And so, alone in the glen, but unaware of the world beyond where he sat, he searched through the rags hoping to find another such as he hiding there in the maze of color and thread. But he found little that appeared to be quite like him. No, you see none such as he could he find in the pile of cloth he had discovered himself to have been born from, if born you could say as there was no one there other than the Ragdoll Man.
No. Nothing else, no mother or father appeared to be. No sister or brother. Although he would not have recognized such as that for, he was not educated in such, you see. And, so the Ragdoll Man stopped searching through the pile and, not knowing what to do, sat quite still for there was nothing to do but just to sit quite still and so that is what he did — he sat very, very still.
And then, as wonders could ever take place, amid his sitting quietly a miracle occurred. Well, I suppose you could say it was a miracle and, maybe it was, if you understand that miracles are such and this certainly seemed to be such — that is — a miracle
Standoff is a book of poetry and short stories. I will be placing posts here as I go. It is published and available at Amazon. You can also buy it directly from me by visiting one of my websites. Questions? I’ll be happy to answer them. Oh, if you buy it from me it is autographed by me to you personally. What a fantastic deal. No extra charge.
A book of poetry, short stories, and insanity.
By Gordon Kuhn
With one exception, this
is a work of fiction. The characters and events described herein are imaginary
and are not intended to refer to specific places or to living persons alive or
No part of this publication can be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including
photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical method without the
prior written permission of the publisher except for brief quotations embodied
in critical reviews.
Copyright 2018 Gordon Kuhn, All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States by Poet in the Rain
Cover: Photographer Mr. Derek Stillwagon: A
Mother and Her Son by permission Allison Hart
Dedication Photo of Chuck Van Durme by
Illustration on Page 2 of Mother and Child
from Istock Photo
Helicopter in Flight on Page 51: Charles Van
Van Durme in D.C. Page 56: Ms. Brandy Van Durme
OTHER BOOKS BY THE AUTHOR
Predator Book One “Do You Know How to Fly?”
The Pelman Murders
The Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems
Rabbit in a Box
Dedicated to a personal friend who passed
away June 15, 2015. In this book is his story of a night when his helicopter
was shot down.
“Chuck” Van Durme
Oct 20, 1950 to June 15, 2015
Two tours in Vietnam. He was awarded the
Bronze Star, the Army Commendation Medal with a V, 16 Air Medals, and a Purple
Too soon the story of his life was taken from
us. But we are left with memories of a man that we called a friend.
There once was a man who saved rag dolls, he saved them as he felt their lives were doomed, and yet, the reality was that he himself was a rag doll. As time went on the neighbors began to call him The Ragdoll Man.
He had been born alone in a magical glen frequented by gypsies and elves and other such magical folk. His mother and father had been a pile of variously colored rags left by accident alongside a deeply rutted wagon trail that cut a path across the glen. As he sat there, alone, he looked about himself and at the remaining rags not part of his being and wondered at it all. He had no knowledge of who or what he was or how he had come to be. He had no knowledge of gypsies, or elves, or any of the creatures who lived in the surrounding woods or who flew in the sky. He had no idea of what it was to be alone. He simply was.
Tomorrow Jan, Tread, and I drive to the U of F in Gainesville to the Internal Medicine Department to get a reevaluation of the fungus problem in Tread’s hip and tail bones. 3 hours up and 3 hours back plus the time there. Long day.
Yesterday we drove down to Port Charlotte. I lived there in the 1960s when it was a sleepy community. Today it is overgrown and very commercial. I really dislike it. But we were there to visit a friend of Jan’s who owns a store there. Jody has had a great business there but has decided after many years there is more to life than running a specialty antique, unique furniture, jewelry store to enjoy her life and so the store will be closed in another week.
We then travelled back through a pounding rain (stayed off of I-75 as when had driven South to Port Charlotte we had seen two wrecks where drivers had left the road and gone into the woods) and so went US 41 into Venice and had dinner there. I phoned a friend, Dick Harrison hopping to meet but weren’t able to do that as we had a time constraint and had to get home. Dick will probably make comment here. I have to say that if you go to Amazon and look him up in the book sales section (put in his name in the search bar in Amazon) you will find some of the most wonderful writing. He is a great writer and I am very proud to have him as a friend and mentor.
So, after a great dinner at Abbys in Miami, we headed home (this time on I-75 as the rain had stopped) and saw where other cars had gone off the road and into the woods.
At Abbys we met the owner and discussed his problems with fake service dogs. He told us that Tread was welcome anytime. He hates the fakes that come in there and has had to tell people to leave. Sad. That hurts it for us with real service dogs to have people take untrained dogs into a business like that and they don’t go under the tables, get in the way of waiters and waitresses, sniff people, and more. Anyway, tomorrow Gainesville.
So, it is Sunday 7/21/19 and I am trying to write a short story, finish a true crime novel, submit some poetry for publication, and more…..much more….too much more. Plus, good grief, I haven’t filed my taxes yet for 2018.
So, what’s new with all of you? Anybody got a Hamster for a gift present? I never owned one. I guess as a child I was deprived as all of my friends had Hamsters as pets. Everyone except me.
My mother told me that Hamsters would eat my cat. That was curious as I didn’t own a cat.
The Gospel of Micah, AKA the Gospel of Enoch. Micah was a goat herder on a planet known to us as Heaven. He was a simple man but became prominent in the politics of religion when he challenged the idea that the earth was flat. “It’s not,” he spoke up in a class he was taking on Goat Herding that was required of all goat herders. “It is curved, like a woman’s breast, but not soft, hard as concrete.” 6.23.19 Copyright Gordon Kuhn, Poet in the Rain.
With apologies to the Mormons: And it came to pass that Micah was summoned forth to meet the highest council having been through the lower courts to argue that the earth was round. “You still claim the earth is round?” An aged sage sat forward and waved his cane in the goat herders face. But Micah held his ground despite the waving rod thrust up against his nose.”Excuse me, sir, but yes, it is round.” The council sat back and were grave all around. “But don’t you understand that we’ve been teaching humans for centuries that the place is flat? Then you come along and wish it to be known that this place, this Earth is round? I say to my brothers on the council, are we not in motion to send the herder down to the planet in banishment?” Whereupon God’s younger brother Phil entered the central room and to all did astound. “I am here to speak on the goat herder’s behalf.” A murmur did raise among those in the hall and one said, “I thought he had been banished or…..or locked up somewhere.” But Phil stood forth with an askew grin, “No, I have escaped and come to stand before you this day. For surely this herder, this gentleman who tends our sheep and smells like them needs defense from such plotting here.”
I was trying to write with a dictation program that’s in the computer. Well that didn’t work. So I switched to Dragon. It’s a little less frustrating, but still frustrating for some reason rather it doesn’t want to work with this program. So why did I come here at two a.m. I guess because I wanted to write. I wanted to write something profound. I wanted to write something unique. But now that I’m sitting here my mind is a blank. So why don’t I just go back to bed. The fact is that I was listening to Bob Dylan and it’s got my mind all stirred up so I can’t really just go back to bed. But probably in a few minutes I will be able to.
So what about poetry. I get some great ideas running through my mind. The problem is if I want to publish them professionally I can’t post them here. Why? Because a lot of magazines consider that to be preventing them from having first rights I guess. Who knows. It’s two a.m.
There once was an old lady who went church and sat at the very back. She was partially deaf but would shout out her agreement with the preacher at various times. One Sunday the preacher was talking about the sins of mankind and began by shouting out about the use of drink. The woman yelled: AMEN. The minister then began to talk about loose morals and the woman shouted: AMEN. He then drew up in total disgust and started talking about chewing tobacco and from the back of the church the woman yelled: MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS.