There’s a dark line running across the page.
Crossing the pure white that had been laid
By a paper machine on the factory stage.
There thousands alike were birthed, cut, and made,
Cut, made, laid and stayed
Laid flat to be displayed
Clean without a blemish there
Not a point for upon which to stare
Each a separate entity, yet birthed the same
Birthed the same yet each granted a different name
Given to them what then lived or died
Lived or died or given granted promise tried
To separate from the package wrapped
Unaware of truth then there trapped
Yet found at end
They were not much different
From the common print as such
Could never be the case for change
And yet the line moved to rearrange
Itself to drive deeper with its stain
The ink spreads and tints the linen’s lean
Fibers stretched smooth, taunt, and clean


Clay Pots
Copyright 2013, Gordon Kuhn
All rights reserved.

How like shattered clay pots
They were when seen from close at hand
Clay pots fresh from the kiln that day
Broken when each mold was cast upon the cold
That lingered where the air was fresh and clean
And seen from heights where eagles dare soared
When they were sudden sent away amid the roar
Of surf spray that clutched the hand of sand
And layered about in nameless lots
Slowly became a collection of shrinking tired dots
Spread loosely upon the blue above the fading land
There floated they then above the heavy depth of sea
In all their fractured banquet were then to death led
When thought the world had set them free
Above the green and sleeping spaces where
Sightless watchers looked and not one was really seen

June3, 2013