Author: Rob Kistner

Safe Harbor

”You’re a beautiful fucked up man… building a mystery” Sara McLachlan


 

~ Scene From A Mystery ~

Fate had orchestrated this fortunate chance encounter. Fate was also unfolding this less fortunate, convoluted chain of events. What was she to make of it? Where could she begin in an attempt to unravel this mystery? Why had Eric threatened her tonight? Why had he looked so strange? Why was she being followed and photographed, by a vested man? Was her life in danger? These thoughts were tumbling through her mind when she was startled back to the present by Jack, the man she just met, literally stumbling into him as she fled. He was returning to the room with pillows and a blanket.

“I will take the sofa tonight,” he said, “You’re completely burned out. I’m putting you in my room,” he continued in a kind and caring tone. “My bed is amazingly comfortable, and you need sleep, lots of good, deep sleep, it would appear.”

He reached down and softly took Grace’s hand, helping her to her feet. Gently bracing her arm, he escorted her down the hall, and into his room. Stopping just inside the door, he said, “you will be safe in here. We’ll talk in the morning, about everything you shared,” and he gave her a quick hug, stepped back into the hall, and closed the door.

Grace was grateful she’d met this kind person. She also realized there were too many questions to answer, too many unknowns, just too damned much to even think about right now. She certainly needed a safe shelter, and definitely sleep. “Yes, in the morning,” she mumbled to the closed door. Then, hugging her ringed leather bag, with the very mysterious envelope Eric had demanded, tucked safely inside… Grace shuffled across the room — and collapsed on the bed.

fate is a puzzle
how does one make sense of it
best let it unfold

*
rob kistner © 2022

More haibuns at: dVerse

 

The River

  • This is a photo of the middle Clackamas River, this river I love. For a sense of scale, look closely, you will barely see a white water raft passing between the rocks. clackamas-river.jpgAuthor’s note: Not far from the home in which I lived for 25 years in Oregon, flows the Clackamas river. It falls from the Cascade Mountains down the westward slope of Mt. Hood, through a gorgeous rugged canyon. It is a young, geologically speaking, and powerful river. Cold, pure, drinkable water – alive with native trout. My son Justin rafted its whitewater rapids, and I fly-fished these waters. Every trip into this captivating wilderness freed my soul, touched my heart, and ignited my sense of wonder. This magnificent natural paradise is the inspiration for “The River!”.
     

    Gazing up this magnificent canyon
    cut by time and current
    in the great rock of the earth
    I marvel

    the power
    the beauty
    the determination
    of this mighty river
    sculpting this majestic work

    it tumbles
    relentlessly
    in timeless clarity
    over boulder and falls
    in onward resolve

    I’m captivated
    by the song
    of the wind
    that plays the boughs
    of the towering pines
    that scale the cliff walls

    it soars skyward
    then wafts gently
    down the lofty climbs
    brushes my face
    tosses my hair
    and dances past me
    round the river bend

    in this moment
    all is transcendent…

    I am thankful
    to know this sublime joy!

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

     
    clackamas-river2-web.jpg
    Photo above shows an excellent trout pool on the lower Clackamas River.

    clackamaswhitewater.jpg
    Photos above show rafters enjoying some of the tamer white water on the Upper Clackamas River. There are from Class I to Class V rapids on the river.

    Still more poetry at: earthweal

     

    ~ some river songs ~







     

    • Glide

     

    Could I but glide
    through the clouds
    like a bird in flight

    I would soar skyward
    in sweeping circles
    lifted on mighty thermals

    I would not be earthbound
    not a prisoner of these feet
    not captive of gravity

    each day
    would be thrilling
    would be freedom

    living in
    and for
    the moment

    soaring
    and swooping
    and giving thanks
    for feathers
    and hollow bones

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    More poetry at: Sunday Muse

     


    Everflow

     

    We are temporal beings
    our awareness
    awaking slowly
    from some infinite place

    we flow forth
    on a current
    of pure energy
    in the stream
    of all consciousness

    our coming to be
    unknown to us
    as any mystery

    learned in stories
    in waiting relationships
    gradually
    we open to our identity

    our essence
    an enigma

    awareness dawning
    like the rising
    of a newborn sun

    we feel its warmth
    grow slowly

    we see not over the horizon
    because we see no horizon
    yet

    we comprehend no end
    immersed only
    in our beginning

    it is therein exists
    the miracle of life
    and the quandary of life

    our unfolding self awareness
    questioning how
    where
    why

    questioning infinity

    we are finite beings

    but in those moments
    infinite beings
    dreaming
    to sustain the moments

    we everflow
    from the waters of time
    as we flow into eternity

    watchers
    adrift
    on the river of life

    flow into me
    my love
    and we will be the waters
    of timeless life

    indivisibly immortal

    lovers
    in an eternal love

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    More poetry at: Sunday Muse

     

    Jabberwock’n Luv

    “influenced by E. A. Poe, and a nonsense language created by Lewis Carrol in 1871”

     

    A ghostly fine lookermiz
    with softical smile
    swings legnously swell
    in rare gurlyghost style

    such a scorchiful bodiface
    as might burnlybad be
    enstokes sultrification
    that erosinates me

    my steamliful brightenblinks
    are maxfirenly dazened
    by the beautifalicity
    she orbinously blazened

    I shoun’t slobbernly droolenate
    over her poutifuss chubens
    nor tenderliciously ogglenate
    her mygodly bububbins

    it’s lewdaciously nixicated
    to starezing lovlustingly
    so as gurlyghost swingulated
    I mindated my biznessity

    but in dreamyton’s realmenhood
    as my memoraticus rememberated
    I rezoomefied sweet gurlyghost
    as my bloodpumpinator enthrobinated

    when morninsun returnified
    I wokenated all infatucated
    and immediously pledgified
    gurlyghost’d be reanimated


    enthrobinating bloodpumpinator

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    Even more fragrant poetry at: Sunday Muse

     


    Jabberwock’n Luv (phonetically)
    ~
    A ghost-lee fine look-er-miz
    with a sof-ti-cal smile
    swings leg-nous-lee swell
    in rare girl-lee-ghost style

    such a score-chi-ful bo-di-face
    as might burn-lee-bad be
    en-stokes sul-tri-fi-cay-tion
    that e-row-za-nates me

    my steam-lee-ful brigh-ten-blinks
    are max-fi-ren-ly day-zened
    by the beau-ti-fa-li-ci-tee
    she or-bi-nous-lee blay-zened

    I shoun’t slah-bern-lee droo-le-nate
    over her pow-ti-fuss chu-bens
    nor ten-der-li-cious-lee og-gla-nate
    her my-god-lee bu-bub-bins

    it’s lew-day-cious-lee nix-i-cated
    to stare-zing luv-lus-ting-lee
    so as girl-lee-ghost swing-you-lated
    I mine-da-filed my biz-nes-si-tee

    but in drea-me-ton’s rel-men-hood
    as my mem-or-a-ti-cus re-mem-ber-ated
    I ree-zoo-ma-fied sweet gur-lee-good
    as my blood-pum-pi-nay-tor en-thraw-bi-nay-ted

    when more-nin-sun ree-tur-ni-fied
    I wo-ke-nay-ted all in-fa-chew-cay-ted
    and im-me-dee-ous-lee pled-ji-fide
    girl-lee-ghost-’d be re-a-ni-may-ted

    ~ ~ ~

    “Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
    The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
    Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
    The frumious Bandersnatch!”

    Spellbound

    poet
    you are enigma

    darkness and shadow
    you veil and shroud

    fire and light
    you burn and incandesce

    torch my essence
    burn deep my soul
    trouble my spirit
    unsettle my being

    then poet
    ignite my wonder

    whet my seeker’s vessel
    with need
    to be filled full

    poet
    at once familiar
    yet
    exotically foreign
    wonderfully strange

    wrongly boxed but
    exquisitely wrapped

    in angst
    indignation
    longing
    discovery
    loss

    in love

    with all these
    and infinitely more
    you reach an empty place
    deep within

    echoing my past
    awakening my myths

    exposing
    that which I embrace
    in the moment
    as truth

    refocus me

    stirring my pain
    my anger
    my loneliness

    my hope

    offering just enough answer
    that I combust with question
    sacred uncertainty

    I’m held
    suspended in inquiry
    in memories of neverwas

    enrapt by your careful words
    transfixed by mystery
    elevated by insight
    impaled by vision

    spellbound

    Apples

    “…by freezing passion at its blossoming…” Neil Carpathios


    “ Basket of Apples” — by: Levi Wells Prentice
     
    PROLOGUE
    ~
    By her fateful death — dreams matter little
    freezing solid my beating heart of love
    passion has been made fragile and brittle

    at this tragically fatal moment
    its confusion’s turmoil I feel inside
    blossoming to my soul’s searing torment

    by virtue of moon’s cold careless beaming
    freezing hard my tears of sorrowed grieving
    passion is shattered beyond redeeming

    at the frigid depth of my dark sorrow
    its unclenching fist has dealt a deathblow
    blossoming dreams will have no tomorrow

    ~ ~
     

    Moonlight
    keeps dark at bay
    relentlessly pressing in
    as night wind stirs
    coldly mocking
    my sorrow

    her life now lost
    beyond this chill
    that envelops me

    this night
    has made rigid
    my longing heart
    by freezing passion
    at its blossoming

    no emotions
    save grief

    and guilt

    I was not here
    you were alone
    I did not hear

    I found you there
    by the broken stair
    apple basket spilled

    was there a grasp-less hand
    on the wooden rail
    was an ankle bent
    did a sure step fail

    was there a futile cry
    that fell silent
    in the sunset

    those tender lips
    will not know again
    sweet fruit

    nor love

    once softly kissed
    now lifeless

    blackness presses in
    as my tears
    begin again

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    More poetry at: dVerse

    Friday writings at: Poets & Storytellers

    Still more poetry at: earthweal

     


    Intoxicated

    “And into the forest I go, to lose my mind, and find my soul.” – John Muir

     

    My footfalls
    drum the root chambers
    of the old growth

    each step
    cushioned
    by centuries of needle-drop
    in this ancient forest

    I’m enjoying the rise and fall
    twist and turn of the trail

    my walking stick is smooth
    clutched comfortably
    in my right hand

    tensions dissipate
    soothed
    by the enchanting rustle
    of a gentle zephyr
    in the treetops
    of these old growth

    Ponderosa Pine

    it carries on it
    that enticing fragrance
    of this bewitching conifer

    a hint of butterscotch
    maybe cinnamon
    or is it vanilla
    perhaps even coconut

    I’m drawn to this stand
    these amazing giants

    they’re visually breathtaking
    and they remind me
    endearingly
    of grandma’s baking

    the aroma
    and the stir of the breeze
    wafting down the western slopes
    of these Cascade Mountains
    invigorates me
    to wander further

    the steady rhythm of my footsteps
    is the pulse of my soul

    rounding a bend in the trail
    brushing through waist-high fern
    passing into another section
    of this captivating forest
    I crest a knoll
    and stop

    mesmerized

    filtered by the towering woodland canopy
    sunlight drifts down softly
    dreamlike

    it settles golden
    into the peaceful clearing
    that beckons me

    a presence is tangible
    it is familiar

    I’ve encountered it
    in this forest
    times before

    it is the spirit
    of these ancients

    in this moment
    the breeze enfolds me
    filled with new intoxicating scents
    of living earth

    an addictive bouquet
    of Cascade Red Cedar
    Douglas Fir
    moss
    bark
    loam
    gentle sweet pungence
    and ionized mountain air

    perching atop a log
    a downed Douglas
    I swoon
    taking it all in

    my spirit rises
    my being grows weightless
    any sense of self
    floats away
    lifted into oneness

    wholeness

    timeless

    bliss

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    Even more fragrant poetry at: dVerse

     

    Sunrise

     

    I see you afar
    approaching on the path
    backlit by sunrise

    I sit
    warmed in morning’s window
    watching you
    as you stop to rest

    in this moment
    I’m consumed by you

    as your lips sculpt a smile
    I’m swept away
    on love’s sweet tide

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    Even more poetry at: dVerse

     

    Brushstrokes

     
    Melancholy’s grey
    the black of loss
    fear’s dark ebony
    the violet of regret
    the purples of pain and anger
    sorrowful blues
    peaceful greens
    golden joy
    laughter’s bright amber
    love’s ruby red
    the scarlet of passion
    the white of knowledge

    these are the colors
    of my life
    painted by the brushstrokes of time
    blended in the palette
    that defines my essence

    by these
    you know me

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    More poetry at: The Sunday Muse

     

    Red Red Wine

     
    He feels the weight of her thigh
    pressing against his

    the flesh of her hip
    urgent against him

    the warmth
    as he responds involuntarily

    a heat spreads through him
    a quickening of pulse

    he swells and swoons
    growing rigid and eager

    a deep need overtakes him

    he reaches ’round her
    firmly encircling her waist
    with his strong arm
    bending her forward
    with the power of his body
    as begins a dance of desire

    consumed by her passion
    his urges hot and husky
    on her ear and cheek
    they churn in slow pleasure

    building in lustful pace and tension
    they dance and dance
    spinning into a carnal fury

    a great release
    sweeps over them

    they melt together
    in fevered bliss
    matching breath for slowing breath

    his lips
    soft on the nape of her neck
    they drift to earth
    entwined in the joy
    the afterglow
    of love’s lingered embrace
    of the rich red wine
    of passion

    now
    it’s passion’s memory
    of love lost

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    More poetry at: The Sunday Muse

     

    Portal

     
    T his epiphany
    incandesces my essence
    burns deep my soul
    stirs my spirit
    unsettles my being
    ignites my wonder

    and whets my seeker’s vessel
    with need to be filled full

    at once familiar
    yet exotically foreign
    strangely boxed
    but exquisitely wrapped
    in longing
    loss
    love
    and infinitely more

    it reachs to a hollow place
    deep within
    echoing a past
    awakening a myth
    exposing that which I embrace
    in the moment
    as truth

    stirring my pain
    my loneliness
    my hope

    offering just enough answer
    that I combust with questions
    sacred uncertainties

    suspended in inquiry
    in memories of neverwas
    recognition of evermore
    enrapt in blissful cognizance
    of that which was once not known
    but now love breaks like a golden dawn

    once transfixed by this mystery
    I am now elevated by insight
    impaled by love’s vision
    aflame in ecstasy

    the portal is thrown open
    love rises like the sun
    it is a good day

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    More poetry at: The Sunday Muse

     


    Poet In Arms (2022)

     

    Poet
    do not weave
    your fabric of veiled myth
    or speak to us in tangled metaphors

    help us see
    the real place of light
    hear the clear voice of truth
    know the pure heart of justice
    feel the strength of courage

    look poet
    look at the terrible suffering
    tell us where that is birthed

    tell us how to see
    with our own eyes
    see clearly

    so that we might reach in
    and tear out the pain
    uproot the sorrow
    crush the evil

    you see many things poet
    but you talk in riddles
    you avoid the cold
    and the hard way
    of uncluttered
    truth speak

    instead you shade
    with dense metaphor
    with esoteric imagery
    but this is not that time

    look poet
    look into the fire
    feel it burn your eyes
    char your soul
    tell us how that feels

    let us hear you scream
    rally us
    set us ablaze

    we wish not a troubadour
    we seek a warrior

    lift your pen
    like a sword
    and strike down
    the imbalance

    show us the grip
    and we will join the battle

    but you must tell us
    poet
    tell us what is real
    in the power
    that is plain language

    we will listen
    we can be brave

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

     


    Heart’s Whisper


    … “Nature is not a place to visit. It is home.” — Gary Snyder


    Clackamas River — Oregon

     
    ~ inspired in part, by Gary Snyder’s “How Poetry Comes to Me” ~

     

    Peering over cliff’s edge
    into the glass-green stream
    down river
    from the cascading falls

    I watch trout
    slide in
    then out
    of the soft break of a bolder’s shadow

    across the stone canyon
    cut by this persistence of current
    an Osprey alights
    treetop

    a focused sentinel

    measuring the timing
    and tactic
    of his imagined next meal

    drawn by this breathtaking canyon
    down the steep stone face
    through the White Aspen
    Douglas Fir
    giant Golden Chinquapin
    and Oregon Madrone
    I descend

    keeping a steady pace
    bent-knee’d and cautious

    with boot tread
    and leather palm
    I throttle and steer
    through an ample incline
    of base gravel

    I’m followed
    by a fine dusted slide
    of clattering pebbles
    and dry conifer needles

    down down
    I come
    to a stream-side grass patch

    then alertly
    hop — rock to rock
    ‘cross the dance of crystal chill stream
    to a small clearing


    Pearsony Falls — Oregon

    in this wilderness canyon
    midst the quiet rush
    of the Clackamas waters
    the hushed murmur
    of breeze
    through tall Ponderosa bough
    and the ambiance
    of living breathing nature

    I make camp

    here to rest
    and meditate
    in this sacred realm
    of the 4 directions
    mesmerized by this eden


    Vale’s Bend, Clackamas River — Oregon

    an unburdening begins
    in commune with the 4 elements

    with the forested earth
    the brisk mountain air
    the pure clear waters
    of glacial melt

    and I
    have brought the fire



    The Narrows, Clackamas River — Oregon

    night falls
    star-cast and chill

    settled by this night’s fire
    I sense spirits approaching
    carefully

    rip’ling ‘cross the crisp white water
    hesitant over the moonlit boulders
    staying just outside my campfire’s light
    just out of clarity

    my muse invites them
    to come

    to join
    inside the ring of light

    in my heart
    I feel words
    whispering like a song

    I listen openly

    carefully

    peacefully surrendering
    to the inspiration
    for which I’ve come

    I breath out
    a quiet thank you

    then I write
    as these words
    begin falling to my paper

    *
    rob kistner © 2022

    More poetry of the elements at: dVerse

    Even more poetry at: dVerse

    Friday writings at: Poets & Storytellers

    Still more poetry at: earthweal