Morning comes and I find you are not here

Yet we are to believe that you are

The bible sellers stand on their stages

And claim the same claim from ages

And I see about the world and even near

Violence that you could easily stop

You are a religious star

But I am beginning to fear

That like Santa Claus they lied

It is a joke that society paid

To convince us of a redeemer

Who with the power to stop the slaughter

Perhaps was never here

Maybe like Santa Clause

You just disappeared



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.

Chase Seeks Refuge from the Rain. 01.10.2018 @ 0312

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.”


“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.

Ragdoll Man Chronicles 12.21.17

“We saw it too,” a voice from the tree line said. “We have been sitting and watching.”

The crows all looked in that direction as a very large female cat emerged slowly walking with several like it following. “We all saw it,” they said in unison. “A young girl with magic like we have never seen before,” the lead cat said.
“Listen, is that you?” Cawkin called out.
“Yes. We’ve been sitting here at the edge of the wood watching all of this play out.”
“Just like a cat hiding in the grass ready to pounce,” Tender said with a bit of sarcasm. “Are we to trust you now?”
“Oh come now,” Listen began, “I thought we had this all worked out. I don’t chase you and you don’t chase us. Isn’t that how we worked this out? We have nothing but friendship to offer you.”
“And we you,” Starter joined the conversation.
“Yes,” Cawkin said. “We haven’t talked in a long time, Listen. How have you been doing.”
“Just fine, Cawkin, just fine.” She and four others had managed to cross to the center of the Glen where the crows opened a path and let them enter the inner circle.
“My name is Nouveau,” the Ragdoll Man said proudly introducing himself.
“Yes,” Listen said and closed to the point where she could sniff him. “Yes, you are quite Nouveau.” She then turned to Cawkin. “So, what to do with…” she hesitated with a sideways glance at Cawkin, “it….I mean…that….I mean, him?” She pointed with a paw.
“Is there anything that needs to be done?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t know.” She sat down. “I’ve never been in such a situation as this. I mean, a Ragdoll Man in our midst. What do we do with him?”
“Do,” Nouveau said, interrupting Listen, “what do you mean what do we do with him.” His head tilted to one side.
Listen continued, “He is obviously alive.”
“Alive,” Nouveau echoed, “yes, obviously.” His eyes were wide with curiosity trying his best to follow the conversation that was about him and yet he wasn’t sure if it was.
“Exactly,” the old cat said. “Has anyone thought this through?”
“Thought,” Nouveau said and rubbed his chin as his nose twisted to the side. “What is there to think about? Do we need to think? I find that it gives me a headache to — uh—think. I think.”
“No, I think not, Listen” Cawkin said ignoring Nouveau who he knew was just trying to be a part of the discussion but not realizing they were really talking about him. Cawkin’s brow furrowed in thought. “How could it be? We have never run across such as this.” He raised a wing and pointed it in the direction of Nouveau.
“No, not,” Nouveau joined in smiling and raising his arms and hands. “Who would have thought? I never would have thought. Would you have thought?” He put his question to Listen who moved a bit away from him.
“How could we?” Tender also asked. “We just now came upon him.”
“Just now,” Nouveau added shaking his head up and down. “It just happened. How could we when it just happened.”
“Well, don’t look at us,” Listen said and stepped back further waving a paw in front of her in dismissal of the situation.
“Yes,” Nouveau said, “and don’t look at us either.” He pointed to Cawkin and then to himself. And then he added, “What gypsy girl?”
Copyright 2017 Gordon Kuhn

Puppy in the River and Random thoughts on 8.15.2017


I believe I was ten years old and out riding on my bike on a warm summer’s day. As was my custom, I stopped at the bridge on Madison Street in Maywood overlooking the muddy, trash filled, and sluggish Des Plaines River. It was one of my favorite spots for daydreaming, but on that day my favorite place turned into a nightmare that still haunts me to this day.

As traffic went past behind me on four lanes of hot asphalt, I would stand and wonder about the first to view the river when it was clean and pure. I thought about the explorers who would trace the river to its beginnings when you could reach and cup your hands and take a drink of such refreshing waters that, by the time I stood there, had become dangerously polluted. It was only a foot deep at the middle, if that. What once had been a proud river had been destroyed by industry and polluters all along the wandering stretch that once had been so pristine.

I hated looking down at the shallow path of water that flowed 30 feet below me filled with junk and stink. But it was natural to peer over the concrete rail and down to the slop and slime and, on that day, as I peered over the edge there in the water was the body of a puppy floating upside down, its stomach bloated, white fur with streaks of green, its head was held by a rope tied to a brick.

The Puppy in the River

Subliminal thoughts of deep despair,
Beneath the Des Plaines surface there;
Shallow waters ran cold and dark,
Did silence the puppy’s plaintive bark.
A toss, a throw, from bridge above
to water flowing not far below;
A brick about the neck,
a final gift they did bestow.
And I, a child, beheld the horrid sight,
Before the dawn had turned to night,
Before the darkness settled in,
Leaving memories to haunt from deep within.
Curse me, bless me, dear god please defend me!
Take this memory from my sight,
remove the evil that I see.
A puppy in a river drowned—
And I, with it, am forever bound.

Copyright Gordon Kuhn, All rights reserved. 9/18/2013

truth slain and random thoughts over ice cream 8.14.17

Truth Slain on a TV Stand

The morning bell was met head-on
And each child followed the trail as winter won
To where truth then was set upon and promptly slain
For sadly truth had gathered thinking it safe
As if fearing safety it mattered simply not
The rot that had grown up in Webster’s lot
While all about the dreamer’s world came that
A web of cotton thread all wound about
That hid the learned from the learning there
With great gashes to the bone through grisly hair
I watched as torment swept up the path
To claim that which was left of the day
Coiled in self-incriminating powered doubt
For none was there with whom to share
And none was there to take the classic dare
But, instead, the gentle waves of sympathy rose
To climb aboard the train of memories
Before the closing bell had rung and
Students filled with nonsense about the world around
Ran home to watch Kukla, Fran, and Ollie
On the small black and white TV screen
That had come to land in a place of pride
An altar of electronic marvel to stun the world
The twisting movement about of rabbit ears
The frantic swirling the antenna about
In hopes to get the camera shot
Before the ending of the show
In search of the spot, the spot, the spot to find
To make the frazzled snow look more real
Where Lucy, Desi, Ethel and Fred would be
Along with an accordion player had earlier graced the day
Making life appear as easy without pain or torment
They lied, the lied, they spun and twisted the thin posts
And they lied, they lied, while we ate cold beans in a pouring rain
While children we ate Tomato Soup with thick buttered white bread
Prophesied to help us in at least 8 ways
Enriched (we found was putting back that removed) for us
Only to be told so many years later that
White bread will kill you as it brings on the fat
And that Lucy and Dezi, Ethel and Fred
Didn’t get along, but we never knew and so
We twisted those damn antennas round and round
Until we found the spot, the spot, the damned spot
And certain ghost like creatures appeared in scattered form
Focused on the glass screen as if the world was somehow going right
While war was off in a foreign land
And so we searched for the spot, the spot, the spot. 8.13.2017

a simple poem and random remarks 2033/08/11/17

I Am On Fire

Gordon Kuhn Copyright 8.11.2017

Within the skull born of female pain
He lashed out at the days but could not steal the stain
That in treasured measure laid its curling tone
Upon the printer’s inked plate during winter’s dying moan
He never thought the deeds quite through each day
While death visited his youth upon its way
Ripping out the contour of his life
Leaving behind the refuse of his strife.
His guilt real or imagined lay deep about his feet
No peace shall he ever through conscience release ever greet
While in the lonely closing of his days
Boxed in, surrounded by a killing maze.


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


I’ve been silent a bit for certain reasons, which cause me confusion. I have been writing as much as I always do, but feel constrained what with contests and awards and worry about theft of my writing. The joy of sharing is diminished greatly because of all that. I don’t know who to approach about it or even how to ask for advice. It simply is an issue that limits me in what I love to do. As a poet I’ve run across many outlets who will only look at your poetry if you’ve never published any poetry … and I mean “any” poetry. So, I guess because I’ve published then that places me in that category, and I cannot put anything with them. Then there are regional and age and sex issues, which must be confronted. Being a poet is not simply being a writer. No!

New Blog — End of emails.

Hi….So, why am I writing you ask. Well, its this way. I’ve decided to start another blog.

Yes. God help me. Aren’t you excited?


Oh well.

Well, I am, and here is the deal.

This is a blog about poetry. Only poetry. I decided to do this as my email lists are growing too large and I also make political commentary from time to time and my other blogs get weighted down. So, by separating out the poetry I can focus on one thing at this location and one thing only. And, very importantly, anyone coming to this site is only going to find poetry and poetry related links and comments.

I am looking for you to do a very simple thing for me (and you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but it would be ever so nice if you did) simply go to Poet in the Rain at http://gkpoems.wordpress.com/ 

At the top of the page you will find the word Subscribe, click on it and subscribe. (No Cost and you can unsubscribe whenever you wish to do so.)

I’m simply separating the poetry crowd from the non-poetry crowd and getting rid of the individual emails that I send out. Poet in the Rain will send out its own emails and you will be able to unsubscribe at any time you so wish and not have to hit the delete button which I know some of you are doing now…..I know who you are. You ‘re sitting there and suddenly you get this beep and my email pops up and you say “crap” or something like that and hit the delete button…..uh huh…. Well, I’m giving you the chance to opt in or not opt in by subscribing or not subscribing.

So, there you have it. Would love to see you subscribe but if you don’t I will understand and so from now on (except for those who request it) I will not be sending out individual poetry emails.

And everyone stood up and cheered. 01

So, go to and subscribe.

Once I hit the send button on this email the email list will disappear from my computer, meaning, if you wish to receive any future poetry from me you need to go to Poet in the Rain and subscribe.

Much thanks to all of you who have written me with comments and much thanks to you who have groaned every time you see a new post from me before hitting the delete button. Think of how much time this is going to shave off from your day.

I look forward to seeing all of you on Poet in the Rain located at http://gkpoems.wordpress.com/ 

Best to you, always!
Gordon Kuhn

Author of Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems
Buy or view the book at:

OR You can go to Barnes & Noble and order it there.
Simply type in The Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems in the search box and order the book.

Poet in the Rain: http://gkpoems.wordpress.com/
Thoughts: https://gordonwrites.com/
Prince of Dan: http://theprinceofdan.blogspot.com/