Archive for the ‘Writing’ Category

What Hobby?



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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Wakened by a Scream


Gordon Kuhn

Copy Write 2011 by Gordon Kuhn

I was wakened by a sudden scream,

the sound exploded in the darkest hours

engulfed and filled the silent room

silent lit by a full and shining blood-red moon.

I was jerked out,

tumbled out,

forced from a pleasant dream,

to lay in a tormented bed,

in wide eyed surprise,

affright from toe to head,

trying my best how to surmise,

what lay next in life,

did in concealment lie.

In fear then was led.

in silent memory anguish fed,

guilt for sins unleashed to tread

upon issues long thought dead.

Not breathing,

afraid to move.

afraid to live,

afraid to die,

my mind was seething,

afraid the world was passing by,

and no mark upon it had I made,

as if in life,

I had not ever been or stayed.

And listened to my heart,

beating beneath the sheets,

and knew there was,

——no one there,

that I was all alone,

just me,

just me with the moon,

a giant blood-red moon,

silent peeking in the room

the very silent lonely room,

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Copy Write © 2010 Gordon Kuhn

How came this feeling of being——alone

set apart from others who seem to easily, openly share

round about me, as I inwardly feel the cool of stone

my timing is so awkward in attempts to find a way to share

and my voice comes to me as though in an emotionless drone

while others seem to shine and with each word spoken there

match the others in easy developed vocal tone

but I feel and fear it is not the same with me

nor ever was, or ever should, or could ever be

but, even still, the feeling lasts that in someway I am——alone.

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Evening comes and in so doing in growing darkness compresses time just a bit and so we in good company choose to sit and reminisce and think of blessings received and drift in thoughts of loved ones who are not so near.

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So morning comes as morning does and I awake and for a moment lie between two worlds…….or is it more than two I wonder. The first thoughts are laced with fog and questions which I don’t easily recall as moments slip away to become minutes moving forward into the day. Thoughts like loosed hummingbirds dart here and there trying to find something sweet to eat. Ah, where is the first cup of coffee at?

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Her Name Was Saucy Miss Merry Fair12/20/2010

Copy Write 2010 Gordon Kuhn

Her name was Saucy Miss Merry Fair

and she rose up proudly from the sea and said she lived there

she told me she was from down Kensington Way

and thought this a new place she might could stay

I told her she needed to brush the sea weed from her hair

though it was very well placed from what I could see

but else others, not me of course, might rudely stare

and would not believe she actually belonged there

among we who common folk were said to be

and she advised she could drop the weed back in the sea

and it would change to children born so long by she

“A good place to plant my feet, though webbed they are you see.”

“Time to move on,” she said, “how about a warm cup of tea?”

I advised of a place down the lane where neighbors went

at odd times of day to sit, sip and eat a bit, and sometimes vent

their feelings of government and prices of this and that and gaze out on the


That suited her, she said, and took my hand and led

and we sat and drank a cup of tea, a with a cookie each was fed

while neighbors gawked at this beauty who had come up to meet me from

the sea

and who chose to sit and dine and laugh alone with me.

Six years ago the lass and I were wed

and then her children came up from the sea

to live with us and share our bread

for in love, by love, and with love they and she

came forth from the dark ocean waters to live and stay

and she and they were from the chilly waters set firmly, finally free.

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New Poem


 Last Night I Dreamed a Dream that I Cannot Share.12/20/2010

Copy Write 2010 Gordon Kuhn

 Last night I dreamed a dream that I cannot share

of someone whose touch I found so gentle fair

she touched my cheek and I thought she was really there

but time in dreams when awake we find is very bare

and rub our eyes and at the world about we calmly stare

and wondered I about the lass whose touch was so gentle fair.

Last night I dreamed a dream that I cannot share

of someone whose touch upon my face was so gentle fair

her lips brushed mine and I thought she was really there.

Last night I dreamed a dream that I cannot share.

Poet in the Rain: https://gkpoems.wordpress.com/
Thoughts: http://gordonwrites.com/
Prince of Dan: http://theprinceofdan.blogspot.com/

Poem – Last Night I Dreamed a Dream that I Cannot Share.doc

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MELANCHOLY WISPS OF FEELINGS SILENT SLIP December 19, 2010 Copy Write 2010 Gordon Kuhn  

Melancholy wisps of feelings silent slip to come firmly into place,

then lock themselves tightly in as a broken puzzle would

in mass confusion, spaces filled with misaligned

if not brooding pieces were lifeless left, to complete the mess

and in nightmare could provide the stress not assigned

while I sit and stare off into a simple, soundless empty space

no thoughts given to the cause. Nay, no to any trace.

Mental grown rose petals there,

that once caused thoughts to stop and stare

now dark turn and tumbling fall from God’s sweet grace.

Broken free from their mother’s wooden lifeless teat

cast off, forced off, did they not cry out at the rend?

or, instead dead were before the end,

lost their hold on natures life granting seat.

Brittle left, fragrance gone, surrendered to the wind,

they then come and crumble into nature’s waiting soot

to disappear where they landed put

no comment, no word, no letter did they outward send

and there a part of earthen soil their ashes soon with little thought

of how once their beauty had with awe been sought

now beneath a crushing careless boot to death are put

while stale grey, ink-grey clouds leaded down with heavy remorse

stretch out flat across the gentle, blue-stained concourse

where no winged, hopeful creatures will be or have taken to the air

none could as simply put there are none who any longer care

no simple thoughts of buoyant anticipation that realm did or could open


with another, while damped down, smashed down, in growing depth of

deadly deep despair

while bottomless waters lap at the oar-less boat left floating, drifting with a

cut and trailing rope

that lay drifting in a twisted, curving line.

The craft’s destination left unplanned.

Its cockpit deserted, empty and unmanned.

Boat and line left floating without any clear design

of goal to reach, no course in mind, no map or compass to remind

but trailing, points the way back to where once lived hope.

But hope has passed away, and no longer has its due;

for hope had perished, left to lay still and lifeless

upon the dock where once the world seemed so bright and strife-less.

But then despair—— its life coldly, boldly took and slew

before turning to slice a cut through the boats single safety line

that never had before lost its contact with the safety of that which once kept the craft tethered unharmed through the moving, ever changing passage of

what we call time

but in this wild purchase of despair that which we called protector, safety

calmly slept.

By Gordon Kuhn

Author of Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems
Buy or view the book at:

OR You can go to Barnes & Noble and order it there.
Simply type in The Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems in the search box and order the book.

Poet in the Rain: https://gkpoems.wordpress.com/
Thoughts: http://gordonwrites.com/
Prince of Dan: http://theprinceofdan.blogspot.com/


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The Words Are Flying


Copy Write © 2010 Gordon Kuhn



The words are flying wide and wild this brooding sleepless night,

but none seem to fall in line, nor stay long enough within my sight

to deliver options to my pen, nor to charge the ink lying waiting therein,

a dark liquid which seems to understand my depths of joylessness wherein

I slip in struggle against ill thoughts, brooding views, a clinging fight

and calling shadows show, to me, to the world, a false delight

while trying to raise the alarm and mount a force for urgency to fight

as the fever presses in and is not so soft in touch or pressure light

and there find self trapped, wrapped tight in a blanket of self inflicted doubt

questioning all that lay exposed within a single candle’s flickering light

while all belief told might not be true that comes anxious into view

and a candle weak could easy lose its light if the wind a bit stronger blew.

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