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.



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?