2300 hours on April 4, 2019


I have no real title for this message. So I chose the time and date.

Thinking====I do that sometimes. Sometimes I don’t. When I don’t I regret it. I am sure that has happened to all of you as well.

I have a newsletter that I am posting my poetry to because I have come across notes on publishers’ pages regarding contests that rule out posts on FB pages as they claim that constitutes publishing. Really?

Anyway, I have sent of 75 pages of poetry in hopes of being published. I hope the poetry is published. That would make me “legitimate” I think. I hate being illegitimate. Don’t you?

I have to say that I have become addicted to Leonard Cohen’s music. I particularly like Take the Waltz. There is such a story hiding in the lines. You have to listen to it several times.

Well, I tried to post it here but it didn’t work.

Will write more later.

 

 

 

 

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CROSSING

Crossing the deepest river without a boat

Sailing the storm washed open sea in a cardboard box

My brain is climbing hills that only I can see

Each upward step is alive with pain granted and felt

With no medication to stop the fire

None exists unless alcohol laced

And it is such that it curls up from the earth below

While others float past talking

Their voices in pleasure do share and grant comfort

To them sharing the night and the day and the world travels on!

While the sky opens and — but not to me

I sing my songs in a vacuum it would seem

While standing in the dark on a street without a name

My voice claims the night in shyness

Beginning soft, then rising up to touch the branches of trees

While many memories come to haunt and

There I am, I’m crossing a river without a boat

Sailing against the wind in an open cardboard box

I speak to those passing in the deep dark surrounding me

But no one responds, no one hears my sound

No one notices me there in the deepest gloom

For, in truth, I am all alone

Alone in the night, alone with the gift

While the fire rages from the earth below

Coursing up my body with flaming words that no one can see or hear

There is no medication to stop the pain

That comes from sentence forming words swarming in my mind

But how glorious it all is to be alone in the night

While my voice lifts and climbs in song aimed at the stars and the moon

While I’m there crossing the deepest river without a boat in search of you

Climbing mountains that only I can see

 

Copyright 2018 Gordon Kuhn, The Poet in the Rain.

WRITING A BOOK ABOUT A KILLER


I have written a book about a killer. He came to Florida in 2008 and killed two women in 2009. His career as a criminal started when he was 14 and he raped a woman in Warren, MI. I am looking for an agent.

He was convicted and given two life sentences for a home invasion in Sarasota, FL. He was given the death sentence for a brutal murder in Bradenton, FL. He is now up for another trial for  murder in Sarasota, FL that took place in 2008. It took from 2008 to 2018 for the forensic investigators to find a dot of DNA on the woman’s dress to identify the killer.

 

A Secret Life: Memories from another life.


A friend from a past life told me of a love
But sadly he said he doesn’t recall her name
That is really such a shame
For way back when he was just age 23
I knew him as we worked for the same company
He met her in a restaurant where she waitressed
Back when he in a suit was dressed
And he fell in love when she caught his eye
Along with his open, clear and honest desire
Hoping to date her but she was married
And his hopes on wing were carried
Right out the front door to fly away
And his heart was crushed on the restaurant floor
Then came a night following the heavy heat of day
Where in a pool hall barroom they met and she chose to stay
With a quart of beer and two packs of cigarettes each the other led
Back to his one bedroom apartment on Osprey
Down the hall from where I lived
There their clothes were soon shed
And in the heavy heat of the night she took his bed
So long ago was that singular day
But the reality was she could not stay
Each of them had a life to live
And she was not free for her love to give
Her face he can see in memory for years thereafter
But sadly, her name slipped away
It is just memories from another life that still remain
Memories from a secret life.

NIGHTFALL, THE LOVERS’ DANCE TAKE TWO


NIGHTFALL, THE LOVERS’ DANCE 2
I recall the night when a hot summer rain came
And settled in with a breeze bringing coolness to the room
Where two lovers met and when they left never were the same
In an old cheap apartment in downtown Sarasota
Where they danced to a scratchy record
It was missing the label but played
On an old player, he’d found in the trash
While drinking from cans of stale beer
Rescued from a refrigerator that barely cooled
But without cares, they drank in a dim light
Coming from the only bulb left working in a corner table lamp
And somewhere in the world, a wall was being torn down
Somewhere a child was being born
Somewhere someone was dying all alone
As they danced
They could hear water dripping from pipes in the wall
Falling to the concrete foundation two floors below
Somehow the couple had found each other
Names were not needed that night and in a simple embrace
Shared the last cigarette in a crushed pack left tossed to the floor
While singing a song neither knew, but sang anyway.

© 2018 Poet in the Rain: Gordon Kuhn

Rain Drops


RAINDROPS

Bumble Bee sized drops
Falling with thunder sized hits
Striking the broad leaves of green bent
Beneath the sudden strikes from the sky sent
Forcing them to bow before the growing deluge
Lightning striking a short distance away
The laughter of the rain as it slips and falls to the ground
And I stand there listening and smelling the scent of a summer rain
As it comes in the heat and washes away the dirty stain
That darkens the pavement and the sidewalks left earlier in the day
By life passing by.

Copyright 2018 Gordon Kuhn

Rehearsing


Rehearsing

Another morning has come to greet the sun
Chasing the night away as coffee brews on the stove
A cup with spoon to swirl the cream in to blend the clouds away
As I sit and think of questions that I cannot even form
I wonder about the woman down the street who lives alone
In a home being foreclosed on even as the year has come full circle
Her son is college stuff and flunking out as he goes to class
Neighborhood children run barefoot laughing as they pass
At my comment of concern for nails and rocks and wiggly worms while
The Church of the Holy Hypodermic will ring its chimes
At dawn, lunch, and dinner time, a mile away as I listen and decide
That the ringing bells are as lonely in their song
As is the old man in the darkened corner house
Alone, staring at a wall, waiting in silence for his time to die. 2/18/2015

In the Dark


In the Dark     Copyright 2018 Gordon Kuhn, all rights reserved

Like a dog in heat he was single minded in his searching
While he roamed the empty spaces nearby ocean waves that crashed upon the shore
The sea fog coated the land and hid him from the safety nearby
Weakly hunting a place to lay his pain racked head
The cheap wine had gotten to his mind and left him stunned and all for dead
Lying in the dark on a rotted floor of an old shack he found by the ocean’s side
Before he fell into a cruel and empty sleep
Enlightenment curled up around him like a coating of smoke
From a fire burning deep within his soul
While others unseen around him in shadows kept hidden
They also slept the deep and troubled sleep, in open air, hiding from the sun
In a cave of despair they all slept where no one can see within memories thin veil.

Ragdoll Chronicles Continued Post at 0821 on 01.05.18


Denise returned from a trip to the garage where she had a second refrigerator keeping several trays of cookie dough setting up and waiting to go into the oven. “Coffee,” she said to herself softly with a sigh as she took a small rag from her pocket and wiped her brow, “I simply need either a nap or a good stout cup of coffee.”

“Then you shall have one, a cup that is, but I need to take the boy with me.” It was a young girl’s voice that seemed to come from within every object in the kitchen including her own self.

She stopped still. Her hand went to her throat. Trembling she said, “Wha wha what? Is someone there?”

“Come now Denise, did you forget me? Has it been so long? Don’t you remember playing in the orchard by the glen near the river that crossed through and came to a small lake that was a brilliant blue and clear as the air?”

Denise stepped back, her hand tightening on her throat. “No. Stay away. You can’t have him.”

“But a deal is a deal.”

Denise felt a gust of wind and heard the sound of a hundred tiny bells ringing. Then came the touch of a small girl’s hand on her arm. Without looking, Denise asked, her voice quivering, “Runa?”

“If you recall that name. Yes. But I have many names given me over the centuries, but Runa is fine. It means secret, whisper.”

“You can’t have him.” Denise turned and stared down at the gypsy child next to her. She was fully clothed in a historical gypsy dress, the same as when Denise had last seen her. She looked as if age 12 but was far greater in age than that.

“Oh but I can and I will.” The girl smiled up and nodded. “I already have.” She pointed to where the boy had been hiding and then to the plate of cookies. Both were gone.

“NO!” Denise grabbed for the girl but she was gone. She then turned back to where Chase had been sitting. “Chase,” she shouted reaching under the table, hoping to grab onto the boy. “Chase!”

But he was gone.

“CHASE.”