rob kistner © 2020
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Author’s Note:
My inspiration for writing “Ghosts” was drawn from my youth, as represented by the images at the top. Also, strangely enough, from a wonderful novel by Peter Heller entitled “The Dog Stars”. It was reinforced by my awoken curiosity, which found me sampling the top 100 hits of 1963, which was the soundtrack for the summer of my 16th year. This was the summer of my ’57 Chevy Bel Air, of my ‘63 Triumph 650 Bonneville motorcycle, the summer of my first rock and roll band, and my first “girl”. This entire journey back in time was initially prompted by my stumbling upon an old picture of that Chevy.
Looking back at my early teen years, those years when I was waiting for my life to begin, I flashed on my memories of young love. The intensity of that tender pure unrealistic infatuation could perhaps have happened only then, in those times – in that summer of 1963. Before assasinations, collapsing economies, open social unrest, Viet Nam, before AIDS, COVID-19, rampant drugs, criminal presidents – the year of the Beatles on the Ed Sullivan Show, the Beach Boys took the world surfing, Annette Funicello playing beach blanket bingo, red Chevy ragtops, Triumph Bonnevilles, OpArt, and President Kennedy challenging us to go to the moon. This was a time, maybe the last time, when teens were truly naive and innocent.
I don’t know why that feels true. Perhaps it’s because we were so naive and so unsure as teens, in that post WWll, white-picket-fence, father-knows-best, american-dream, faux-utopia. We were tentative and waiting, wondering. It’s like love imagined that innocent needed that much room, that much “open” mental space, that much emotional “safety”, that much unbridled belief, for it to take root, and to bloom – even if but for a brief moment in time.
The not knowing anything really for certain, but hoping, with aching faith in the possibility of pure true love, was both thrilling and unsettling. It was a love full of passion and devotion, but scary. We were not completely certain how to navigate such an emotion, not really, so we left it alone, tried to let it unfold lightly, terrified we would lose it. And if it did manifest, it felt so big and beautiful, and unbelievable! It was most often short-lived, owing to our immaturity – but what intoxicating joy, such heady exhileration! Those were the times when the apparitional wings of young love did fly to the moon, and carried us along. Here is “Ghosts”…
electrified — entwined — excited
young groping lust
craving
yet hesitant
swept up in innocent bliss
shadowed near the band shell
beyond the glow of incandescence
throbbing with the big beat
of scorching rock & roll
smoldering for some
longing for more
confusing for most
a pubescent play
beneath a high starry sky
sparking with carnal fantasies
humid as our urgent embraces
hot as our stolen kisses
as forever as our promised love
in that distant
sizzling
teenage midnight…
…sweet ghosts of my youth
haunt from long ago
rob kistner © 2012
unpublished 1st draft © 2007
updated © 2020
rob kistner © 2020
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Steer steady this night’s sky
Straight to the heart of love
rob kistner © 2020
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I remember well, the times we walked our favorite old growth. Most especially that perfect June morning, we trekked deep into that ancient wood, to our favorite spot — our secret clearing. The morning sun filtered softly through the canopy, drifting golden into our sacred space, setting your handsome face aglow. A breeze rustled the treetops, whispering of eternity, casting a spell.
Awed by the splendor, we talked quietly, leaning on the downed Douglas that slumbers there, perhaps centuries, peaceful in its earthen repose. You were eighteen, off to college soon, so excited! I was so in awe of you son.
In that moment, time suspended, life aligned for a perfect memory — my very last of you. Three weeks later you were tragically killed. This memory is left here under the forest canopy, in our clearing, where my heart still journeys — to talk with you.
rob kistner © 2020
* This month is my son Aaron’s birth month. He has been vividly on my mind.
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over this horizon of death
to kiss your lips once more
and tell you the 10,000 things
I said too seldom in my life
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— REPOSE —
— REBIRTH —
life’s cycles will reprise
a fertile new year will arise
may the power of light’s rebirth
bring bounty’s blessings to the earth
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makes his way carefully
past the shallow-breathed crumple
that lay milky-eyed in a heap
un-moving on the floor
save a twitch of the sodden head
this wreckage is his mother
why do you just lie there mother
my head is full of demons son
the response only imagined
she remains slack and death-like
where nocturne angels of sweet release
had laid down lush upon her
in fevered embrace
lustfully conjured
by last night’s spoon and lance
still skewered silver in the soured vein
mother — why do you want to die
the return is only silence
he lingers but a moment
verifying life
then moves on
head down
trying to remember
his mother’s eyes
he angles to the bathroom
to the scum-brown bowl
to wash his face
a face lit sallow by the yellowed bulb
that hangs bare and lonely
eyes of knowing
eyes of sadness
stare into the mirror
broken as his heart
then close
your eyes hold a story my son
will you tell me your story
yes mother
if you really want to hear it
if you really could
rob kistner © 2020
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trapped for the moment
isolated from the waters of earth
it gentles its way to the stream
in search of mother sea
this day begins
dewy and crisp
bird songs lilt
‘cross the sunrise lane
lover and beloved
we sit by the morning window
with tea
and curiosity.
we talk
in this moment
our souls spill
one into the other
until I am distracted
your lips continue sculpting words
but I’ve fallen deep
aswim in your cerulean eyes
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
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quick twist of my wrist
the rod arcs forward
increasing the pressure
on my fingertip
it whips ahead
urgently
demanding release
with precise pluck
like a string
on a guitar
lure’s launched
eagerly seeking possibility
rob kistner © 2020
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~
several observation platforms
at different landings
as you climb the stairs
that zig zag
into the forest canopy
* motorized lift optional
a three-story stilt-house
by a rippled cerulean mountain lake
huge wrap around porches
on each floor
the top level
a place I could write
create my mixed-media art
one huge open room
where my wife too
could have her fiberart studio
her prep and assembly tables
and her big Toika loom
the roof — one big deck
from which to see
far as the eye could see
so very liberating
exhilarating
riding out big storms
like flying
but anchored secure
our stilt-house made of wood
recycled planked woods
redwood
maple
teak
and anodized aluminums
leathers
stones
lots of tempered crystal-clear acrylic
we’d feed all things that fly
eagles
osprey
hawks
birds
a place high up
in the sun-dappled canopy
where we’d live — work — laugh
crank up our music and dance
all in the nude
if we wanted
make love
windows wide open
hearts wide open
minds wide open
the sun and breeze
dreams and worries
free to come and go
I want to live free
high among the redwood trees
where we could both truly be
above it all
rob kistner © 2020
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~
rob kistner © 2020
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A Child’s Reply
~
A father passed his son’s room, and glanced in to see the boy sitting on the floor, seemingly staring at the wall. The father thought he might step in to the room to see why his son had his gaze fixed so intently on the far wall. Reconsidering, he walked on to the kitchen, thinking it better not to disturb the child.
Passing his son’s door again, he noticed the boy had not moved. This time the father stepped in to inquire what was going on. “What are you doing son?” Without turning, the son replied, “I’m listening.” The father marveled, “Listening to what son? There is nothing behind the wall except a space where the wind whistles”
Slowly turning to look at his father, the boy quietly said, “no dad, you’re wrong. When I close my eyes, I can hear the whole world.”
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Just Gone
~
No warning, they were just gone. We were left to wonder, “what’s going on.” The entire family strangely disappeared, no clue what happened. Truly very weird.
Taken in an instant, to where, we may never know. Midst this kitchen clutter, it all abruptly ended. Was their mortal life forfeit, or was time within these walls, ominously suspended?
“Highly suspicious”, thought the detective. “People don’t simply vanish.” So he began an intensive investigation. Searched each room, the attic, the garage outside — he searched it all. Lastly even the hollow of the cookstove wall.
Finally he concluded, “there is nothing behind the wall, except a space where the wind whistles.” Yet, muffled by that wind, come inaudible cries — there is no doubt. “Oh please! Please hear our bloody fingers, scratching to get out!”
rob kistner © 2020
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~
furtive angel nonpareil
lolled lush upon vermilion leather
coral goblet of mimosan nectar
fondled to saffron velvet bodice
now supple breast, soft loin and limbs
stand aglow in emerald sweet seduction
magenta lace teases from turquoise silk
ignites violet lust’s combusted indigo
silvered undulation in a mirror mist
of moonlight promise in a cerulean fog
beckons aureate midst dewy dripping ferns
to stir lucid languid cerisean joy
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
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