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Posts Tagged ‘Fantasy’

MRS. HIGGENS’ NUISANCE CAT

Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet In The Rain Productions

T’was Mrs. Higgins’ cat we all soon came to fear,

as the damn cat in hunger boldly grew closely very near

to anyone wandering loose about outside without a stick

to whack that furry devil beast with a good two handed flick.

Instead we pretended to not notice it upon each other happily chewing

while seated chatting with cookies as a pot of tea was brewing.

Someone said, finally and unashamedly, bring in the hound!

And so we trotted off to the local humane animal holding pound

to fetch back Rollie Rottenstien, a Rotweiler of some repute

whose winning streak in battles or puppies born no one would ever dispute

to face off old dead Mrs. Higgens’ cat, the terror of the day,

for the grand old puss was determined that she would not go but stay;

and the damn cat with glaring, daring eyes took daily total command

of all yards, drives, lakes, every acre and inch of all the land;

while we the neighbors of quite dead Mrs. Higgins were caught up in a fear,

afraid we’d likely lose a piece of flesh to the one who had been so dear

to the old lady now laying six feet down within her grave.

Too bad we hadn’t thought how many ankles might we could save

should we had stuffed old Mrs. Higgins’ cat in with her in her lonely grave.

I’m not saying I was at all a mean and evil man

but damn we surely could have come up with a prior plan.

Yet Rollie Rottenstein we thought might well prove to be the savior of the day

and should that be the case I was sure he’d gain favor and be able to forever freely stay.

Add perhaps a snip or two would make him easier in his future play,

but not before he met up with Mrs. Higgins cat that very summer’s day.

Sure t’was a grand sight we seen with that dog standing in the street,

Standin’ straddle in the middle just waiting for the meet.

And when he saw Mrs. Higgins’ cat a grin spread across his firmly set chin

for he was hungry, you see, and his ribs were showing through the thin.

Well that dog planted his feet solid upon the earth, he did,

And we sensed a can of hell was about to lose its bulging lid.

Then came from Rollie a mighty growl deep from within

that brought goose bumps to all our sweaty nervous exposed skin

as the distance sudden lessened between the two

from walking to a trot as old Rollie simply flew,

for there waiting before him stood a potential tasty chew;

and no one or thing before had ever slowed or stopped our Rollie,

and no one present called our life’s mission a wasted follie.

The dog, he set off in a trot for what he was sure would be a tasty treat;

and we waited most anxiously for the pair to up and meet.

Oh, how I recall that day when the world sudden shook

for Mrs. Higgins’ cat had read the dog as though he were a book.

The pair disappeared into a cloud of dust that filled the surrounding air

making it impossible to call the fight as we could not make out the struggling pair.

A minute passed and then five were gone and still the struggle went on and on

the afternoon passed into evening and then night turned into dawn

Until all hisses, growls and barks had settled

For this pair were of certain like kind and not at all un-mettled.

Then with weary expectant eyes to the clouded scene we were then drawn

as the sun its rays crept in as night was turned slowly into dawn;

and as the dust settled so that we could begin to see

what it was that the day held and the pair had come to be.

Then t’was a sudden shock that ran through the waiting crowd

a gasp surprised  went up that was most terrible sad and loud;

for Mrs. Higgens’ cat came strolling slowly into view

and looking around at all who waited let out a gentle mew

while standing firm upon that dusty dirty roadway deck

with Rollie Rottenstein standing just behind with a leash about his neck.               6.10.2012

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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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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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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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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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