THOUGHTS OF A POET IN THE RAIN

Tag: blogging

• Rehearsing

  Posted at 3:03 am by Gordon, on May 8, 2018

  
  

  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

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  Posted in blogging., fiction, Gordon Kuhn, Interviews, Literary Arts, Poet, Poetry, Poetry, Poets, reality, Uncategorized, writers, Writing | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, Life, poems, Poetry, Relationships, religion, Writing

• In the Dark

  Posted at 3:32 pm by Gordon, on May 7, 2018

  
  

  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.

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  Posted in alcoholism, blogging., Literary Arts, memories, Poet, Poetry, Poetry, Poets, unassigned, writers, Writing | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, Poetry, Poets, Relationships, Writing

• Walking with a Dead Butterfly

  Posted at 1:59 pm by Gordon, on May 7, 2018

  
  

  Walking with a Dead Butterfly

  Come fly away now gentle butterfly
  Open your wings and capture a breath of wind
  Set sail and say goodbye to the world below
  Let not your heart in pain deny
  Your right to sail the summer sky
  For you are special, my valiant friend
  You’ve come so far in life in so few days
  And changed your coat of moldy gray
  To joyfully spread rainbow colors in patterns rich
  While sharing your beauty in wild, tumultuous flight
  So short your life has come and gone
  Come dance with me as I watch you twist and spin
  Until your energy has been spent and you start to fail and fall
  As you struggle with the pending doorway of death
  No matter where you could have landed in the end
  You somehow fell to earth beside the path
  That I was silently walking there upon.

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  Posted in blogging., Gordon Kuhn, Literary Arts, Poetry, Poets, Uncategorized, Writing | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, Death, Depression, Fantasy, Fiction, Gordon Kuhn, Life, Poetry, Poets, Writing

• The Drunk on the Corner is

  Posted at 5:49 am by Gordon, on April 15, 2018

  
  

  THE DRUNK ON THE CORNER IS
  Copyright 4.15.18 by Gordon Kuhn all rights reserved.

  The holy drunk on the corner is
  As holy as the Pope who drinks wine
  And who represents a group with a history of crime
  That turned its back on the Jews and friended Hitler
  The holy drunk on the corner is
  As holy as the holy father in his lofty mansion
  Protected by an armed security
  And who is worshiped in life and will be in death
  As the only voice of God here on this earth
  Except for the drunk castaway lying at the corner
  Who in his drunkenness is holier that the pope.

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  Posted in alcoholism, blogging., Catholicism, Crime, death, Literary Arts, memories, POET, Poetry, Poets, religion, The Pope., Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, Drunks, Holiness, Life, religion, The Pope.

• Priestly Arrives —- Ragdoll Chronicles. 1.25.18

  Posted at 2:16 am by Gordon, on January 26, 2018

  
  

  Ragdoll Chronicles 01.25.18
  “Throw him down the chute!” The five merged on Chase who was trying to get out what appeared to be the front door but it was in fact a door to nowhere. The storm he had ventured through and from which he had sought refuge by entering the restaurant was not visible through the glass——actually, nothing was. The door was locked and on the other side of the glass it was just like a giant fog had settled in blocking everything out from view.
  Just as they were about to grab Chase, a mist formed in the room and when they all turned to see what was the cause they found a massive crow that stood as tall and as broad as any of them present.
  “What the hell?” the raccoon shouted. “Where did that come from?”
  The crow looked around himself. “Where is the pond? Where is the glen?” He stepped towards the others who were backing up to avoid contact with the bird’s sharp beak.
  “Who are you?” the mouse asked while trying to hide behind the orangutan.
  “Priestly,” the crow replied stiffening up quite regally. “And who might you be?”
  “This has to be Runa’s doing,” the brown bear said looking around the room nervously. “We need to get clear of this or we will be sucked into this mess as well.”
  “I say we toss both of them down the chute,” suggested the mouse trying his best to not be seen by the crow. “We need to get shut of this before the inspectors arrive.”
  “Inspectors?” the crow asked surveying the room while stepping closer to the five who were doing their best to find an avenue of escape, but the crow, as large as it was, blocked them and held them there with the boy shoved up against the wall behind them.
  “Let me go,” the boy shouted, but his voice was muffled as he was slightly compressed behind the brown bear who was pushing the mouse forward almost as an offering. The mouse, of course, was squealing with complaint and trying to get back behind everyone including Chase.
  It was then that Priestly discovered a part of the ribbons that had been Nouveau were wrapped around his left leg—and, he heard a muffled voice. As a matter of fact, they all heard it but couldn’t make out what was being said and so they all dismissed it until the mouse took note that wherever Priestly walked the ribbon that was wrapped around his leg extended back to the point on the floor where he had appeared and it then disappeared into a slowly forming pool of water there on the floor.

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  Posted in blogging., Fantasy, Gordon Kuhn, Literary Arts, unassigned, Uncategorized, Writing | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, Fantasy, Fiction, Gordon Kuhn, humor, Poetry, Poets, Writing

• The Restaurant: Ragdoll Chronicles 1.15.18

  Posted at 5:31 am by Gordon, on January 15, 2018

  
  

  Ragdoll Chronicles 01.15.18
  “Throw him down the chute!” The five merged on Chase who was trying to get out what appeared to be the front door but was in fact a door to nowhere. The storm he had come through was not visible through the glass, nothing was. Just as they were about to grab him a mist formed in the room and when they all turned to see what was the cause they found a crow that stood as tall and as broad as any of them present.
  “What the hell?” the raccoon shouted. “Where did that come from?”
  The crow looked around himself. “Where is the pond? Where is the glen?” He stepped towards the others who were backing up to avoid contact with the bird’s sharp beak.
  “Who are you?” the mouse asked while trying to hide behind the orangutan.
  “Priestly,” the crow replied stiffening up quite regally. “Andy who might you be?”
  “This has to be Runa’s doing,” the brown bear said. “We need to get clear of this or we will be sucked into this mess as well.”
  “I say we toss both of them down the chute,” suggested the mouse trying his best to not be seen by the crow. “We need to get shut of this before the inspectors arrive.”
  “Inspectors?” the crow asked while stepping closer to the five who were doing their best to find an avenue of escape, but the crow, as large as it was, blocked them and held them there with the boy shoved up against the wall behind them.

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  Posted in blogging., Fantasy, Gordon Kuhn, Literary Arts, Poetry, Poets, unassigned, Uncategorized, Writing | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, death sentence, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Fiction, Gordon Kuhn, writers, Writing

• RUNAWAY: Ragdoll Chronicles 01.03.1918

  Posted at 5:24 am by Gordon, on January 13, 2018

  
  

  NOTE THESE ENTRIES ARE THE DRAFT OF A BOOK I AM WRITING AND THERE WILL BE ERRORS.
  =================================================================
  Ragdoll Chronicles 1.13.18 @ 0515 © Gordon Kuhn All rights reserved.
  “Get away from the pond,” both Starter and Cawkin shouted while waving their wings and hopping up and down. But it was too late. One stepped up and placed a foot in the water, quite accidentally actually, but accidentally sometimes doesn’t matter and in this case it did not.
  “What?” the crow called back.
  “Get away from the pond,” the pair again shouted. But it was too late. They could do nothing but watch as the other crow at the pond melted away in the mist rising from the waters at its feet.
  “She has him,” Cawkin said.
  “Can’t we do something?” Started began to flap his wings and move forward anticipating a run to the where the disappearance had taken place.
  “No. We have no idea where she might have taken him and besides, that’s just her way of teasing to come closer.
  “But what about Nouveau? They found rags over there.”
  “It’s a trap. She is showing us the rags to get us over there. She has him too.”
  “But where?”
  “God knows. I don’t.”
  “Can we go after him?”
  Cawkin looked at Starter for a very long moment of silence. “We can but….”
  ~
  Robert made a dash to his car through the stinging rain. However, he had to stop short of the vehicle because as he approached it he discovered it actually was floating several feet in the air and at each attempt to grab hold of a door handle the car just moved higher. Finally, he set off on foot in the direction of the small local lake where he and Chase were planning on going fishing later that day.
  Chase had a good lead on his father as he had already walked several blocks pursued by a strong wind that pushed him forward. Every time he stopped and thought about turning back he was slammed with gusts that knocked him down. Behind him was a wall of rain that was coming ever closer. Then, ahead, he saw the lights of a small restaurant and he ran for it hoping to get inside and out of the weather.
  As he stepped into the lighted diner he was suddenly aware that he had never been there before and, actually, he had never known of this place but the smell of cooking hamburgers lured him further in. At first, it appeared to be like any other small restaurant. There were several booths and a small counter with five stools. But Chase sensed that something was odd about the place and then he saw that the people seated at the counter weren’t what you would expect. Four looked like very large animals with one human seated there and all were eating breakfast.
  The opening of the door and the rush of wind and rain that accompanied Chase had drew the attention of the five and they all turned to look at him.
  “Ah, look what we have here,” the man said pointing at Chase. “A human child.”
  “A child? A boy child?” a very large brown bear seated at the end of the counter spun on his stool and asked staring in disbelief.
  “No. Really?” a small creature resembling a white mouse seated next to the man spoke in a very low voice and looked to others for an answer. “It cannot be here. We must make it leave.”
  Next to the mouse was a raccoon appearing creature and to his right sat an orangutan with bright red and long fur. The two grunted agreement. The racc00n picked up a piece of toast from its plate and, holding it between his hands, offered it to Chase, “Come boy, are you hungry? If so, eat and then, by the blessed ground hog, please leave.”
  “No sir,” Chase replied softly. “I’m not hungry. I — I came in from the rain.”
  “Well then,” joined in the large brown bear seated at the end of the counter, “why are you here. This is a restaurant. And, rain? You say, you came in from the rain? I don’t see any rain.”
  “Uh huh,” Chase said glancing around, “it’s the strangest restaurant I have ever been in. And look at me, I’m dripping wet.”
  “From what?” asked the brown bear. “Did you stand in your shower with your clothes on and then come here?”
  “No.”
  “What’s that?” asked the mouse. “I couldn’t hear what he said.” He shook his head.
  The orangutan snickered.
  “Did you pour water over yourself?”
  “No, it’s raining outside.”
  “Outside, where outside? I see no outside.” The brown bear questioned.
  “What?” asked the mouse. “Oh damn, I can’t hear either one. He turned to the raccoon as if to ask for help.
  “Turn you hearing aids on you dope,” said the raccoon and slapped the mouse on the back of the head.
  “I have them on,” the mouse protested rubbing the back of his head.
  “Well, turn the volume up.”
  “It is up.”
  “Here,” the raccoon said, “let me see them.” He jerked one out of the mouse’s ear.
  “Ouch,” complained the mouse. “Don’t just jerk them out. They are costly and if the queen even knew I had them I would pay dearly, perhaps even with my life.”
  “Oh, for Thor’s sake, do you have to bring up the queen?” The orangutan knocked over his cup of coffee spilling the hot liquid all over the counter and his newspaper.
  The brown bear raised its hand, “What’s that?”
  “What?” said the mouse.
  “I hear bells ringing.”
  “I hear nothing,” said the mouse.
  “Of course you don’t you idiot, you didn’t have any batteries in the hearing aids,” the raccoon told angrily.
  “They are growing louder,” the brown bear stood up and looked around for the source.
  “It’s getting closer,” the man said. “It must be the queen or her guard.
  “GET RID OF THE BOY!” They all said at once.
  “How,” the orangutan asked.
  “Throw him down the chute!” the man said grabbing at Chase.
  “YES,” the others all agreed. “Throw him down the chute!”

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  Posted in blogging., Fantasy, Gordon Kuhn, Literary Arts, Poetry, Poets, unassigned, Uncategorized, Writing | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Fiction, Literature, poems, Poetry, Poets, Writing

• Chase Seeks Refuge from the Rain. 01.10.2018 @ 0312

  Posted at 3:13 am by Gordon, on January 10, 2018

  
  

  Denise staggered to the front door in a daze. She turned the knob and the wind flung the door free of her grip.
  “Jesus!” Robert stepped inside, his face contorted with anger and concern. “Where is the boy?” He grabbed his former wife by her shoulders. “How could you let this happen?”

  “I had no way to stop it,” Denise went limp in his grip. “She came and went so fast I didn’t have time to react to her. I never expected her to—“

  “That’s the problem; you never expected anything, not from me, not from her, from Chase, from anybody and know we are forced into a corner.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “What I should have done years ago. Find her, get Chase back, and then kill her.”

  “What are you nuts?” Denise turned on him with anger, spit flying. “You can’t kill her.” She pushed him away. “She has been alive for centuries and you think you, Mr. Robert Langdon, the famous do-nothing drunk from Havinerty Township can kill her?”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’ll not shut up. Just what the fuck are you thinking?” Denise wrapped her arms about herself and closed the front door. “You think you can just walk up and kill her?” She threw her arms up in the air. “How the fuck do you know she’s not here now and listening to you? You don’t, do you, dumb ass?”

  “Well—” he started unsure of what to say and then added angrily, “Well, I don’t know what else to do. We have to get Chase back and the only way we can do that is to kill her.”

  Denise walked into her kitchen and sat down at the table burying her face in her hands. “You can’t kill her,” her voice was muffled. She sat back and looking at Robert shook her head. “Do you hear me? Even if you could, and you and I both know you can’t do it. You can’t kill her.”

  “Why?”

  “He’ll never forgive you.”

  “He doesn’t need to know.”

  Denise stood and went to the stove where a coffee pot sat warming on the flames. “You know he’ll know it and you will cause such a stir in her world that they will come and take him and God knows what they will do to us. Even if you could somehow kill her and I don’t think it’s possible.” She poured herself a cup and stared at the stove while stirring in creamer, her hands trembling.

  “There has to be away.”

  “He’s her son,” Denise said softly with tears running down her face. “There is nothing we can do.” A hand swept the trail of water from her cheeks. She sighed and lifted the cup to her lips. Robert stood behind her. There was nothing he could think of to say, but he knew, he knew it was true.

  Finally he put his hands on Denise’s shoulders from behind. “Maybe,” he began, “maybe she doesn’t have him. Maybe he ran out and….and had gone someplace to hide. It’s a shot.”

  “Uh huh,” Denise said and lowered her head. “She’s got him.”

  “Not necessarily. Look, give me time, an hour, before you start any incantations, and let me go look.”

  A tremendous flash of light lit up the whole house inside followed by a roll of thunder that shook everything.

  “She knows,” Denise said. “She knows but maybe you are right, maybe she doesn’t have him.” She turned and faced Robert. “Go, now, I’ll wait.”

  But Robert was already at the door. “That lightning bolt told me she doesn’t have him. I think I know where he’s at.” With that he was out the door and into the rain which suddenly had grown more violent.
  =================================================================

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  Posted in blogging., Fantasy, Gordon Kuhn, Literary Arts, Poetry, Poets, unassigned, Uncategorized, Writing | 0 Comments | Tagged blogging, Fairy Tales, Fantasy, Fiction, Gordon Kuhn, Online Writing, Poet, writers, Writing

• The Pond: Ragdoll Chronicles Cont. 1.9.2018 at 0315

  Posted at 3:20 am by Gordon, on January 9, 2018

  
  

  “Nouveau!” the entire Murder of Crows called out. Some took to the air to scan the surrounding area as the Clowder of Cats spread out also searching.

  Cawkin stood still as all about him searchers called out to the Rag Man. “The Gypsy Girl,” he turned to Starter. “Did anyone get her name?”

  “Yes,” Starter replied. “And you aren’t going to like it I’m afraid.”

  Cawkin stepped up to stand in front of Starter. “Is it,” he hesitated, “Runa?”

  Starter moved in closer to Cawkin to conceal his voice, “Yes. I recognized her from the air, but—”

  “Shit,” Cawkin kicked at the earth with his right foot. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Well—uh—I didn’t think it mattered just then.”

  “Mattered? Runa didn’t matter?”

  “I found some rags,” a voice called out.

  Cawkin stared into Starter’s eyes. “Please tell me that they are not going to where the pond used to be.”

  Before Starter could answer a startled collection of voices called out to one another, “Where’d this pond come from?”

  “I don’t recall this pond being here before,” someone said from on wing above.

  “Nor the river. Look at how blue and clear the pond is.”

  Cawkin turned as did Starter and both shouted, “Stay away from the pond.” But it was too late, several had moved to within a few yards of the sparkling yellow sand that surrounded it.

  “The ground here is very warm and I hear bells,” the closest crow called to its wing-mates.

  “There are rags in the water,” another crow called out.

  “And over here on the bank,” another responded.

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• Aleen; The Ragdoll Chronicles 01.08.2018

  Posted at 3:44 am by Gordon, on January 8, 2018

  
  

  01.08.18 Ragdoll Chronicles Cont.

  He sat up high on the hill above the city of Ilandia His six foot wingspan had been closed and wrapped securely around him more for warmth than stealth and concealment. He sat alone, disliking being near the others who were mostly newlings out for their first hunt and kill mission. They were all several hundred feet below him babbling about how lucky they had been too fly with such a master.

  “Master,” he snarled to himself after overhearing one of their comments. “What do they know of Masters. They are too young to know the virtues of such as Anloch the Strong who took out a thousand Betweens on a day many called ‘Judgement Day.'” He snorted and tightened the grip of his wings upon his body.
  “Still strong,” he looked down at himself, at the muscle structure of his arms. “After all these years, still strong,” he sniffed in pleasure and recalled his first mission.

  “They are missionaries, not unlike us, but of different beliefs and that is the danger,” Anloch had said in a snarl, his gargoyle like face close to Aleen’s. “Kill them swiftly, little one. Surprise those of your kind larger than you. Surprise them at your strength and keep in mind,” his voice dropped low and his lips touched Aleen’s ear, “there will come a day when you will have to those you serve as well. And, yes,” the others voice was close in his ear and he could feel the hot breath on his neck, “there will come a time when you may even have to kill me.”

  Aleen stiffened at the thought and then remembered watching Anloch struggle as surprise swept over the other’s face and he grabbed for the open wound on his throat trying to stop the spray of blood as it rushed up and out from the fatal slash Aleen had provided him. Aleen had stepped back from his master as the teacher died before him struggling to grab Aleen just as he turned and with a jump was airborne and slipping into the night sky. “Traitor,” Anloch shouted, his voice bubbling from the rush of blood ,and then Aleen’s teacher, guide, his best friend, died from the mortal wound Aleen had delivered.

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