth of long days had slowly cooled

and fall’s chill had painted pooled

a gift of basketless leaves and flowers strewn

to wither and then to dust to turn

beneath a bright and glowing autumn moon

as lengthening shadows upon the field began to loom

and creatures large and small

furred and feathered, short and tall

began to venture forth to creep into the room

while aged the world before me ran

yet t’was young and still spry as the new born fawn

that I spied one early sleepy morn

as it strutted and danced across my lawn

in love with life it jumped and pranced

while I crept as close as I could have chanced

then while embers from a fire close by

cracked and popped and began to lose their heat and die

I stood quiet as the soft tan creature passed

while in silence each found the other’s eye

and with gentleness we both touched the other’s face

and across its muzzle my fingers traced

while its warm short breaths my throat and face embraced

 

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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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UNABLE, COLLAPSING

 

UNABLE, COLLAPSING

2/20/2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

I’m collapsing in pain

swept away with the shame

that I cannot capture and hold

the words and phrases so wondrous and bold

which assault, no, no in tenderness touch

yet unaware they are how deep the knife is plunged

with every line that slips past, every beat, every sound

that sweeps me up and tears me apart

leaves me in a crumbled heap

my pen is useless

I cannot keep up

how sad it is to see them fade

from the field from the glade

of flowered birth

oh, God, how I am swept away in pain

adrift, alone, tired, and in shame.

 

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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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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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What Hobby?

WHAT HOBBY?

2/4/11

Copy Write Gordon Kuhn 2011

 

What hobby shall I entertain this day?

What fantasy should I prosecute?

A fresh shore of time will give play

to restitute without delay dreams

held gently in hope while I weigh

out odds against waiting obstacles

who stay as hidden phantoms of my mind

whose tangled unwind lay as traps

hidden reefs in the sea of undrawn maps.

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