Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions


You ask me who I am.

I tell you that I am a man.

You ask me why I write.

I say I write to understand.

You ask me why I dream.

I tell you I dream so I will not scream.

You ask me why I drink.

I say because you don’t understand.

You ask me why do I bleed.

I say I bleed so you can see.               

You ask me why I cry.

I say to clean you from my eye                                                           5/25/2012



This poem was written as I sat in our RV in Williston Crossings RV Park, Williston, FL looking at the woods surrounding our site and the asphalt roadway network slicing the woods into sections. The park is beautifully laid out, but I wonder what a Seminole Chieftan like Micanopy would think if they saw it today.


Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions

Tucked beneath a canopy

trees surround the present scene;

a sea of mottled brown and green,

black trails man’s vision cloud the dream,

separates, severs green from green

But what thoughts of Seminole Chief Micanopy;

I wonder … did he ever view the present within a dream?

Did tears slip from his eyes as would a gentle running forest stream.

then … now dried, sliced in two … asphalt commands the present scene.                      5/25/2012




Clouds laying low,

grey, thick, layered cream

far out on the ocean scene;

fat roll before the jagged top,

a bear’s head amid cloud rubble

changed to dog then disappeared,

as the sun looked on and spread its sight,

split the scene, dissolved the cream, removed the night. 5/21/2012



my lover stood by the sea.

just her the sea and me;

there she sang her lover’s song. 5/21/2012

PART ONE: The Old Man And The Moon Dancer

This is part one of a large poem I am working on. I will be placing it here in sections. I hope you enjoy.



Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions


T’was an old man,

I spied,

Down by the sandbanks,

At the settling of the sun

When its daily course was nearly done.

Do you know the place that I mean?

You’ve been there, I think, in dreams alone with me.

T’is where the sea gulls gather daily by the score

There they argue, curse and dominate the shore

Each lifting their voice in a horrid scream

Lord they sound so bloody terrible mean.

Aye, t’is that spot there where the river meets up with the sea.

T’is that wide place, you know, in the land there, where the river flows in,

And the waters therein tumble, mix, and run free.

A place where the fishes of the river swim,

And peer at the fishes of the sea.

Where the sea birds hunting fly above,

And land without paying any fee.

There they’ll eat what they can, and say farewell to the rest

Whom they’ll catch next time, if in hunting they’re the best.

Aye, t’was the time when sky colors mix, and darken their wonderous hue.

When devout in evening prayers go and kneel quiet in a pew.

And those who walk upon the beach slow from many to none, or maybe just a few.

It was then I saw him seated as the day colors did begin to slip away from view.

T’was down near the sandy edge he did sit, where the passing sun had dried water from the sand.

There he could sit in some small comfort watching the tide remove the water from the land.

No humans beside we two visible were, just the old man and me.

While noted I some resident birds were about seeking their nests,

And some were sleepless free.

And the fishes swimming in the water from the river

And those in the water from the sea

Swam together as they crossed the liquid boundary

Where the river fresh crossed into the briny sea.

May 11. 2012 End of Part One.




**The Marine Biologist’s Day on the Beach**

Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions

May. 7, 2012

I met an octopus the other day,

An upside-down solitary cephalopod,

One who’d gone astray in a peculiar sort of way,

From those who, one might say, were his family.

At least … mostly they appeared to be

Floating there quite peacefully

Out on the close horizon of the sea

A genuine part of his genetic tree

For which he yearned to be set free.

I found him on the rocky beach less trod

By those whose feet were used to being on the sod.

I found him there standing on his head,

And sure I thought the critter was quite dead.

Yet when I poked him with a stick

He shouted, “Ouch, my skin is not so thick

For you to be poking me with your sharpened stick.

I’ve done you no harm this day

Why should you treat me this way?”

“Sorry,” I said, “I could not tell as your legs are up in the air.”

“And that gives you the right to stand and stare?”

“Oh no,” said I, “but you are upside down I hope you know.”

“T’was my choice, now please won’t you up and go?

As for my legs, I simply wish from six of them to be set free

For, like you, two is all that I surely have any needs be.

The other four simply get in the way

And I wish for them to leave instead of stay

But cannot seem to get them to understand

They are worthless for me upon the land

Too much for me to try to command

The front will want to walk one way

And the back will wish to not go but stay

The side will simply choose to stand and sway

And so I spend the whole damn day

Stuck in one spot and unable to go and play

Among the grasses not far from where I upside down now lay

“But what if they all up and think you are dead

And separate themselves all at once from your head

To leave you lying here upon the beach

That should definitely be enough for you to teach

That this plan of yours will go amiss

And so you cannot just up and dismiss

The importance of the problem in your life

For are they really causing so much strife?”

“Oh damn, a philosopher thee are I see

One far wiser I think than me.

But excuse me now for I must go and pee.”

And with that he up and slithered back into the sea

Where, in truth, he really deserved to be.

May 7, 2012



Copyright 2012 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions

Sure t’is the morning of regrets

When memory doth not forget neglects,

And stabs the soul with a cutting stone,

And one finds they are all alone


Sure t’is a fine tormenting day

When memories come that should not stay

And pain fills the gutters deep

And the mind needs rest but canna sleep.


Sure t’is a hollow empty place that lingers in my life

And all about and there within I find a potent strife

That canna leave the peace alone

And hangs and falls as a heavy stone.


Sure t’is a haunted place I farewell go

And live as if the life were planned to be so

And yet the morning comes without delight

And I see my mirrored face anew,

in the shadows of the morning light.

May 5, 2012


It is 0645 and my micro-wave has decided to go on vacation. Put a cup of water in it to heat and nothing. Zero. No zap. No nada. Nuttin’. Everything seemed to work but wonder upon wonder the water she did not boil. What is this, I thought to myself, surely I put the cup in the machine wrong. So, I put it back in there again.

Nothing, my friends. I put in a cup of cold water and got back a cup of cold water.

This is incredibly depressing I think. Cold water in and cold water out. But, I wonder to myself if perhaps I’ve got something which is patentable. Perhaps I can make some money on a micro that doesn’t heat. But, no, I checked with some friends and and they all said no. They said you can leave it at the curb and someone will carry it away in less than 15 minutes, but, you know, its my microwave. It’s been a part of my family for at least 9 years now.

Can you imagine getting rid of an Aunt Tess who has lived in your home for 9 years growing more feeble, more constipated, more irritating day-by-day? Well, actually I could think of getting rid of an Aunt Tess if I had one, or even an Uncle that wants to watch Mary Tyler Moore reruns all night long. Surely, I think, there must be some way to right this electronic wrong I am facing.

Have I not been nice to Microwave?

Yes. I clean it with only soft cotton towels and non-harsh detergents. I am careful with the buttons, you know, not slamming them like I am a drunken bull fighter yelling at the poor thing shouting, “HEAT. HEAT DAMN YOU.”

No, I am gentle, like I would be with a cat that has just come out of the litter box with something stuck to its foot.

But I digress.

I am in mourning here. Can you not sense the pain. Oh, the horror and the shame of it all. I am the only one in the neighborhood who is microwave-less this morning.

I rip my shirt and shake my fist at the sky. Why? Why? Why isn’t my microwave working today. It worked yesterday, but not today. How can that be? What logic is this? I look for Poor Yorik’s skull so I can have someone to speak with. After all, I gave it a home and was nice to it. I even had a warranty package on it for the last 9 years. Who else would do such a thing to carry a warranty package on a thing with the warranty costing more than a replacement microwave. Can you not see how dedicated I have been to this damn machine and then, to add insult to injury, I go get the warranty and it expired five days ago.

Where is the damn hammer!