Stranded Feet


Interesting and wanted to share with my readers.

BY THE LEFT HAND...

Salted shores of grain,

craft in marbles shade.

Roving squawks of wild,

jostle landscapes jade.

Tranquil gusts of heart,

flatter dunes with bow.

Whisper of soft sands,

swear allegiances vow.

Torn wounds in fester;

graze does knit on knee.

Powerless to her peril;

drowning lips of sea.

Statue tides of stone,

plunge their fears in fret.

Swallowing the sailor,

riddled through regret.

Compass lost direction,

denied is point of north.

Tossed into abandon,

posture now goes forth.

Bounded by no map;

wilder beach shall greet.

One who frees themself,

loose of stranded feet.

©Brett Kristian 2019

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My Kinda Woman


I like the thought behind this. Yes, the outline for a great female partner in life.

The Travellothoner

Out of the 7 people billion people in this world,

3.5 billion to pick and choose from.

And yet here I stand in front of the universe,

Waiting to find the one I’d call My Kinda Woman.

Some prefer sexy while others prefer tall,

Some prefer athletic while others prefer a doll.

3.5 billion types to choose from,

But somehow I struggle to even find a date to prom.

As I sit here writing about my preferred woman,

Thus evolves a vague image in my head.

Someone I hope who keeps me on my toes,

Someone who shares with me all her woes.

An independent woman who knows her way,

A wonderful woman who’ll brighten my day.

With an effortless smile and a contagious laugh,

Someone personifying my world in a photograph.

Unapologetically herself perfect in her imperfection,

A woman so awesome that she can be humble.

To you dear…

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Nadine


What a great little story. Very sweet. Great visions. Thanks for sharing.

Storyshucker

There was a chilly mist in the March air, but I love my early morning walks and this gray gloom wasn’t going to keep me from today’s. I stopped midway on a bridge over the creek to watch a pair of mallards silently pick and poke along the muddy bank. Nothing could ruin this perfect serenity.

“Hey!” the shrill voice called. “Beautiful, right?” The spry old woman pointed towards the ducks as she marched enthusiastically onto the bridge to stand beside me. She twirled her arms in several rapid circles, stretched her back, then leaned on the railing and began doing standing push-ups. Dressed in sweat pants and jacket, baseball cap and sneakers, she had all the markings of devoted walker.

“Hi.” I said tentatively, unsure of what was happening.

“You’re from the South, aren’t you? Hiiiii. That’s how you said it. Hiiiii.” She spoke with her back to me…

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remember me like this


Another great work of modern poetry. Open, honest, sharing that cannot be denied in so many respects.

Melody Chen

and finally, we allow ourselves to be seen in plain sight
spread our gossamer souls flat on the table
the fatigue i’ve hauled around for so long has finally alighted
our fingers close around something soft
we deserve this, after all the enamel we’ve drilled

i think about everything this girl has left behind
how sometimes my mind still plays your name like a staccato note
but it’s different now, it doesn’t hurt anymore
to not think about you, and i’ve still no idea how to love
but damn at least i haven’t stopped trying

and oh, how the years have passed, our ages in tow
leaving greener days behind, and
growing closer to something that may resemble adulthood
but god, the way we hold the world in our palms
in moments like these, will never change

whatever our expiry date is, we are far from it tonight
we blow…

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Georgia & Poetry


Spent a week in Albany, GA on the 4.25 +- acres there that we own. Visited with the neighbor, his daughter, and her newborn son. Weather was nice. Little rain. Got some things done around the “farm” and in town. Then listed the property for sale. My health is not good and so we decided to sell.

Sending a copy of Standoff to Claire Perkins at claire@booktalkradio.info. She will review and do a radio show with me about the book. Any writer out there needs to know Claire for promotional purposes. She is great and works hard for you.

Anyway, so back in Florida and writing. Had a hard time up there writing.

Seeking Desperation

Desperate for the sake of an attack of desperation
Nothing to say, for what can be said,
As I am being led with just the fact that
The story is that I guess I am acting in silent retaliation
While the walls of life have so much there to be read
And I know, for some, I am not being much of a poetic diplomat
Too frank, too bold, a voice of exasperation
But in honesty, I see nothing to tame in the future
Looking out a smudged window I see a distorted culture
Nothing there that the best despair will be unable to nurture
Nor do it’s best to capture and contain the fumbling lost while
As a writer the writer stumbles forward searching for the proper style
While desperation is unable to hold back life from moving forward
I find myself a boat adrift, floundering, fighting the strengthening move shoreward
Unconscious the craft is of where the rocks and shoals wait to rip apart its hull
While the world is watching from above riding upon a single seagull
That has taken flight to oversee the death or survival
And life then takes on the form or lack of revival
As a thousand voices lifted cannot be heard above the roar
Of the surf beneath where a single bird does soar
And looks away in dismay for an opposite shore
Where peace it will find, peace it is to restore.

2019 Copyright Gordon Kuhn