Feeds:
Posts
Comments

Posts Tagged ‘Poems’

THE GARBAGE TRUCK

THE GARBAGE TRUCK
7/6/11
Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn “Poet in the Rain”

The bang and clang, a passing metal beast,
In search of an oddly flavored feast.
With rubber wheels, as booted feet,
This day trods upon our quiet street.

Lumbering , stumbling,
It lurches from side to side.
While loudly, to itself, complaints mumbling,
And taking great breaths in its stride

Great gulps of fresh clean air.
Then belches back in thick smoke,
Black and foul back out to share
From twin stacks exhaust to choke

Those of us who might come too close
Its mission we are to observe but not share
The agony of its life, this eater of the morose
But we can still for its life simply offer up our care.

Read Full Post »

THE GAME AT SIX

THE GAME AT SIX

7/4/2011

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn “The Poet in the Rain”

 

He was six,

I think.

Six is such a young age

To die.

To die when the world is young.

So young and fresh.

Playing baseball.

The bat came back,

Freed from hands

Whose grip was too loose.

So young and guiltless,

And memories now still fill,

Of the sound of the strike,

Against your best friend’s chest.

Just a game, they said.

Just a game.

Three days later,

Standing in a cemetery,

That stretched

To the end of the earth

Or so it seemed.

On a bright, warm, summer’s day.

The sky so clear and so blue.

Where was the rain?

Shouldn’t there have been rain?

Shouldn’t there have been angels there to cry?

They laid your friend away,

In a small white casket,

Flower covered it was.

But wasn’t he allergic to such as that?

Could he sneeze?

Did someone pack tissues

In his pockets?

He always had tissues.

And a minister spoke of heaven,

Of heaven and hell,

And redemption.

And did his best to assure

Everyone there that

A special place there was for those age six.

And those living age six,

Stood in mild confusion.

Was he really in that box?

And the rain then came!

In tears!

It came in streams.

Amid sobs and shaking.

As those age six stood and fidgeted.

It came as a torrent would.

If only the sky could.

But the sky!

The sky, so clear and so blue,

So distant, yet so near;

The sky stayed blue and cloudless.

Blue and cloudless on that fated day.

For clouds there were enough,

There among the living!

There for the one whose heart,

At six, had stopped its beating.

Forever young.

Forever six.

Forever dead.

Read Full Post »

Read Full Post »

What????

I don’t understand. Eighteen people visited the site after I put out a comment that I was very frustrated because I cannot figure out how to put a picture on the blog. 18 people. That is more in one week than have been here all month

Read Full Post »

  So, I have managed to add the picture to a post. Woo hoo….I wanted it separate. Cannot figure out how to do that.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

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?

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

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.

Read Full Post »

« Newer Posts - Older Posts »