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 .

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.

 

 

INTERVIEW WITH CLAIRE-HARRIS PERKINS


What a wonderful idea, I thought, to actually be interviewed by someone who was professional and knowledgeable about my writing. What a treat. And so, when asked, I answered with a loud, “Yes.” How could I not and I found the experience most entertaining and educational at the same time.

First off, I am not the brightest person when it comes to computers and anything electronic hates me from the first handshake. That held true with trying to get Skype to work. It kept rejecting my passwords and then went nuts when I tried to reload with another email address. So, there I was panicking a full hour before the interview and poor Claire who resides in the UK was wrong on the time difference between there and here. She said 10 AM and it was 9:40 when I wrote on Skype asking if we were connected. She wrote back that she had just come home from shopping and that the time for our conversation was 10 and we had an hour to go. I told her it was coming up on 10 and then she realized the time difference was 4 and not 5 hours. So she set off to get the interview going.

She is incredibly professional.  She  sent me her list of questions and she followed that list perfectly. I was thankful that she had done that because I knew where we were going and there were no surprises.

I am attaching the link to the interview.

https://www.booktalkradio.info/gordon-kuhn

Please go and enjoy it and write back and tell me what you think. Claire can be reached at her site http://www.booktalkradio.info she can also be found at her page on Facebook:

Claire Harris-Perkins

So, if you are an author and independently publish you own works contact her. She is easy to talk with and lots of fun.

 

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

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

Dismantled by Love


She came softly

Easily to his bed was led

And he found himself—suddenly dismantled

Unexpected the world spinning about his head

As if enjoying a first time cup of rich Turkish Coffee

Followed by a sip of mint liqueur that was fed

From the tip of his lover’s tongue warm red

That sought his mouth out amid a smile of rapture deep

To share as did they while the world disappeared forgotten

While within tousled sheets the pair gamboled

And he surrendered to her charms thus, so gently wed.              1/9/2017