Standoff Excerpt: By the Side of the Road


By the Side of the Road

Little boy standin’ by the side of the road,

Lookin’ down beside hisself in the gutter at a dirty old toad,

What was sittin’ there all covered in dust with its eyes slowly flickin’

Looking for lunch, the boy, he did so suppose,

A guest to share the moment the frog surely did propose,

some fly, might be, for itself to go on chewin’ and lickin’,

Snatch that movin’ black spot clean outta the sky.

The little boy wondered what it would be like to die,

All caught up in a gooey tangle of tongue curlin’ there and stickin’

Like a June bug buzzin’ past fat and sassy like,

Not knowin’ that old bull frog was about to strike

Or maybe a crawler with its legs all a kickin’.

What matters most, I do suppose, is what the kid wasn’t thinkin’

Why did he feel such a sense of bein’ so old

Standin’ there all by hisself by the side of the road?

STANDOFF EXCERPT 9.12.19


Walking with a Dead Butterfly

Come fly away now gentle butterfly

Open your wings and capture a breath of wind

Set sail and say goodbye to the world below

Let not your heart in pain deny

Your right to sail the summer sky

For you are special, my valiant friend

You’ve come so far in life in so few days

And changed your coat of moldy gray

To joyfully spread rainbow colors in patterns rich

While sharing your beauty in wild, tumultuous flight

So short your life has come and gone

Come dance with me as I watch you twist and spin

Until your energy has been spent and you start to fail and fall

As you struggle with the pending doorway of death

No matter where you could have landed in the end

You somehow fell to earth beside the path

That I was silently walking there upon.

Clay Pots

How like shattered clay pots

They were when seen from close at hand

Clay pots fresh from the kiln that day

Broken when each mold was cast upon the cold

That lingered where the air was fresh and clean

And seen from heights where eagles dare soared

When they were sudden sent away amid the roar

Of surf spray that clutched the hand of sand

And layered about in nameless lots

Slowly became a collection of shrinking tired dots

Spread loosely upon the blue above the fading land

There floated they then above the heavy depth of sea

In all their fractured banquet were then to death led and bled

When thought the world had set them free

Above the green and sleeping spaces where Sightless watchers looked and not one was really seen      

STANDOFF from the book 8.31.19


It’s Four O’clock in the Morning

A light rain falls on the grass and pond outside my window to the world

It falls on the street and shines in a nearby streetlight glow

And silence is the answer to the falling soft wet mist

Swirling more like tiny snowflakes than rain in a gentle calming glide

While my mind unfolds, unwraps itself in slow and troubled wakefulness

While breaking all about me is the pure but retched silence of life

Struggling to reach the sky

While the sound of growth is smothered by the gentle rainfall’s echo

Of the rain in a mist falling about me all around

And my mind recalls the simple fact

Of other times I had found like that

When many times I sat alone in the darkness my friend

With no one or place for me to be in the end

And a light rain falls upon the grass

It falls on the pond in the clearing behind the house

As the first car this morning drove slowly past

The driver takes and grips a plastic packaged paper from a sack

And without aiming he tossed it out to land

Where it falls on the driveway just off the street

And in the morning shower’s wet it shines

In a nearby streetlight’s gentle glow

Outside my window to the world.

Standoff 8.20.2019 Post


The Old Undead of Poets

And thus spake true, the old undead of poets long forgot

As the grass they stood upon withered and the trees nearby did rot

For surely they had never ever thought

Nor in this life had ever sought

The substance of less passion

For clearly was not their fashion

And this indeed was what left them freed

As the world about turned slowly to withered weed.                             

Only the Rabbit Knows

There’s a place where I go

That no one knows exists

A place so private and hidden

So tucked away from everything

So removed from the world

That even a mouse hunting cheese cannot find it

Where I am all alone, just me and my thoughts

And with no one else, no one at all.

There’s a stone floor and empty pictures on the wall

A fireplace that burns without a trace of smoke or flame

To identify its private special space

To the world, so no one knows its place

And it’s where I can sit all alone

And yet be with you, and them, and they, and it

And you’ll never know where I am

You’ll never sense that I am there

Because the place is so very secret and hidden

And it is where I go, have gone, and will go

Where I go to be alone

When others are in the room

Where I am not afraid

Where the bed is unmade

But no one sleeps in it

Where I can cry in the night, and in the day

And you’ll never know, nor see a tear

You’ll never hear the scream

Or see the bodies lying on the floor

That are all me lying there

All different ages with no pictures taken

None to hang upon the wall

The fucking wall with empty frames there

For me to simply sit and stare at

But you’ll never know

And neither will they, or them, or it

Nor the hungry mouse hunting with its nose

Because it’s a secret place

Where even a starving mouse seeking a meal can’t find

The entrance within, but —  if one did, — if it did

I would welcome it And happily feed it a piece of cheese.

MUSIC FOR YOU.

2300 hours on April 4, 2019


I have no real title for this message. So I chose the time and date.

Thinking====I do that sometimes. Sometimes I don’t. When I don’t I regret it. I am sure that has happened to all of you as well.

I have a newsletter that I am posting my poetry to because I have come across notes on publishers’ pages regarding contests that rule out posts on FB pages as they claim that constitutes publishing. Really?

Anyway, I have sent of 75 pages of poetry in hopes of being published. I hope the poetry is published. That would make me “legitimate” I think. I hate being illegitimate. Don’t you?

I have to say that I have become addicted to Leonard Cohen’s music. I particularly like Take the Waltz. There is such a story hiding in the lines. You have to listen to it several times.

Well, I tried to post it here but it didn’t work.

Will write more later.

 

 

 

 

In Georgia


Will have the movers here this weekend to take back what we had delivered here a few months back. Good thing to find out in time the problems with moving here. Will be most happy to get back to our friends in Florida. Have a contract on the property and have an agreement on a lot of the equipment on the farm. Sad, but necessary. VA medical for me is virtually nonexistent here. All of our friends are in Florida. So, GA is not working out and selling everything here.

Friday 3.22.19 & New Poem


Another Friday. Another morning. Decisions to be made.

The property in Albany, GA has a contract on it. Wow, cannot believe how fast that happened. It just all fell in place within less than a week.

HUNGER SEEKING HUNGER

Beyond the window glass
Just there across the green cut grass
Dark blue and grey lies our pond that is filled with life
Pelted with a soft rain that sudden came
Leaving the surface dimpled, breaking the smoothness
Near a group of water birds that sat and pruned their feathered bodies
To dry off the wet from a recent dive for a fish for food
While an alligator who had been asleep in the sun was awakened
Disturbed it slid in off the bank in search of something to eat
Then, tail side to side, slowly the hunt began
With only eyes above the surface
It worked its way toward the birds who turned to look.

Copyright 2019 by Gordon Kuhn

 

Georgia & Poetry


Spent a week in Albany, GA on the 4.25 +- acres there that we own. Visited with the neighbor, his daughter, and her newborn son. Weather was nice. Little rain. Got some things done around the “farm” and in town. Then listed the property for sale. My health is not good and so we decided to sell.

Sending a copy of Standoff to Claire Perkins at claire@booktalkradio.info. She will review and do a radio show with me about the book. Any writer out there needs to know Claire for promotional purposes. She is great and works hard for you.

Anyway, so back in Florida and writing. Had a hard time up there writing.

Seeking Desperation

Desperate for the sake of an attack of desperation
Nothing to say, for what can be said,
As I am being led with just the fact that
The story is that I guess I am acting in silent retaliation
While the walls of life have so much there to be read
And I know, for some, I am not being much of a poetic diplomat
Too frank, too bold, a voice of exasperation
But in honesty, I see nothing to tame in the future
Looking out a smudged window I see a distorted culture
Nothing there that the best despair will be unable to nurture
Nor do it’s best to capture and contain the fumbling lost while
As a writer the writer stumbles forward searching for the proper style
While desperation is unable to hold back life from moving forward
I find myself a boat adrift, floundering, fighting the strengthening move shoreward
Unconscious the craft is of where the rocks and shoals wait to rip apart its hull
While the world is watching from above riding upon a single seagull
That has taken flight to oversee the death or survival
And life then takes on the form or lack of revival
As a thousand voices lifted cannot be heard above the roar
Of the surf beneath where a single bird does soar
And looks away in dismay for an opposite shore
Where peace it will find, peace it is to restore.

2019 Copyright Gordon Kuhn

Hey There Mr. Scarecrow.


Hey there Mr. Scarecrow
Standing out behind the barn
Just you and that old grey mouse that lives in your hay
Thanks for listening to me the other day
As I sat and let my own rain drop from my eyes to the ground
Hey there Mr. Scarecrow
You are so brave standing in the wind and rain,
Lonely there in the snow and heat from the sun
I saw you every morning and just before I turned out the light at night
Thanks for listening to me the other day, everyday
But yesterday I came to tell you of my love for you and found you gone
You had listened to me cry so many times in the day and night
You had heard how much I want to die
I came once with a knife
And told you I didn’t think it would hurt
Just a quick cut to end my life
Hey there Mr. Scarecrow you were there in silence
As we stood in the day or night and talked
Or when I sat next to you in the snow and the rain
With the knife tucked in your pant’s pocket out of sight
It seems just yesterday that you were there,
Waiting patiently in the sun and in the dark
You and that old grey mouse living in your shirt pocket
But that was before they came when I wasn’t there
And with a match and can of gasoline they burned you down
Oh Mr. Scarecrow, you were my very best friend
I told you of the beating of my mother that I saw
I told you of how my father had in anger walked out
And that he had come back, and my parents sat and cried
But something inside of me had died when I saw the blood
I told you of the pain that will not go away
I told you of the times I wanted to die as we sat alone in the dark
When I showed you the knife and tucked it in your pant’s pocket
But I wasn’t there the day they brought gasoline and matches
And not caring of you or me they burned you to the ground
My best friend, my very best friend, and the house for an old grey mouse
They burned you to the ground
To the ground, to the ground
Where I found the knife I had hidden in your pant’s pocket
So very long ago.
But I never found our friend
The old grey mouse.

Copyright 2019 Gordon Kuhn

Where did the year go?


Another year moving into history. Seems strange. I am still in January.

Well, for Jan and I it has been an up and down year with moving away and then moving back when we discovered that “friends” weren’t friends and that the VA doesn’t have the medical facilities in Georgia that we thought they had.

So, here we are back in Florida with all of our friends and it is wonderful. The only sad thing is that my service dog Tread has a fungus in his hip and tail bone. No body knows how it got there and it is an expensive and long fight to save his life. We now have gone past $5,000 in expenses and have 5 months more of a fight to go. We do have wonderful help from our Vet and the Vets at the University of Georgia School of Veterinary Science. We are also fortunate in that we have medical insurance on him and that has reduced our cost significantly. BUT travel and motel rooms are not covered as is part of the medical. However, we are fortunate that we do have a lot covered and are very grateful for the folks at Healthy Paws.

I have a newsletter at Constant Contact and if any of you wish to be a subscriber just send me you email to gkuhnwrites@aol.com

In the meantime I am trying to find a literary agent for my true crime book: Nightmare in Terra Ceia.

I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and I hope a wonderful New Year.

Blessings! Gordon Kuhn