A chia pet who lived to long.




First poem of …..


Copyright Gordon Kuhn “Poet in the Rain”

She lies gently sleeping,

sleeping by the house front door,

resting deeply from her nightly chore

of watching, protecting, and keeping

us safe while we lay in safety and in comfort snore,

unaware of all that passed by our entrance door.

But she knows, she knows that, and so much more.

And she lays now and dreams of being a puppy,

and makes sucking noises as she dreams of her mother’s teat.

To her life is so warm, so wondrous, so complete.

Yet, age has taken up its toll on her.

her eyes still bright and so soft is her fur;

but, an injured leg, and arthritis tend

to hinder her, and I’m afraid she will not mend,

and my heart breaks as I watch her knowing the end

is closer than I wish for a much treasured friend,

someone whose life I cannot bear to end,

but one who so willing would be so led

on a trip unknown to her and one I dread,

and cannot face for it tears me apart

to even think how I would play such a part,

could play such a role

in her life to bring it to an end.

This treasured friend, this wonderful treasured friend,

who loves to walk with me in the sun and in the rain

despite the fact she walks in silent pain.

She who simply wishes to smell the grass. Each blade

she takes time to inspect, and is so staid

in her research of every scent,

while I the master fuss and vent

over all the time wasted even though to her so noble spent,

and in my hurry forget her luxury, and fail to lend

time to her for in too much hurry I cannot spend

a moment to let her smell just one more

just one more blade before the end.




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.



Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

Sometimes I wonder on thoughts, like old things left in drawers.

Left out of sight. Left out of daylight. Forgot.

Socks with holes, missing a brother, or should that be sister?

Does any of it count?

Do words that race across paper, searching white space to be free

From being trapped in a mind restless birthing

Voices in search of the free.

Does that part of my life, a Mustang, born to run yet kept now from the sun,

does it matter to anyone other than me?

Or, in the end, will it be like flotsam upon the wind tossed sea?

Should I start now to take up the count and struggle to mount

The captured held in my soul and somehow set it all free?

Or, should I just leave it, as dust on the table?

I wonder, please tell me, can someone, will someone come and wipe it away?

Can they wipe up the tears, and collect up hidden fears,

What of the joys, and, yes, hidden ploys?

When the human is replaced with a body of ash and dropped in the sea?

Will they take up a sack filled with garbage waiting for the trash man,

Placed by the curb without looking to see what it contains.

Will they, in the end, know what they’ve done?

When they come and take it away?




Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain

Ghosts came walking late last night.

They came when the shadows had melted,

Melted and blended into a dark canopy.

When all about me the world was more than still.

Still more than quiet and deeper than I could ever tell,

Or share with you the peace that came about me to stay.

How it came to fold me in its arms and kept me throughout the night that way,

When the ghosts, so well known to me, came walking last night.

They have stood close now for forty-six years, so there was no cause for fright,

We all were so clear in each the other’s sight, so close we might

Touch one another——and did, and wrapped our arms about each in greeting;

In greeting, as the mists of distance fell away, and time melted and fell away.

And, we were as we once had been, on a beach of sand in another land.

Then, in brotherhood, I reached out and shook each man’s warm hand,

As tears came, for my heart was full and breaking, and it could not remain       still;

For, I then recalled, it was the anniversary of our blood brotherhood

When they came walking and talking to my heart of hearts.

They then found an opening to my soul to which they brought cleansing tears,

And were able to wash away the pain I’d lived with for so many years.

Then dawn came upon us and broke the fragile spell and left me with this        memory to try to tell;

Of the anniversary when their ghosts came walking in the night,

And were so close I could touch each one and hear their voices,

And we spoke of life’s choices and I knew the day is not too far distant

When the Ghosts will come walking and take me from this place,

To be forever with them where the land meets the sky and the sea.

For, in time, that is where we shall all be, the ghosts, you and me

Where memories of the real leave for the living more than a trace,

A haunting trace of what was once and is now called memory.


Today, 5/7/2011 is the anniversary of the landing of the First Marine Brigade, Third Marine Division at Chu Lai, S. Vietnam.  It is also the day I spoke for the very first time to the younger sister of a fellow United States Marine (Ivan Ray Smith) who died at Chu Lai, 46 years ago, cut down by a sniper’s bullet. I have hunted for his family ever since 1965. I have kept a candle lit for both him and for another Marine buddy who died at Hue.

I sat on the phone this morning with tears streaming speaking with someone I’ve searched for, for over 46 years and shared with her the details of  Smitty’s (Ivan’s) last moments alive.

Smitty, and others, walk with me in close memory every day from waking to falling asleep.

Today, I found some peace. Today, something healed a bit, not that it will ever be completely healed, but part of the scars were cleansed from my soul.

Thank you, fellow United States Marine and Veteran of the 5/7/65 landing, Bill Nourse for bringing United States Marine Ivan Ray Smith’s younger sister, Sherry Heagy, and I together on the phone. Thank you for helping bring to an end a search of 46 years. Thank you for helping to heal all three of us.  Now my job tonight is to  contact several of my friends who made that landing with us so many years ago this night and say, “Where were you on 5/7/1965?”  Semper Fi to any Marine who reads this and Welcome Home to all fellow Vietnam Vets.




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.



(Problems in the Night)


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


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.