Tag Archives: Literature

ALEEN Continued


And so as evening fell fully away from the day and
Those watching went their separate way
Speaking not of evil left there cloaked in dark wings
And left behind small Aleen to sit high upon the hill
The rocky hill that overlooked the city of LLandia
Where the mission keeper sat and looked past them as they left
Brooding about the mission sent him on
And snarled at those who turned to look back at him
For what was their want? Could they have found a better one.
His dark fangs revealed his mood and waited for the taste of blood.
That would run from throats slit by fingernail and dragon tail of wingspan spread
He would wait till fully dark and then mount his quest and deliver the blows
While the silly younger ones left behind who groveled at their teachers feet
Waited for a tasty treat and yet
And yet he recalled Anlock the Strong who spoke to him so long before
Long before the mission clear was in his mind and vision spell
There he had lain away so many days and nights until it became so very clear
That death, dear death would somehow come once again near
And as told when Anloch’s face was close, so close he could hear
The breathing from the lungs deep behind the lacquered armored hide
“Kill them swifty, little one. Surprise those of your kind larger than you.
Surprise them at your strength and keep in mind,
There will come a day when you will have to kill them too.” 1/12/2017

HAUNTED MEMORIES


Angels or demons cast their nets

Wide caught those with memories

Memories of rights and wrongs, I think

Those with recall so sharp and clear

Memories of thoughts themselves cursed

Cursed as were the moments in time brought forth

Forth brought the issues as played out in life complex

Angels or demons, I know not which crawl through my mind

And pull me from the present to the past intense

Visions not wished to replay

But seen there on the big screen

Unable to stop them from their haunting.            1/10/17

Another Book Coming Out—-NO, two books coming out.


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.

What are we?


I often think of us, you and me, in terms of who we are. I have never come up with an answer to suit me.

What are we? Again, the same problem. Oh, I suppose we can talk about material items, flesh, blood, molecules, that sort of things but does it define us? I think not.

So I have decided that what we are is a collection of memories. We are thoughts. We are not future as the future doesn’t exist. We are not present (even though we think we are) because present is both past and future and future doesn’t exist so you cannot have present. Therefore we are past, and past is memory pushing against the present and the future which are both indistinct and perpetually indistinguishable. In writing I am dealing with thought about the future but the future doesn’t come into being until the present when I type or think out a thought that then becomes past as in memory. Even typing the word out. It doesn’t become until AFTER I hit the key and then the letters fall on the page but this is after and not before. Before is thought but doesn’t exit in the here and now until I help it materialize. The future is undefinable. It exists only because we think it does and yet if you die right now that future you thought about is not here.

And yet, time is accessible past and future to an extent with present being the focus. In essence we are time travelers without the awareness that we are.

 

PREDATOR: The Man Who Didn’t Exist; Book One; Do You Know How To Fly?


Do You Know How to Fly? is now on Kindle.

This is a true crime book. It took me six years to write this book. Book number two will be out soon in paperback and on Kindle through Amazon.

The book is about a man on death row in Florida. He is a career criminal whose life in crime started as a youth. His first conviction occurred when only 14 for the rape of a woman who was in her 30s at a car wash. He would have murdered his victim but she managed to get away. He later was arrested as an adult at age 18 for home invasion robbery and spent another 18 months in jail.

After that he was arrested for bank robbery and spent 15 1/2 years in prison. Following being married to a woman he had never met, he was granted parole and he came to Florida and continued his life in crime here. He assaulted mainly older women who lived alone. He is a suspect in one murder in Sarasota County and was convicted in another in Manatee County. I spent six years working on two books. The first book is Do You Know How to Fly. The second will be titled: The Woman in a Pink Top.

These books will be available through Amazon and Barnes and Noble and all other book stores. But, Do You Know how to Fly is the first and you can now download through Kindle for $3.00. You can order paperback copies through the locations listed above or by contacting me for an autographed copy.

You may also get an eAutograph on Kindle by requesting it.

I hope you enjoy my books as much as I enjoyed writing them for you.

Best to you,

Gordon Kuhn

 

 

 

Field Notes For The Mentally Unprepared # 2


I recall that I gave a slight sigh at his comment, feeling a minor depression forming somewhere in the back of my mind, deep in some rift of grey matter, and I turned to go. It was best to simply go at that point. To leave. To retreat. To leave this man alone before he confused me even more with his ability to see when he was blind and to know without being told. Odd, I thought, How like him he was to the rest of the world in many ways and yet completely unlike the world in many other ways. Too complex for my wee brain to handle and so I turned to go just as he spoke.

“Do you know there is little difference between a white piece of paper and a black piece of paper?”

Man with a Cane.


I was at the Tampa Library earlier today and I stepped outside for a moment to check the weather. There I found a very thin, grey-haired man standing alone leaning up against a pillar near the front door of the building. I noticed that he held a white cane with a red tip on it that informed me that he was blind. We both stood there about twenty feet apart without speaking. I noticed that the cane was held lightly in his right hand and his left hand was hanging loosely with nothing to do . I looked again at the cane and, being someone interested in math, I was curious about the angle that he and the cane formed.

“Forty-five degrees,” he said without looking in my direction.

“What?” I asked, surprised by his comment as I had said nothing to him and wasn’t even sure if he knew I was standing near him.

“Forty-five degrees,” he said again, and then added, “You were wondering at what angle my cane was set from my body. It’s forty=five degrees.” He sniffed and wriggled his nose as if something had irritated it.

“But I didn’t say anything to you.”

“I know,” he signed. “But it’s a common question by those, like you, who are curious about angles and such.”

We stood in silence for several moments and then I added, “But I am the only one out here.”

He turned his head to the left and then to the right and said, “Yep, you’re right. I haven’t seen anyone out here for at least twenty minutes.”

 

 

I Never Learned to Play the Harmonica


I Never Learned to Play the Harmonica

There are times at night, when all seems so still surrounding
and yet, creeping through the stillness, the emptiness, the loneliness,
I hear the whispering sound of wind gamboling outside
Outside the door, outside the windows, outside the walls
toying amid the trees and bushes amid a blanket of shadows there
while I sit alone in the dark listening to a company of voices
of those living secretly in the walls and floors
in places like those I hurried past once upon a child’s time
not lingering, always fearing a hand would sudden pierce the clouded veil
and then towards some chaotic chilling gloom near distant dragged would be
even though struggled did I against the wish to linger
as a delicious, haunting sense of taste that drew me
pulled me, the dark distress temping to drive me, to push past self and merge with it
of those secret places not one knew of that which lured and teased and cast fear all around me
deep enchantment lay where the cold was thick and strong
but, I no longer feel the chilling thrill of those passing moments punctuating the day
for now at the door behind me lays child’s clothing
and now, instead of cold places, dark and troubling that slow my way
I first had come to fear the chipping away of time, and yet, in the spell
in passing by the tumbling chips of man thought clay
I have come to watch them fall more serenely
knowing, sensing that stopping the flakes cannot ever be
nor can I force them to heel to my sway
in passing by them, they in silent snow like fall
watching as they simply slip away in dark of fog
as a chill finger traces a line upon my skin
the touch leaving me wanting more than a little to drink
when drink could, I thought, calm and sleep derive
from some place that only drinkers seem to know
a shallow place, a silent hole, poison filled
where memories in nightmares come full and then spinning slip away
ghostly beings, apparitions that I alone can see the misery in
a private hell of wrongs done that cannot be undone
where pain in torrent rains from all sides, and yet
and yet, feelings cannot show through the web of numbness
regrets are dimmed by liquor’s ghostly fake kindness
so I struggle with the desire to down the bottle whole
as those memories to be drowned sallied forth
the casual haunting for me they do seek
to prod me, wake me, tear at me from my struggling sleep
like the dusty dime harmonica sitting on the shelf
the one laughing at me in the dark
the toy I never learned to play
though tried a hundred times to make
one simple note for me alone
one note to hear the simple tone
while others slept and not one knew
just how I wanted it to play for me
and for the rabbit that forever sleeps alone 1/18/16

Chapeau Cabosse’


Chapeau Cabosse’

A shadow fell across tanned and wrinkled brows

slicing off the collection of brittle grey aged eyelash towers

towers hidden as the battered cloth above did lower cutting

shutting out the air, shutting out the light revealing

hiding the skin from view, from sight

a thin cloth of felt born ages past in molded form

now wrinkled, stained with age, ‘twas badly tattered

as was the owner wearing the sweat stained ring

it held no shame, nor any kiss of fame, no breath of love

but left in purpose a face hidden in semidarkness

closed down tight upon the tired watchful eyes

cutting off prophecy from those outside

who felt the apostle within the well-worn frame once

combed, pressed, greased captured beneath from sighted view

a mystery complex composed in the simple act

for where emptiness had been before now hid the fact

the hand withdrew and left in place a battered hat. [2.12.2016]