THE DAY THAT HEMINGWAY DIED


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

Eric the Field Mouse conti.


Eric sat up in the smother of hay and looked at the two other mice whose faces had emerged from behind a pile of damp fiber. “I told you he would wake  this day,” said the one to the right. “I cast stones and they said it would be today.”

“Oh shut up,” said the one to the left. “What do you know about stone casting.”

“Ha, more than you.”

Slowly  the both emerged from the shadows.  “You’ve been asleep a long time,” they both said almost in unison. “Mind if I touch you,” the one of the right said and extended a paw.

“Who are you and where I am I,” Eric said pulling back as he realized that both of these field mice were much larger than he, almost like rats.

“Ah, you don’t need to worry yourself about who we are but as far as where you are well, that is another matter.”

“And the time. The time and day of the year is important.”

“Fine,” Eric said angrily. “Where am I. Isn’t this Farmer Gragers’  farm?”

“Yes, but another time and day and you’ve travelled here. You would think you have come forward a hundred years but in reality you slid sideways. We tell every arrival that they have gained a hundred years. It is just easier that way.”

“Yes,  Easier.”

“How so? Well, when are able to you will see and find you are different.”

“Yes,” the one on the right said excitedly.

“Can I tell him where he is?”  The two looked at each other  and then said, “Outside, just down the road is the town of Llandia. Do you know it?”                                                                                                                                                   1/13/17 Copyright Gordon Kuhn Unedited Text.

 

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

Book Two of Predator Coming Soon


They were husband and wife. Best friends. Two who loved each other without question. Her name was Kathleen, Kathy for short. His was Doctor James Briles. He went by Jim.

Kathy spent the last day of her life excited with the prospects of preparing a special dinner for the man she loved. One they would never share. She had gotten her hair done just as it had been on their first date. She had stopped to visit with friends telling them of her plans for the evening.

It was to be a special night. One filled for them with the sense and wonder of simply being in love. But the actions of one man, one monster, turned it into a scene of horror.

Book One is published: Do You Know How to Fly?

You can order it from Barnes and Noble, Amazon has it and also has it in e-book fashion, and I have it on http://www.authorgordonkuhn.com . Order from me and it will arrive with my personal note to you.

PREDATOR: The Man Who Didn’t Exist, The Woman in a Pink Top


So here I sit with the majority of Book Two done and I am procrastinating. Call it what you will, but I just can’t seem to get myself going. I am within reach of being done with Book Two and I just can’t seem to push myself over the edge. Maybe it is a case of fear. Yes, fear.

I have been working on this for 6 1/2 years and to let go of my baby, so to speak, is frightening. Not only that but is it a good book or is it shit?  I don’t know. I feel it is a good book but at the same time I am concerned that the author, me, is just delusional. That happens to everyone I think that has created something and who has this ache in their hearts to be looked upon as an artist, relevant for the current times and yet building a legacy for others to look up at and marvel at the work done so far.

So, anyway, I met with retired Sheriff’s Detective Ned Foy who solved the Briles’ murder case and had coffee with him. I gave him a copy of Book One and he said he is excited to read it. He is also looking forward to Book Two.

Now the pressure is on. Actually it had already started this morning at breakfast when Sherry Call Roberts walked up to me and poked me in the stomach asking how close I was to finishing  Book Two .  Of course she was being playful but the point was simply this: get going and get finished and stop  procrastinating. It is easy to fall into that trap. So I am grateful to Sherry and to Ned and to everyone who is bugging the hell out of me to finish the book.  It needs to get done.

The other nice thing, and I mean that really, is that Ned told me that he would join the readers I have now and review Book Two. After all, he is the main man on that. It was his case to solve and he did. He can provide me with even more insight than I have now. He’s excited. I’m excited. And, I know that everyone else will be excited too as we all move forward with this. I know I am not alone.

Battle Flag


Battle Flag

 

The battle flag sudden snapped and swung up to fly in the wind

Above the post on the hill that even God had not known about back then

On a hot and sticky day where boys waited amid the baking heat

All seemed to stand still in the sudden roar of quiet to those there that day

Broken by the Sergeant’s sudden shout of “guns up!” that tore the silence apart

Rifles swung up then their muzzles pointed out and down across the clearing

Where men of difference moved so quiet in the sea of grass

Then, with hearts beating hard in all the chests of those there that hour and day

Searing rounds were sent out for the human shearing

A burst returned ripped holes in the flag that flew in the wind

Blood and mud spattered, its fabric so worn and so thin

That flew above boys that day sudden turned into men

It snapped and swung up to fly in the wind

Above the post on the hill that no one, not even God knew about back then.                

6/10/13 edited 12/22/2016

Tuesday 12/13/16 update to file


Working still on http://www.authorgordonkuhn.com  frustrated with trying to understand how to put a website together to market books. I think it is coming together slowly. I have a store front. There are four books displayed. Not sure how it looks to someone looking for a book to read. Interested in comments. Thanks. Gordon.

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

An Uncomfortable Situation, Dealing with Death.


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.