So, there you have it. Breakfast in a world where many have nothing to eat and there are those who blame us for that tragedy and yet the “old world” was established for a very long time and mostly lives in pre-Christian terms. America became independent, went to work, used capitalism, not socialism or communism and definitely not under a dictatorship government to get to be where we are today. Yet, there are those who want to toss all that away out of fear that someone might come along and kill them. Well, get real people, there are people out there that will kill you just because that is the goal and sucking up to them isn’t going to save your ass but challenging them and fighting for what we have here will at least give us a chance. If you believe that socialism or communism is great then for goodness sakes don’t let the door smack you in the ass going to where those economies are. You want to live in a dust bowl with killers running around then go, but please don’t expect everyone else to follow your hysteria while you drop your drawers so you can be violated by thugs.
Tag: Poetry
The Three Stooges
Death speaks thru the window of the train
While we travel going nowhere from the past to the present
in our clothes from best to worse and back again
looking for the answers to the riddle of questions
wanting to know who the Three Stooges represent
in our lives spent deceived by the world surrounding. 5.23.17
YESTERDAYS MOAN
Standing naked on the lawn
alone he was one sunlit dawn
the grass beneath his shoeless feet
cut like broken glass in the shimmering heat
with no one for miles around in sight
memories screamed in silence and turned to flight
while each separate living haunted thought
echoed off mental walls of stone
trapped there, held there apart from others’ sight
while caught up in a wind lifted moan
he stood naked beneath an unmoving sun
that dried his flesh and burned his bone
his life before him seen in a looping rerun
while he stood naked there on a grassless lawn
alone, he was, one sunlit dawn .
The Little Mermaid
I noted that The Little Mermaid, as she is titled on her blog, liked several of my posts. I also noted that she has a huge following. I am envious. I am a writer. Writers write because they want people to read what they write. I have nowhere near the followers that she has. Can I be envious? I think respectfully envious is appropriate. She obviously is hitting the mark as is Opinionated Man, another blogger with huge outreach. So, what is the magic?
I don’t know. I am trying to figure that out.
In the meantime I will watch and read their posts and be amazed at what they have to say and also that of the people who comment on their posts.
Here is a link to one of The Little Mermaid’s posts:
https://thelittlemermaid09.wordpress.com/2017/02/25/globalisation/
An Improv Everywhere Video
Another day, another confusing conversation with self about life and things relative to that which we think is relative. Okay, so maybe this is a bit too much of a thought process but I have to ask why is it that when I had over 500 followers here and over 500 followers on Facebook and then consider LinkedIn and Twitter why is it that I totter along with 4 visits on a daily twit? Can anyone explain that to me? Any answers?
WHAT?
by improve everywhere
Do you like poetry? I like poetry. My dogs have always like poetry. Have you ever heard me read poetry? How about if I sang it to you? Any chance for that? Come on where’s the support here, there, over there. It has to be here someplace, why else would I write poetry? Happy poetry, sad poetry, nonsense poetry, and serious poetry. Ok, you can just sit and read then…..but if you do make it MY poetry that you read: The Widow’s Cliff and Other Poems on Amazon, or for a very select few, Rabbit in a Box also on Amazon.
You do want to support me, don’t you. Of course you do. Amazon, Gordon Kuhn….come and buy a book! My dog thanks you.
VOICES UNHEARD
The poet speaks in voices unheard
Their words are spread upon a page unread
within the confusion of mind speak
the poet’s pen travels on, and on, and on
and where from does the lighted darkness come
where from does the need arise
to shake the hand of God, I suppose
and yet no one shall ever know.
What haunted inquiries doth possess
The soul of a single man
What creatures known but by him
Shall raise their faces from the darkness
From the vault kept locked within
Where memories persist to crawl
And slither then upon the walls
Where with a sublime poison touch the soul from within
To cradle him and bath him in memories of his sins
Cannot the treasure once spoken of so profound
See past the surface marred with scratches
Caused by the fight for life and light within
The casket of memories held tightly unexposed
Nails seeking a spot so soft to break into the day
And yet, my friend, darkness looms ahead
Darkness seeks the firm foundations grown so weak
Where only memories of evil purpose takes to peak
On a mountain never climbed and waiting
Waiting for the final curtain to descend
Upon the poet whose voice is silent from within. 02/02/17
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.
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
