Encloaked

winter-night

 

Here
in this moonlit
pacific northwest forest
midnight’s snowfall shimmers
through the boughs
of old growth

standing tall
their stately silhouettes
paint the powdery canvas
in niveous abstract

the forest feeling
deep and still
meditative

it is alive
it is my soul

its pulse
my pulse

this January night
sparkling snowflakes
as if stardust
have drifted to rest
from the heavens
casting a silent spell

blanketing
high-mountain meadows
in crystal down

this night
fell quiet and crisp

a great white owl
echoes hauntingly
through frosted cedar

as in reply
the low belling
of a white-tail deer
head raised
to the stars
drifts dreamlike
down the mountainsides
resonant in the canyons

a gentle stream
murmurs softly
meandering
‘tween crystalline banks
of sculpted ice

further up the mountain
these streams are rushing
churning whitewater
roaring forth
their power and presence

as gorgeous trout
browns brooks rainbows
and feisty cutthroat
muscle their way upstream
traversing the rapids
to settle in still edgewater

moonbeams sparkle
on snow-draped conifers
like diamonds
necklaced enticingly ‘
round the supple shoulders
of fair lithe ladies

it is a deep night
to linger and listen
mesmerized by chill silence

a magic enchants
the sleeping earth

gently it slumbers
encloaked in winter white
adrift in time and space
the fragile fall of snow
its restful blanket of peace

*
rob kistner © 2023

More poetry at: dVerse

 


26 thoughts on “Encloaked”

  1. “midnight’s snowfall shimmers / through the boughs / of old growth,” “the forest feeling / deep and still / meditative,” and “moonbeams sparkle / on snow-draped conifers / like diamonds” were my favorite images, Rob. They really put me there in the winter night in the forest. Your oneness with nature and the idea that the forest is alive and is a part of your soul, is amazing. Thanks for sharing this.

  2. Yes I agree wigh comments, and think you are at your very best when describing your walks in your wonderful forests, that I can see for miles and miles through the details in your verse. This poetry is uplifting, inspiring, inmenses soothing with great statue. It is frankly not easy to write a poetry about “woodland.” The idea may sound attractive, but imagine what might happen if people were asked to write about their forests…it is very, very difficult, which is why the greats stand out, to which I include you here. Wonderful to read, especially right now.

    1. Thank you so very much Ain that’s a most wonderful compliment. Wilderness forests have always been part of my soul. I was first introduced to the wild natural world, north of the great lakes, in Canada, by my adoptive father when I was four years old. We went deep into the Canadian forests twice every year, 3 weeks each time — to explore and enjoy the remote lakes and streams, fishing, hiking, camping, totally off the grid. No phones, no TV, no electricity — it was glorious. We would have to portage through a chain of pristine lakes and narrows, to get to the small, private Ontario island that dad co-owned with a Canadian family, Aldo and Emelia DeSante out of Sudbury. Hand-built real log cabin, with huge wood burning black iron stove for cooking the fish we caught, and to heat the cabin. Small log and sawdust ice house out back. Double docks one on each side of the island. Fresh pure glacial water came right out of the lake.

      Chilled mornings waking up to meet the, sunrise, cabin falling into a Canadian morning chill, the sound of lake loons echoing over the lake, through the morning mist. Throw on my boots, and my fishing jacket, and to the outhouse — the chill nipping at my ears and cheeks. Back to the cabin, the smell of bacon, eggs and potatoes, permeating the warming air. Intoxicating. With the rising sun, just nearing the horizon, it was grab the Coleman kerosene lantern, put on two new mantles, then pump and light, so we could maneuver the early morning dark to the low hiss of the lantern. We then grab the rods, reels, nets, stringers, and tackle box, and into the boat. Crank up the Evinrude for a morning of mythical fishing — which we also repeated every evening, the old Coleman, reaching its glow cross the ebony star filled water, helping us locate the dock, coming home under the crystal clear, star-filled Ontario night. We were often treated to the arora borealis (northern lights).

      Afternoons were for cleaning fish, swimming in the cold northern water, hiking the forests that came right down the the bouldered shores, across from our island, sometimes going to the beaver lodges and gig the mud for little green frogs, with which to live fish for large mouth bass — or we would pole navigate the narrows through three lakes, to get to the small wilderness store at Lehman’s Landing, to pick up basic supplies, and block ice from the sawdust-filled log ice house there. Amazing memories. When I started my music performance career with my numerous bands at age 16, those incredible Canadian days ended for me. Broke my heart, but my life was moving on.

      Then in 1990 my wife and I returned to powerful wilderness, when we moved out here to the wild mountains, lakes, streams, the Columbia Gorge, and otherworldly ocean coast of Oregon — and an entirely new, even more exciting, 25-year deep wilderness experience began. My ever failing heart and related declining health ended the hikes in-forest for me 5 years ago — but all those decades, and decades of prior memories, including Canada from my early life, and the recent decades of wanting limited by health, have inspired my love of nature poetry. Still being here in the wild energy of the Pacific Northwest keeps my loving relationship with the wilderness, vividly alive for me. Stokes my soul!

      Wordsworth, Shelley, Keats, Tennyson, Dickinson, Frost and Mary Oliver — these are all nature poets I love. My favorite though is wilderness poet, Gary Snyder. I am sincerely appreciative of your gracious and inspiring words Ain, regarding my wilderness poems, but I have a ways to go to be in the neighborhood with these greats I just mentioned — though my genuine soul pulls me, no — demands me to write the beauty and power of nature. I am pleased my pieces give you the pleasure of escape into the natural world Ain. I think of the you frequently and I hope and pray that you take care, in the midst of the strife and struggle you deal with daily there in Ukraine. I really look forward to your visits to my Image & Verse site brother, and I pray you will always be able to do so. Be safe my dear friend! 🙂

  3. Your poem shimmers like the snow, Rob, giving a chilly thrill. It makes me glad to be inside. And you have also used trees to convey January’s ‘silent spell’. It has just started snowing here this moment!

    1. Thank you Dwight. And yes, it is very beautiful here. When I moved here from the Ohio River Valley in 1990, I was overwhelmed by the power and still pristine beauty of the Oregon wilderness, which comprises the vast majority of the state. I was captivated by the Pacific Northwest in general — it is breathtaking.

  4. My goodness this is good! The poem is a visual treat, Rob! I especially love; “a great white owl echoes hauntingly through frosted cedar as in reply.” Thank you so much for writing to the prompt 😀

  5. Thanks for the walk in those Northwestern woods — they are of a purity hard elsewhere these days. Pristine, intact from human stain. Cathedral. Reminds me of John Muir’s love of Yosemite.

    1. You are most and always welcome my friend! Muir understood the pull and grasp of the wilderness. I am my best self in tye wilderness. My petty, my jealousy, striving, my urgency, my greed, my dissatisfaction, my sorrow, my bullshit — it all goes away while I am in awe and under the spell of the and wild — especially mountain forests filled with wild high mountain rivers, waterfalls, and lakes. The forest canopies of giant old growth contain more god and holiness, more grace, salvation and delivery — than any church

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