NUTS!


Well, I thought I was being helpful by adding a group of chapters to the second release of The Pelman Murders on Kindle. Come to find out the people who already bought the second group now have to re-buy it. That was not what I was trying to do. I then tried to upload and set the price for free…. NOW…here’s the deal. I will happily email the second set to you in an attachment and that way you will not have to buy it. Just send me your email address and I”ll send to you what I intended for you to have without any cost.

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The Pelman Murders Update


Just a note to all readers in Part Two, I just added additional chapters instead of opening up Part Three. This way you will have more reading up through Chapter 54. Part Two before only went to Chapter 43 I believe. I added 56 pages of material deciding to do that instead of waiting and doing Part Three.  Part Three is coming, but I am tired and falling asleep while editing as I am not resting well at night time.

Keep in mind that Part Two has to cycle back in and it takes 24 hours for it to do that, so you may be denied access until then. There is nothing wrong. I just added more to Part Two. The book itself is about 521 pages long and I am trying to reduce that. Currently on Kindle in combining Part One and Part Two there are now 289 pages.

Thank you all again for reading. I am looking forward to comments and hope you have a nice day.

BUTTERFLY


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.

 

Alexie Aaron: writing, being a writer.


The following is a comment made on Face Book by a friend, Alexie Aaronabout writers and writing. I think it is the most beautiful description of a writer that I have ever rear. Alexie, you rock! Thanks for the following.

“I wonder if those words spoken to, or read for the first time, were the catalyst for the spark that lit the fire within us. To write and tell a story the way each of us does is a gift and a responsibility. We sometimes toil hours with an idea, or even just one sentence, not knowing if anyone beyond us will ever read our words. We do it for love. The love of bringing to light the world that resides inside our heads.

It does not matter if we have a happy ending or a soulful gasp. What matters is that we put these thoughts on paper. So keep writing my friends. Keep taking us to the secret corners of your mind. Be brave. Tempt fate and above all enjoy.”

Life is Good!
Alexie Aaron

THE AUTUMN OF THIS DOOMED DISCONTENT


 

THE AUTUMN OF THIS DOOMED DISCONTENT

Copyright 2012 , All rights reserved. Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions, Alpaca Junction, Incorporated.

 

The autumn of this doomed discontent,

Gave birth to chill winter’s killing cold.

As had so lived the despot king,

Now came retribution swift.

His counsel swept away to quick pricks of death

Only he and a few supporters remained on the run

And run they did while the sun refused to give aid

The chill crept in through cracks and an uncapped vent,

As while rested the burden of soul in these quarters old.

A cloak for warmth, once a fox’s shiny gift,

Though not given without a fight to take,

Now hangs on skin covered bones all coated with fine ash

From the stove where burning wood becomes less

As is needed and used from the supply left by

Supporters on the fly, such as shall pass here this night and

Sense the stove in its plight, in earnestness, doth hunger nearby,

For the taste even of a small bit of coal

To keep the flame assembled within the grated, gaping-cavern

To allow breath to flow, while breath itself is most likely ill kept

Within its home which lay close by in a small alcove

Where it trapped heat to beat back the probing frost of air

Which continued ever as it sought entry

Feigning a need for a friendly shelter

As it hurried about its quest to deliver a freezing death

And asked casually about the lowering flames near the dying man

Who once was king now meekly in this hidden place

Lays peaceful in a dying bed and slumbers as a pauper.

SHALL I SPEAK OF WALLS AND TOWERS THAT LAY AHEAD?


SHALL I  SPEAK OF WALLS AND TOWERS THAT LAY AHEAD?

Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Feb. 25, 2012

Yet shall I speak of walls and towers that lay ahead?

Shall I hint of valleys and hills that before us will untimely spread?

Should I claim that I speak to the very dead,

Who cross my path this date and time,

As have a hundred times before,

Since I was birthed upon this pretty shore?

You should think I’m mad and that I’ve had

Something come loose within my head.

But I say t’is not so, and fleeing I shall not go.

No, not I, I shall not retreat upon a weakly said goodbye.

Nay, not I, not so meekly do I play this game

And expect it to never be the same as once was before.

For life is too short to not be bold.

Upon sadness and hatred I am not sold!

Come, tap upon this empty skull, don’t be so bloody dull,

But hear me if you but can understand,

And dance with me until the dawn

Then, in exhaustion, from labors and drink we lay upon a cold wet lawn

Listen, I shall not be telling thee, nor should you ask

What lays dishonesty in the future store

But hear me out and stand thee by my side

For yet I tell thee I have not died

Nay I am not one such as these who block the way

From whom life has fled before and on this day

Keep safe thy bloodless knife within thy cloak, dear friend

Counsel holds until the crossing at the end

Of the path upon which we find ourselves to tread

And shall I not know the truth instead

Of lies passed to me by those with eyes

Who seem this night to monopolize

The very space in which we stand

The very air we two do breathe for it shall all times be free

And what of they? Trained to not offend or give the hint

That lies are being this day all spent and time is twisted and lent

A curving that slings us out towards some unknown fate

And only trust in ourselves can we then compensate.

Should it be so?

New Version of AND FOUND SHE’D MOVED.


Decided to get some coffee then come back and edit. So here’s the new version.

AND FOUND SHE’D MOVED

Feb. 24, 2012

Copyright Gordon Kuhn All rights reserved.

Poet in the Rain, Alpaca Junction, Inc.

You toucha my poem, I breaka you face.

I woke up on a Monday.

Yeah, Monday knows the score.

I stared at the white of the ceiling high above the floor.

Yeah, like there ain’t no more Monday’s to come.

Come sing my song. Let life flow. Let it go! Let the world go.

On Tuesday, I thought of the weekend before

And of all the weekends that passed in many a score.

On Wednesday, I picked up the guitar and played one note,

One note to say, I was awake and alive and then went out the open door.

Come and sing my song. Let life flow.

On Thursday, yes, on Thursday I said hello to the new lady livin’ next door.

First time I did it, then wondered if I should have did.

Friday I woke up, uh huh, woke and found myself layin’ on the floor.

Or is that lying on the floor, damn if I know.

I just know where I was,

Starin’ at the ceiling high above the floor.

Seems like I been layin’ there once’t before.

And there’ve been times in my life when I didn’t

I didn’t know where t’was. You know what I mean?

Come sing my song. Let life flow. Let it go! Let the world go.

On Saturday, the dog had to pee.

Seems strange, did she go before?

And so we went with the flow.

Wandering around in the snow.

Snow?

Wake up boy, you’re in Florida.

Let it go! Let the world go. Come sing my song. Let life flow.

Sunday, hmm, s’pose I should go to church. Mmm. Hmm.

Nope not ‘less they let me lead the choir.

I’d be good at that. Come sing my song.

Back to Monday, yeah, Monday, don’t ya know. Was cold.

Bones was all feeling stiff and old from laying on the floor.

Gas stove not putting out any heat. Made some coffee to share.

Went walking across the hall lookin’ for some warmth.

Knocked on my neighbor’s door.

And found she’d done moved.

 

AND FOUND SHE’D MOVED


AND FOUND SHE’D MOVED

Feb. 24, 2012

Copyright Gordon Kuhn All rights reserved.

Poet in the Rain, Alpaca Junction, Inc.

You toucha my poem, I breaka you face.

I woke on Monday

Yeah, Monday knows the score

And stared at the white of the ceiling above

Yeah, like there ain’t no more Monday’s to come

On Tuesday I thought of the weekend before

And of all the weekends that passed in many a score

On Wednesday, I picked up the guitar and played one note

One note to say I was awake and alive and then went out the door

On Thursday, yes, Thursday I said hello to the lady next door

First time I did, wondered if I should have did.

Friday I woke up, uh huh, and found myself layin’ on the floor

Or is that lying on the floor, damn if I know

I just know where I was

And there’ve been times in my life when I didn’t

Come sing my song. Let life flow.

On Saturday, the dog had to go and so we went with the flow

Wandering around in the snow. Snow? Wake up boy, you’re in Florida.

Sunday, s’pose I should go to church. Mmm. Hmm.

Nope not ‘less they let me lead the choir.

Back to Monday when I knocked on my neighbor’s door

And found she’d moved.

MISS CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM


MISS CHOCOLATE ICE CREAM

Feb. 21, 2012

Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions, a Division of Alpaca Junction, Inc.

You toucha my poem and I breaka your face.

NOTE: The beat on this came from a couple of jazz pieces I was listening to the other day. The singer cut off the end of the sentences which, for the most part, were short and choppy with the end of the sentence a space behind the other part and , in most cases, a hard beat louder than the rest.  Using the first line as an example it is: two beats, pause, strong beat…… She was (pause) TALL …….Next line: two beats, pause, strong .. Oh so (pause) TALL I hope that makes sense. It sounded great to the jazz pieces I was listening to.

She was

Tall!

Oh so,

Tall

She was

Lean.

Lord oh so very

Lean

Made me fall in

Love

Lost my mind I surely

Might’ve

In love with my

Miss Chocolate Ice

Cream.

We met in early

Fall

When high-school was in

Session

And she taught me all about

Meshin’,

When I was just

Sixteen.

It released me from all my

Stressin’

Holy lord I am herein

Confessin’

Her eyes, her eyes were

Sea

Green

With a flash that made me

Sudden’

Dream

She taught me all about

Jazz

While she teased me with all her

Razzmatazz

And I was proud, oh, so proud to be

Seen

In her company, if’n you know’d what I

Mean.

Lord, don’t you be knowin’ she was

Lean.

So lean my

Brotha’,

She disappeared beneath the

Cova’

And I feared she mighta even

Smotha

Tucked away hiddin’ from my

Motha’

When she come prowlin’ onc’t past

Midnight

And gave me a horrible teenager boy

Fright

But she winked in sheer

Delight

Winked and whispered,

It’s alright.

‘pon spyin’the toes of my lady

Fair

There in the early morning

Steamy Air

Steam did the coolish night air

Share

A foot an’ a tattooed ankle

There

Like the rest of her was quite

Bare

Yes, my brotha’, quite

Bare.