•
you cannot abuse my trust
you will not cramp my love
with hatred
never shall you
defile my dream
I am your mirror
the light
that fills your dark void
the found for your lost
the hope for your despair
the grace for your sin
I am your neutral
blanking your negative
expelling it
from the realm of joy
it cannot sustain
I watch
as it withers
and fades
away
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
•
yesterday is money spent
a corner turned
the choice that’s made
the tear that’s shed
the sentence spoken
the breath exhaled
the fuel consumed
it’s burned to ash
today is influence
momentum moving
the raindrop falling
hands on the wheel
the river flowing
the voice that’s singing
it’s face to face
it’s real time
tomorrow is the land of dreams
it’s the great unknown
the wheel of fate
it’s the far horizon
the dawn approaching
the planted seed
has no guarantee
yet it’s full of promise
• • •
Continuum Redux
•
yesterday was once today
today likewise was once tomorrow
tomorrow will be yesterday
but first it must become today
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
•
no life without love
like a tree without blossoms
barren and fruitless
• • •
…in response to the 13th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island, I offer a piece I wrote inspired by Joni Michell’s album entitled “Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter”. Embedded in this work is the title of every track that appears on that album / also for prompt #126 ‘Angel’ at One Single Impression…
I am your brood
sired by your seed
bloodied
from your womb
whisper
in a scorching breath
tell me about
the tenth world
taunt me
in scalded apparition
tell me how
to get to dreamland
to cotton avenue
on a hot off night
back street in jericho
tell me of the fires
on paprika plains
that consumed your souls
in flames of hunger
to lust
for immortality
made you dance
at midnight
wrapped in
the silky veils of ardor
on prurient
smoldered embers
I want to go
I am ready
an inferno burns
inside me
desire rages strong
to ride the bliss of sin
son of concupiscence
I am
your son
your lifeblood
courses through me
hammers in my temples
sets my heart ablaze
impassioned
I wil prowl
the shadow’d haunts
of jericho
the dark places
of the tenth world
following your ghosts
seeking
don jaun’s reckless daughter
my scarlet jezebel
my nocturne angel
to take me
in a fever
to whirl me ‘round
to burn me down
to ash
to scatter me
by moonlight
forever
in the winds
of memory
on those plains
of ardor
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
•
In the solitude
of my assisted exile
the window above me
frames a grey
and barren sky
but with eyes closed
I see home
of long ago
alive with morning
the scurry of creatures
warmed by summer
I hear nature
in splendid voice
the chuff
of tree’d red squirrel
the song
chirp
and trill of birds
chickadee
goldfinch
western bluebird
and others
fly
flutter
and flit
cracking black-oil sunflower seeds
that spill from feeders
a red-tailed hawk
calls
from atop a Sitka spruce
swaying
in the crisp blue sky
the muffled belling of a deer
wandering the safety of old-growth
whispers
through the foothills
the distant bark
of a neighbor’s dog
echoing the basin
up along our stream
reminds me
we have friends nearby
my wife’s
gentle laughter
validates the friendship
her tender smile
validates our love
the rustle of leaves
stirred by the breeze
wafts through the valley
smartly punctuated
by the staccato
of conifer cones
that fall
from time to time
wrested free by chickaree
and chipmunk
chattering high in Douglas fir
busy with their forage
wap wap wap
they bounce off our roof
striking the ground
closely followed
by the scamper
of their liberators
crunching their way
to the heart-meat of the cone
the delicacy
that elicits this furious industry
drifting in the window
intoxicating fragrances
cedar
pine
fir
lily
rose
lilac
grasses
loam
and more
a rich
earthy bouquet
caught in my reverie
I breathe in
deeply
to suddenly remember
I am alone
carefully banished
to this forgotten cloister
sobered
I exhale
and do not open my eyes
a solitary tear
escapes
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
•
an angel-eyed velvet-clad curious elf
was sitting alone on a leaf by himself
quite lost and he didn’t see anyone else
he was scared and he hid and he tried to be stealth
“I wish I was home like a good little elf
‘cause I left my big glasses on my bedroom shelf
and this is no a place for a song-writing elf
these damp woods are not very good for my healthâ€
his mother warned “Elton, you’re a wee little elf,
don’t go wandering off in the woods by yourself
take Bernie along, and your cell phone as well,
dear son please consider your fame and your wealth!â€
but wee little Elton was a quite stubborn elf
tired of playing piano in his room by himself
bored with being a world famous rock ‘n roll elf
with gold records – Don’t Go Breaking My Heart was his 12th
you know it really is hard being a curious elf
curiosity is why he’d snuck off by himself
now he’s lost and can’t find his way home without help
sometimes its dangerous being sneaky and stealth
could this be the end for sweet Elton the elf
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
______________________
This is a response, not so much to the letter of Carolee’s prompt, but to it’s essence. Instead of picking a fovorite poem, I have focused on my favorite poet, Gary Snyder. Given I am deeply moved by most of Gary’s work, choosing a “favorite” seems unrealistic.
Gary Snyder (born May 8, 1930) is an American poet (often associated with the Beat Generation and the San Francisco Renaissance), as well as an essayist, lecturer, and environmental activist — frequently described as the “poet laureate of Deep Ecology”. Snyder is a winner of a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. His work, in his various roles, reflects an immersion in both Buddhist spirituality and nature.
He grew up here, where I live, in Portland Oregon and attended Reed College here. He was friends with Allan Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and most of the beat writers, the majority of whom had urban backgrounds. Gary spent much of his youth, including his college years, hiking and working in the Northwest backcountry. This experience and his interest in things rural, made him appear exotic to his Beat Generation peers — who often referred to Snyder as ‘the Thoreau of the Beat Generation’.
Gary uses mainly common speech-patterns as the basis for his poetry, and does not typically use conventional meters nor intentional rhyme. His personal sensibility arose from his interest in Native Americans, their involvement with nature, their knowledge of it and balance with it. He argues that poets, and humans in general, need to adjust to very long timescales, especially when judging the consequences of their actions. His poetry examines the gap between nature and culture so as to point to ways in which the two can be more closely integrated.
A world traveler, with a fondness for the Far East; Gary has spent many years of his life exploring, and living in the wilderness of the western United States, especially the Pacific Northwest. He loves this region, as I do, and his work is strongly influenced by this love. I offer this poem I’ve written in the spirit of Gary Snyder. I pulled it together from a notebook I keep of my wilderness sojourns into this part of the U.S. as well as bits and pieces of drafts I’ve written, all influenced by Gary — not so much by how he writes, but who he is.
•
my footfalls
drum the root chambers
of the cascade mountain old growth
each step cushioned
by centuries of needle-drop
in this ancient forest
rounding a bend in the trail
brushing through waist-high fern
I crest a knoll
and stop
mesmerized
light drifts down dreamlike
filtered by the woodland canopy
settling soft around me
suddenly
I’m startled
a young doe bounds onto the path
standing proud
golden in the glow
she considers me briefly
then disappears
quick as a stolen glance
quiet as passing time
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
• photo by Giuseppe Moretti, for Beat Scene Online
…I’ve written two pieces in response to Three Word Wednesday July 21st prompt • the first is entitled “The Quiet” • the second is entitled “The Strike”…
•
left like spent bait
in the disapproving sun
to rot from apathy
the carcasses of constituents
foolishly quiet
curl brittle and crack
victims of their trust
they did not jump
their chance for change
and so they wither
hollowed by ignorance
and purposeful neglect
while the dark beast
slouches off with eden
marrow dripping from a smile
• • •
The Strike
•
warm
familiar
comfortable in my palm
my fingers wrap natural cork
index raised
gauging line tension
precision brings the willow’d shaft
high above my shoulder
rod flexing expectantly
a flick of my wrist
and the line arcs forward
increasing the pressure
on my fingertip
as it rolls ahead
accelerating
then
a careful pluck
like a string
on a guitar
it is released
the golden lure
at line’s end
sails silent
into the squinting summer sun
with a subtle plick
the barbed hunter disappears
slipping ‘neath the sparkle
of the undulating steam
seductively
with quickening pulse
eagerly visualizing
I retrieve the bait
anticipating the strike
patience draws the lure
dancing ever nearer
I long for the sharp
powerful tug
for the slender thread
unreeled before me
to rise
and dart away
in a sliver of silver spray
for my heart to jump
as a proud trout
breaks water
victim to my seduction
in this moment
mind focused
breath steady
senses heightened
awaiting sudden contact
I reflect
there is a simple truth in fishing
in life
the thrill of possibility
can be as rich
as the reward
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
•
eyes dark and deep as nile nocturne
scorching as nubian sundance
this blackthorn rose
is the secreted passion
the sultry jungle goddess
inscribed in the book of ardor
fired in molten scarlet
woman forged of earthen bronze
ablaze in the sensual dreams
of writhing midnight
she is smoke and flame
the mysterious traveler
• • •
________________________________
I would soar skyward
in sweeping circles
lifted on mighty thermals
I would not be earthbound
not a captive of gravity
if I could
but break the gravity
of time
I would not be a prisoner
of regret
I would return to you
this day would be soaring
and swooping
and giving thanks
for feathers and hollow bones
and forgiveness
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
•
whether panning for poached
fishing for fried
or sifting for softly scrambled
maybe bobbing for boiled
or sunny side up
angling for over easy
perhaps baiting a hook
for benedict
or dangling a lure for deviled
be they baked in cakes
or dropped in soup
it’s a whites & yolks wet dream
it’s a breakfast lovers fantasy
going to the eggs stream
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
•
relentless din
of crawling
prowling
night
pours steaming
through my window
midnight intrudes
damp and searing
insistent
scalded air
too hot and thick to breathe
a heat to suffocate
coarse whirr drones overhead
promising relief
in vain
sweltered darkness
lays heavy upon me
unbearable
I toss in labored half-sleep
gasping for cool relief
haltingly
I deep inhale to fill my lunges
only to bake them
in cruel sustaining breath
this oven to endure
salted droplets trace my spine
baste my neck
pool in the hollow of my fevered chest
bloom and seep
from beneath the smother
of matted soak atop my head
to weep their way ‘cross smoldered brow
into my eyes
and sting
no respite
in this nocturne furnace
night clings
and stifles
even dreams are scorched
simmering in July
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
I could not sleep last night
the tears come at times today
tears because I miss you
tears because I love you
tears because the memories
bitter and sweet
bring forth these true emotions
you abide within my heart these days
in a place of warmth and peace
I am so thankful you are here
and will always be
______________________________
in loving memory of my son
Aaron Robert Kistner
November 4, 1976 – July 3, 1995
he would go forth this was his mind
but had no notion which way that was
the pathway left was sparse with step
the roadway right was traveled plenty
leaning low to great extreme
he examined close the evidence
it came clear that those who journeyed left
were light of weight with timid step
while those who traveled onward right
wore finest boot of heavy heel
he thought on this for quite some time
until at last he knew for sure
he started neither left nor right
but instead went straight ahead
he hacked and carved and blazed a trail
into the new for those who’d follow
wise in life possessed of logic
he realized to where he’d come
the threshold of a new frontier
too raw for the sated too brute for the weak
those that would survive and prosper
would be among the enlightened bold
it would be those who’d choose this trail
full of promise made by his hand
with spirit full and muscled zest
he whacked and chopped and cleared the way
for those who’d come who were empowered
to seize possibility — a bright new world
• • •
(haiku)
•
trail forked this spring morne
white-tails chose the woods instead
always more options
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
(version 1)
•
exploding
with sizzle
and fire
in a plethora
of vivid color
a flash dance
of vibrant sparks
showering our dewy
midnight lawn
this cacophony
of celebration
and pyrotechnical
wonders
passes in
then out of existence
in but a moment
this magical night
•
explodes
with sizzle and fire
a spectacle bizarre
a flash dance
of dazzling sparks
shower the heavens
in wondrous light
this cacophony
of celebration
and pyrotechnical
delight
passes in
then out of existence
in but a thrilling moment
this magical night
•
they swoosh and sizzle
spin and tumble
in mesmerizing
fiery flight
a flash dance
of dazzling sparks
shower the heavens
in wondrous light
this cacophony
of celebration
this pyrotechnical
delight
passes in
then out of existence
in but a moment
this magical night
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
• photo of aerial fireworks by: Astro Spectacular