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Posts Tagged ‘Fear’

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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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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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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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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THE GIRL WHO LIVED BEHIND

 

Copy Write © 2010 Gordon Kuhn

 

 

 

 

The quiet girl who lived behind

most surely, slowly lost her mind

for cursed she was in her mother’s womb

she now sleeps, lays lonely in her tomb.

 

Her spirit un-trapped from flesh and bone

by knife’s edge she worked to hone

and laid her down in water warm

her thoughts now resting from their desperate swarm.

 

The cut was quick, the blade was swift

and she began in slight pain to drift

and dreamt of days that might have been

were it not her curse from some unknown sin.

 

That left her born an unpleasant sight

though she wished with all her might

for one dance at her high school prom

for one date with a boy named Tom.

 

The dog she loved had been recent put away

and now she had not any need to stay

So alone she laid within her bath

and as the world slipped she gave a laugh.

 

At an empty thought, the joke of life

for which for her had been but strife

she came, years later, stood next to me

two men, not known, spoke that she was now free.

 

The shackles, bondage had slipped away

as life had drained she could not stay

but came years later wanting me to know

that she had simply had to go

 

And had wept that faultless night

her eyes burning in clouded sight

and stood before a bathroom mirror

and cursed her life, deaths’ choice the clearer.

 

The door had closed, I simply had to go

not knowing what to say, the tears did flow

an offer made by she for me to stay

but I had to leave to go my way.

 

Disturbed, I found her birthright curse

not grown enough myself to nurse

the lost and lonely bare laid feeling there

the hungry haunting sadly painful stare.

 

And I in shame did in wild confusion slink away

while she said welcome, come please stay

stay this night and warm my bed

or else a broken heart shall leave me dead.

 

A friend is all I need, nothing else

a friend is all I want, nothing else.

Years passed and she sudden came

not to cast any shame or blame.

 

Simply to say she’d passed and gone her way.

But, now her presence comes unexpected this day

not to haunt and not to play,

but, just to say, she could not stay.

 

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HOW STRANGE THE NIGHT BEFORE ME SPREAD
1/19/2011
Gordon Kuhn © 2011

How strange the night before me spread
as I was taken firmly by a vapor hand
taken from my sleeping bed
while she whom I had recent wed
still slept near where I’d lain my head
and came to find myself being ghostly led
while about me swirled an odd lit land
whose face was naught but singular bled
from darkness deepened beyond darkest dread
past doorways with windowless voices
which spoke of myriads of choices
paths to unknown forces
where gates hung loosely open
no entry words need be spoken
but at length I soon saw through the gloom
and recognized the coming doom
and reaching out I then attacked the evil
that held my hand in deep despair
forced it from its bloody lair
and thus in that world caused upheaval.

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Wakened by a Scream

1/13/2011

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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