•
beckoned to the final tide
called forth by the ferryman
spirit stirs to the distant voice
that draws you to the journey
caught still in this mortal realm
soul resigned to embarkation
time folding in upon
as slow you approach the vessel
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
____________
image by Mostafa Habibi
Something life’s experiences have taught me: seeing the world for what it is makes you smart, envisioning the world for what it can be – makes you wise…
•
there are countless contradictions
in the elements of the work we do
and conflictions as we strive
but bring these not to table
for I am you
and you are me
and we are all together
in this constant labor
for our daily bread
and this toil to sustain the body
this does not feed the spirit
this is not our true work
to lift someone in need
to measure well in tolerance
to seek the components of peace
to create enduring possibility
this is the true work
in the final sweep
‘round the face of time
this is what the soul eats
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
here is the change
the forgetting
the slipping away
into the haze of memory
the frustration
of no longer being able
and still
the burning longing to…
remember
and you
dimming in this fog
midst the times we have cherished
the places we have loved
fading beyond reach
an ever-mounting loneliness
like so many vacant seats
empty
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
do you hear the leaves rustle
do you hear my breath
whispering your name
do you hear my heart beat
do you hear my tears fall
or is it silent
silent as the light-less realm
that hauntingly engulfs my soul
silent as that night
when apples spilled
on the broken stair
where rail eluded
your grasping hand
silent as your futile cry
when no voice came
to grace your lips
tender lips
that parted gently
to hold my kiss
lips
that will not know again
sweet fruit
nor love
rob kistner © 2011
* linked 2011 at Magpie Tales
These are two poems about two powerful and indelible life-moments I shared with my son Justin.
The first “Night Sky” is about the courageous moment he chose, at age fourteen, to leave his mother’s home to move across our country, to live with me in Oregon — through the years of his high school and college graduations, and his early career. This was an incredible gift he gave me.
The second, “Book of Days”, is about the moment, two days ago, when he and his wife Christine, moved from Oregon to pursue a career advancement — a deeply bittersweet moment for me.
•
you arrived in spring
asking why I’d left
I had no good response
but the other shoe had fallen
with a deafening thud
so what was I to do
you looked startled by life
and asked me about sorrow
I had no good response
so I took you in
and watched as you untangled truth
marveling at your balance
for 19 years
together we watched the night sky
and wondered about love
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
in the book of days
clearly it is written
your time for moving on
beyond the reach of yesterday
in this book of days
so too is it written
clearly mine grow short
my grasp loosens on tomorrow
our miles apart grow greater
our time together lessens
as you pursue the future
I slip further in the past
and per the book of days
this is the way of nature
the son becomes the father
the father bows away
yet stands this father’s dream
would that this space between
but vanish with this pain
of bittersweet farewell
that the book somehow rewritten
would bend both time and space
and my days once more
stretch full to your horizon
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
in the book of days
clearly it is written
your time for moving on
beyond the reach of yesterday
in this book of days
so too is it written
clearly mine grow short
my grasp loosens on tomorrow
our miles apart grow greater
our time together lessens
as you pursue the future
I slip further in the past
and per the book of days
this is the way of nature
the son becomes the father
the father bows away
yet stands this father’s dream
would that this space between
but vanish with this pain
of bittersweet farewell
that the book somehow rewritten
would bend both time and space
and my days once more
stretch full to your horizon
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
the virgin page taunts me
untouched
the bright white
throbs like a migraine
no burden of remorse
no weight of mystery
does it bear
no sting of anger
no wink of mirth
does it proffer
nothing sensual or sensitive to share
no tale to spin
no plot to thicken
no coin of phrase to turn
just vast blank space
tormenting nothingness
cruel emptiness
to drain my brain
dissonance spills through my open window
the scatter of autumn showers
stir of october wind
rustle of moist leaves
in the distance
muffled keens
bursts of barking
far off yelps
the edgy piercing din
of dripping prowling night
intrudes in damp insistence
to fill my head
fevered with frustration
to leave not one small space for wit
the search for insight all for naught
no spark to light this dark
no muse in sight
nothing clever or profound
in the air this night
chilled
slack
uninspired
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
to grow up
is to chase off
our innocence
our naïve belief
in the world as a beautiful place
to harden against the magic
of our childhood dreams
but if by chance
we can cling to just one
perhaps we can hold on
to our precious sense of wonder
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
he
a master of time and space
she
so young and trusting
he
a wizard of colors and words
dazzled her with danger and dreams
she
a nubile daughter of nature
anointed him with exotic pleasures
he
replaced the sun in her sky
with a fire he conjured and kept
she
warmed herself in its heat
came to his bed at its setting
they
the left foot and the right foot poised
to step forth in creativity’s dance
to whirl and glide persistent and true
in the measure and balance of love
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
These two poetic reflections are unrelated, beyond their focus on silence. The first reflection here considers what it is to fall into the deepening silence of old age. The second reflection looks at the silence that causes, and also results from repression…
•
shrouded by evening in waning october
as autumn tumbles towards winter
is to know the losing of the light
the ever growing darkness
the advance of the cold
the time of endings
death’s due vigil
deep silence
how do I abide this season
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
escape was an improbability
as was understanding
opinions regarding outcome
ignored altogether
fate sealed with no discourse
executed with an air of entitlement
when one has no arms to flail
no fists to clench
no fingers to point
gestures of dissent are sorely limited
rights easily wrest away
freedom falls beyond grasp
inevitable
when one has no voice
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
on the boulevard below
last night’s rain puddles
midst the chaos of metro-clutter
held hostage by tire and curb
as if abandoned by the waters of earth
it shoulders its way through the gutters
in search of mother sea
this day begins golden and crisp
bird songs echo empty sunrise streets
me and the first edition
we sit by this morning window
with coffee and curiosity
quietly serenaded by the 5:00 AM news
I read
occasionally glimpse the screen
grow troubled by our human plight
amazed how we never learn
when the answers seem so obvious
in this moment
the tv drones
my frustration rises
my spirit slips
my mind drifts
lifting on the vapor ribbons
wafting from my steaming cup
until I stare distracted
the announcer’s mouth continues sculpting words
but I’ve fallen deep into my thoughts
imagining how different it would be
if I ruled this world
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
•
there stands a raven in the rain
liquid-black as molten coal
beside a woman
besot and broken
thoughts so black and molten
outstretched in her anguish
ravin’ in the rain
raven in the rain
why is it that you stand here
so very soaked and sullen
beside this woman so besot
so broken and bereft
heart so black and shattered
ravin’ in the rain
has her ravin’ called you forth
do you feel kinship in her blackness
does it bind you common thread
is there a faint scent of death
carried on her plaintive breath
she outcast and shunned
so like your thankless plight
picking ‘mongst the carnage
rooting in the road-kill
the writhing crawling carcass rot
left the spoiled — not the spoils
this is your lot is it not
to consume the left-for-dead
the world’s lost decay
raven in the rain
are you here to feast today
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
the graceful glide
engulfed by the spire
in a roar of golden orange
horribly beautiful
perversely mesmerizing
obscene
devastating images
torrents of humanity
raining down
desperation their only escape
masses of humanity
racing
to outrun the unbelievable
praying
to be delivered from the inconceivable
traumatic images
shrines of free commerce
consumed
by the unbearable weight
of their fragile significance
plummeting to earth
in a cloud of self-destruction
heartbreaking images
screaming
dazed
terrified souls
consumed
by the unbearable weight of the moment
staggering onward
to outdistance the surging roll
of all-engulfing
pulverized aftermath
courageous images
battered
determined
tireless heroes
those who were called
who served unselfishly
some
who gave the ultimate service
haunting images
color
gender
ethnicity
wiped away
from the ashen-grey faces
of the traumatized throngs
now just masks of calamity
all made equal
by horror and grief
one nation
under siege
inconsolable
with tragedy and sorrow
for all
unforgettable images
burned into our hearts
•
that’s the thing about ruts
the longer we remain bogged
the harder it is to escape
•
stopping is no option
to lose the way
is to keep going
keep moving forward
lest one be rutted in uncertainty
rigid with the rigor of fear
bogged down in despair
paralyzed
stalled in hopelessness
the giving in
the giving up
caught in anguish
the rot that sets
with the loss of wonder
when grip lets go of dreams
arthritic loss of faith
debilitates the soul
cripples the manifest light
that shines forth
at the leap into dark unknown
into the sacred mystery
frozen is the doubting man
withered in a worried cage
terrified of the wrong step
of the journey all in
of daring the way unmarked
thus
he bleeds out the color of life
to become cold and grey
a petrified husk
of brittle remorse
mired in regret
for never having shone so brightly
as to blind the eyes of death
stopping is no option
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
• linked at Magpie Tales
when my forlorned
fallen face
is commonplace
when no one intrudes
to question
what’s the matter
because all around
are caught up in the blues
oh if only
you could find it
in your heart
to forgive
this sadly lost
and broken man
who much too late
understands
he was a fool
and in his sorrow
understands
why you refuse
but how I wish
ill-tempered weather
would ensue
to drive the joyful
all around me
to indoor spaces
so I’d be spared
the pain
of smiling faces
and the bitter
bitter memory
of losing you
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2011
______________________
How Poetry Comes to Me
by: Gary Snyder
It comes blundering over the
Boulders at night, it stays
Frightened outside the
Range of my campfire
I go to meet it at the
Edge of the light