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Posts Tagged ‘Love’

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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THE FUNERAL PYRE

THE FUNERAL PYRE

5/20/2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn “Poet in the Rain”

The following is a poetic reflection on

All the Beautiful Things

written by author Andrew Meek.

====================================

The flames licked and sucked upon the food,

T’was fed the crackling heart of fire lent;

As papers, memories, laughter, all the beautiful things, loves past mood

Orange, red, and curling grey rose and ate until all was spent.

Nothing there was to be kept.

All there over each had been wept.

A slender hand fed food the glowing, hungry, naked beast,

Which ate so hungrily the memories stained with fallen tears

And, how oddly, she, the igniter of the flames, not in the least,

Came to realize, burning memories set her free, reduced her fears.

Nothing in memory or tangible she brought there was to be kept.

All brought there over each had been silent wept.

That all that had been or was to be, had come and gone now with the ticking of passing time

As memories had failed to stand with her neither strong nor true

Alone, now, she watched dreams reduce to ashes, and heard a distant church bell chime

And then, in deep and stark awareness knew, she had stood true to herself and seen the issue through.

Nothing else in memory had been for her that day was kept.

All that was or could have been over each had been silently wept.

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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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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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