I will never forget the day that Hemingway died
Nor of how he died on ‘61’s second day of July
I was sixteen years old way back then
And far too much to the universe tuned in
I will never forget the shock that filled me as I cried
Deep inside a wounded creature not knowing why
Not even knowing much about the man I stood
Alone in silence surrounded by living woods
That were more than silent that day he died
To me they were, to me they were and yet
The world still moved and went its passing way
But in my heart, I knew something broke that day
Something strange that day had come and gone its way
The day that Papa died, yes that day on ‘61s second day of July 1/14/17
This is a book of poetry, a slice of life. It is a reflection of what has been and what will come. If you know of someone who likes to read, likes or even dislikes poetry (some have read this book that do not like poetry and yet they have written me and say write more! because of the way I write) then THIS is the book for you and for your friend. $10 https://authorgordonkuhn.com/
Just opened an e-commerce store. You can find it at Gordon-Kuhn-author or gordonkuhnauthor.com
I know it is confusing. Yes?
Everything I do is confusing. Computers hate me. Wrist watches hate me. Anyway, you can find me on the internet and by my books there, comment on them, write me and tell me what’s happening. AND I look forward to hearing from you.
Best to you, Gordon.
I have written about Predator, the first book named Do You Know How To Fly? It is a narrative nonfiction true crime. The title is a quotation from an actual recording of an interview with a woman who survived a brutal attack.
She was dragged naked to her balcony 12 floors up. Delmer Smith pushed her up and over the balcony rail and asked her if she knew how to fly. Well, of course, she didn’t, and she begged him to not drop her for she would surely die. He pulled her back into the 12th floor apartment and beat her. But she survived.
Then we have the one I am working on Predator: Book Two, The Woman in a Pink Top. It is being worked on. I am trying to make sure I don’t have a bunch of duplications with the old text.
Predator: Do You Know How to Fly? is a true story. The man is on death row in Florida along with about another 400 such individuals. Continue reading Another Book Coming Out—-NO, two books coming out.
The Zoo Keeper will be a book of intrigue and mystery. A child grown to manhood but has seen things beyond his years and suffers from without and within demons not seen by others, not known by others, ….. only felt. They are the kind that make the hairs stand upon the skin and noted only as some sort of …. warning, I guess you could say, but from where do they come. What breeze did they float in on and, most importantly, what is it they want with you. The Zoo Keeper, being written now even as I write this. The book controls. The characters control. And, Mrs. Harmon from The Pelman Murders is centerfold, watching, hunting, and perhaps…..killing.
Yesterday was my birthday. It was not a significant day for me. Nothing stood out. There was no “wow” factor. For me it was just another day. But for my wife, and my friends, it held a different meaning. Oddly no one actually asked me how old I am. Perhaps that was out of politeness. Perhaps, like me, they recognize that in life everything is moving forward. So on the day before yesterday I was one day shy of being fully the age I reportedly became at the hour and minute of my birth so many years before. Then, I have to say that today I am the age I was yesterday plus one day. I find that atrociously simple and yet complex in a mutually beneficial manner. It occurs to me that we begin the countdown on life when the baby is reported to have exited the mother’s womb. The record will continue until, quite simply, we die. It’s how we count the days and years. I suppose in some small way it all makes sense. I mean, it’s absolutely necessary that it makes sense for some. I don’t know if I fall within those ranks. I might. But I seriously don’t know.
What I do know is that advancing to another age, a plateau in life, is something we cannot prevent. I find it curious to have friends who lament the passing of the years. I’m not so concerned about the years as I am the activities that occurred within those years. I’m sure that we all have moments where we examine ourselves and in many cases are not happy about what we find there. At least that is how it is with me.
I have determined that over the course of my life I have been very self-destructive at times. Perhaps I was programmed that way by the very people who should have been supporting me and telling me that I could achieve all that I want in this life by working hard. Instead I recall being an 11-year-old child riding in my parents car with my father driving and we passed an area made up of beautiful homes that had smaller, yet still opulent, side homes for guests or for family members. I can recall saying to them that one day I would be successful and I would own one of those homes and the building that was a smaller house would become their home and it would be paid for totally by me. Instead of a simple positive response from both my parents, one so desperately needed, the response was, “Sure. Your brothers said the same thing and neither one of them have accomplished that goal, so neither will you.”
So I truly believe that the programming was attached during that short conversation in which I, as a small child, reached out to the very people who should have been encouraging me, and found instead a belief that I was bound to fail. And, I believe, that I like so many others in the similar situations are doing everything we can to make certain that our parents were wrong and yet the programming, in many cases, was so strong we fail before we begin.
So my hat is off to those who try and fail and yet still fight the false images fed to them as children. Perhaps we are all winners in the end.
I find myself once more dealing with death.
The past few years have brought more than one sad occasion into my life. I find with each death that it doesn’t get easier with time. It used not to bother me. It does now.
Being uncomfortable with it at this stage in my life is odd. I never would’ve expected that. I guess it’s because the deaths that have occurred primarily have been among friends of mine, or, in one case, the father of a friend of mine who recently passed.
Suddenly I find my world being rocked by an intrusive factor that neither you nor I have any control over. We all know we cannot escape death. That’s not the issue. It’s the hole that’s left in our lives and those of our friends. It’s holding a friend’s hand and wishing that you can alleviate the pain, or help the survivors, or simply trying to make sense of the situation. It’s talking to a friend who is really unable to respond, leaving the room for a moment, and knowing that as you just stepped into the hallway that the friend died.
There is no more communication.
It’s attempting to help the widow or the widower and not knowing what to say. I think that’s the hardest thing, not knowing what to say to the person who’s dying or to the survivors.
In any case, I find myself now struggling as yet another friend has entered the cycle. He and I don’t get along on some issues. We’ve had some rather blunt conversations. Even so I never would have wished this illness on him.
Two months ago he was fine. Then suddenly he contracted a terminal illness: leukemia. Oh I’m sure that the disease was present and had been present for some time, but it just seems to have suddenly appeared. It’s a fast-moving strain. I’ve seen similar before. I spoke with him tonight. I spoke with him and didn’t know what to say. I spoke with his wife and didn’t know what to say. I phoned another friend and didn’t know what to say. I stared hard into our bathroom mirror tonight and didn’t know what to say to myself.
Surrounding the valley were mountains named Desperation. They were so named for the disease that drove some of the colony members to attempt escape from the valley. These runners, as they came to be known, would leave quietly but hurriedly, turning away from family and friends and rush into the rain that pelted the mountains continuously. The mountains were all too well-known for their power to strip runners’ souls from their bodies. Men and women would struggle up the fog covered rocky slopes cutting their hands on sharp stones. Their bodies were attacked by ever twisting winds that ripped at the runners’ clothing tearing it away in some cases.
Even as these men and women desperately climbed up foot by painfully gained foot to escape the darkness that lay behind them, it seemed as if they had made no advance. For those who were able to speak later, after being found by rescue parties that were reluctant to leave the colony’s closely kept border to look for the runners, it seemed to them that no matter how high they thought they had climbed, when they paused and looked behind them, they found they were just steps from the base of their tormentor. It appeared to them that they had climbed no further than a few feet even after hours of struggle and, after a while, they would drop, drawing their bodies into a ball, and weep. Some tried to retrace and reach the base only to find that each step down took no distance away. In fact the more they attempted to go down the more distant from the base they found themselves.