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Posts Tagged ‘Depression’

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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http://www.amazon.com/Widows-Cliff-other-Poems-ebook/dp/B004TGUZ10

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Fast note.  My book: The Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems is now on Kindle for 99 cents.

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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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THE PENGUIN

3/17/11

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

 

I woke one night in early May

Of some forgotten year

and I blush to say the date I don’t recall

The number, sadly, wasn’t written on the wall

And the memory of such it was did not stay

Perhaps——memories

Perhaps memories themselves have something to fear

Of being eaten by something much bigger

That might wander in from out of shadows——far to close, far to near

So in safety they lay in hiding,

in safety biding afraid to rise up out of fear

Something close by which by circumstance would somehow trigger——

But, wasn’t Trigger the name of Roy’s fabulous old horse?

Oh——well, I am digressing——of course

I’m sure the evening before had been quite drear

as my headache, at the time, seemed all too massively clear

And stood as a reminder of why I was asleep upon the floor

Halfway to my bed from the apartment’s front door

Which, oddly, appeared through the mental haze,

at that curious time of night or day,

to be standing there, misty-like and bare-naked open

yet I was sure I had closed and locked it before

sometime entering or exiting before I lay and began to snore

perhaps the lock was broken

perhaps it was merely a reminder,

perhaps a shill someone had left lying on the nearby hill

maybe, after all, it was just a broken token

of the raucous night some hours (days?) before

But what was odd at that time of night

Or….was it time of day….

I’m really not so sure

so cannot really say

but beside me stood a well-dressed penguin

still freshly wet from the briny sea

a most handsome chap was he

in his spats and so very tall and stately thin

with what I would say was the most beaky grin

of any penguin I’ve ever yet to see

and he spoke of you and he spoke of me

and of the good, the bad, and of the sin

that someone tried upon my chest to pin

He said his name was hard to spell

So pronounced it phonetically

Very slowly, if I recall correctly the memory tell

But, gosh, I don’t recollect at all now his name,

Even though he said he’d had some fame

Just that it seemed to have the sound of distant surf

Crashing upon a rocky littered thick green turf

Far from where I lay that night or was it day

So, sadly, I’m so sorry,

Just my faded perforated memory

It tends to leak, you see

I find words and ideas simply lying about

Pictures and full-blown paragraphs

Here, there, lying in thick dust upon the floor

And I then begin to really doubt

And wonder if life is all just a pile of serigraphs

That someone bought at some local store

And came and dumped them out upon the floor

so please don’t shout, please, please don’t yell

It was a bad night, very bad, I’m sure,

if I could just recall, you see

And something——something came loose

Something unexpected broke free

And was lost in the dust therein which lay

To be then lost to me, to you, to us it failed to stay

while, from the remaining memory of it all

I do remember the penguin standing near to me

So very well dressed was he,

well dressed and fresh wet from the sea

And——how odd, I do now recall,

That he had a bull frog standing next to him

The reason?

I don’t recall him to ever say.

I’ve no earthly idea and must make an honest plea

In regards to the headache and the fact

It was the middle of the night and I’d really lost track

Or…or…”sigh”…..was it the middle of the day?

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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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