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.
Monthly Archives: February 2012
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.
Rabbit in a Box
One hundred seven pages and 68 poems on Kindle for $1.00. Poems about life and death. No frilly stuff. Poems about life.
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
By: 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.
