Number three in my wandering thoughts.

3. Sometimes our genitals get in the way.

I’ve come to believe that our genitals get in the way. Yes. Think about it for a second. We are a sexual creation. I think about sex. Do you think about sex? Hell yes you think about sex.

I can fieldstrip a woman with my mind in less than a second! Impressive, yes?

I wonder about her nooks and curves, her tastes, scents, her softness, moistness. Yep, I’m curious about her from head to toe and think about places I’d like to go and visit.  And don’t tell me you don’t either if you are man, well….there are some men who prefer men but I prefer women. I like the mystique. The wonder of it all.  Yep. It’s a wonderful thing, a woman.

And you know, sometimes I wonder what is going on in her head when she looks at me. Good lord, is she fieldstripping me too?


Number Two in a Series

2. We are surrounded with idiocy.

I own … sorry … we own three dogs. My wife and I, we own three dogs. Or is it that the dogs own us. I’m not sure. When you consider we house them, feed them, walk them, groom them, love them, and talk with them (sometimes argue with them) the question rises as to who owns who?

It is like in life, I think, as to who owns who? Does your employer own you? Does the IRS own you (most likely they think so….recall Ruby Ridge). Does the government own you? And who the hell is the government anyway? It’s people. What’s a corporation? It’s people.

Am I the only one who has ever noted those facts?

And I’ve found that when people get a certain level of “power” they tend to think differently while wearing that “costume” of authority. They become better than you and I. Just look at the TSA workers that make an elderly person strip because they are wearing pads to soak up urine and the pads are a suspicious thing to a TSA worker. Or, TSA again, a child has a name that is on the watch list and they won‘t let the kid on the plane even though it is only six months old. What kind of madness is this?

We are overrun with idiocy.

Again, back to the theme, what is a man? What are we? Why are we? Why do we do harmful things to one another?

What is a Man?

What is a Man?

Number One in a series

This is a question I’ve often entertained. Just what is a man? I mean to say, how do you identify or define what a man is? We are flesh and blood. Yes. I suppose you can say that. I suppose, also, that you can say we are made up of the same components that make up the earth for is it not true that all that we are physically comes from this planet? But what is the essence. What is the pure form of man, of maleness. And, ladies, please understand I am not leaving you out of my thoughts in terms of creation. I am trying to understand what being a man is. This is a personal quest, to understand, to come to some form of balance in my own mind of what a man is in terms of relationships and activities. Sexuality? Yes. But sexual preferences do not, I think, define what a man is. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied in terms of trying to understand what being a man is. So, the question is there. Care to respond?

A Toad, a Penguin, and Me.

A Toad, a Penguin, and Me.

Copyright 2011 Gordon Kuhn

Poet in the Rain Productions

12/27/2011 Gordon Kuhn

Yesterday I was jus’ sittin’ by the forever road,

Jus’ me and a lonely, forelorn, raggedy ol’ toad,

Who’d stopped and tol’ me he had a powerful big load

A problems he’d done for years been stowed;

And wondered if he could jus’ rest and unload a few

While we set and looked upon a pleasant view

Of waving wheat beneath an egg shell blue.

“Of course,” I said, “no need to fuss and stew.”

When, jus’ then, a penguin chose to pass our way

And asked if he could come and sit a stay.

The toad and I could simply not refuse

For to do so would be to abuse

The poor wobbling critter’s passin’ by.

So, he joined our quiet discussion as each did try

To recollect what it was that brung us there

While we on a pleasant view did simply set and stare

At waving wheat beneath a blue so soft and fair.

Alright! Survived another one.

I feel like Snoopy of Peanuts! I want to run around with happy feet, ears flapping in the wind, nose up, eyes closed, and a big smile of relief on my face. Unfortunately, I cannot do that as I am not a cartoon character. Suffice it to say that I am simply happy another Christmas has come and gone and all I have to do now is survive New Year’s Eve and then New Year’s Day. I can do it. I can do it. Just like the Little Train that said it could get up the hill, I can do it. One more night and a day and I’ll be safe in another year.  Really?

Why do people get all excited about moving from one set of ending numbers (2011 to 2012) when that is all that has happened?

I’m sorry. I suppose I am depressing a whole bunch of people. I can visualize them in  a group standing and pointing and looking my way all thinking, “What is he talking about? What a Scrooge. He should be glowing (glowing???) that we are now in a new year and all the wonders of the new…….”


Being in a new year doesn’t mean anything except the date has changed. Simple. Period. We just changed the ending number and are starting to count all over again until we do the same thing in 365 or so days. That’s it. Over. Done. Nothing to get flipping excited about.

God! And the damn fireworks. My neighbors all go out and spend huge amounts of cash on things that go BANG and scare my dogs and everyone else’s dogs and leave my nerves shot.  They send rockets skyward. But what goes up comes down and land on roofs, cars, screened porches (where the burn holes in the screening) and in the flowers. Wow. I am so impressed with the outpouring of exuberant elation that I wake from my sleep at midnight and step into the new year with a yawn and a prayer that a downpour will suddenly take place as I’d rather be asleep with lightening and thunder as the annoying night passes (which, knowing my neighbors, is only the start of two weeks of celebrations) than M-80s going off down by the corner.

Oh well, thank God the angels created bourbon.


I don’t know the story behind this but I would like to know: where I can get my paws on an F-104?   NOTE: PHOTOS WERE ATTACHED BUT DID NOT COME THROUGH. I WILL HAVE TO SEE IF I CAN UPLOAD VIA ANOTHER METHOD.

Gordon Kuhn
Author of The Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems

Just Stuff

It is five AM and I’m awake. Been that way since three AM. What am I doing? Thinking. Thinking about “stuff”. I guess that is the best way to say it. Sitting here thinking about stuff. What kind of stuff you might ask? Just stuff.

I’m thinking about wondering what the dog is thinking while laying here asleep with her eyes twitching beneath the lids and her feet swishing as though she were running. I am thinking about the people I know who are lonely, afraid, lost, and those who aren’t. I’m thinking about past experiences in life and wishing I could go back and undo “stuff” or relive it again.

I’m thinking about my poetry and wondering if it is any good or is it just my own stupid ego thinking I’m good at writing. I doubt myself constantly. It is never good enough. I’m never satisfied. It is like cooking an expensive steak and then finding you’ve burned the damn thing. My novel is being reviewed by friends. Edited by them. Is it any good?

What am I doing sitting here at five AM? Damn if I know. Maybe I’ll write a poem. A poem about what? Oh, I could write a lot of poems and I could shock a lot of people. But, is it worth it? Would the poem matter? Would it be any good, or, is it just my own ego lying to me. That’s what I’m doing here at five AM, thinking about “stuff”.