This song by Sarah McLachlan, “In The Arms Of An Angel” always makes me break down. He is my son, Aaron Robert Kistner. Hearing this song takes me deep into memories of my sweet angel. My son Aaron died in his 18th year, just prior to entering college to study music. He was a very handsome, kind, and gentle young man – and a fabulous singer. I miss him so, everyday. I ache to hold him close just once more — to hear his beautiful voice. I wrote this poem very shortly after his tragic death in a horrible auto accident.
In loving memory of my son, Aaron Robert Kistner: 11/4/76 – 7/3/95
This is my favorite picture of you son,
the one I treasure most
since your passing.
A simple snapshot,
taken at the airport,
upon your return
from having run the New York City Marathon.
A gentle, triumphant smile,
eyes beaming behind those ‘cool’ shades,
jacket sleeves rolled in casual hip-ness,
bag gripped firm and steady in your left hand,
medal dangling proudly from your strong neck.
The victor: gentle, cool, hip, carefree, proud, and strong,
– fiercely handsome!
How profound this captured moment proved to be.
Taken just before the finish line of your 18 years,
it said it all.
Your race is run,
your bag is packed,
your reward’s in hand.
Sorry for this interruption. Feel free to ignore this section and move directly down to the poem, if you choose. The poem is much more sensual and dreamy. This first section is cold, no-filtered, stark reality — fully and sincerely expressed, as I see it. You see, I need to sum up my final, perhaps controversial thoughts, on the issue of protest, introduced here last Thursday. I have been slowly simmering since then: Love MUST win. My proud hippie soul tells me it can — it must for earth, and her human tribe to flourish. As naive and pollyanna as this may sound, I haven’t lived nearly 74 years believing that peace, love, and intelligence will find a way — to simply stand by and see these qualities of integrity snd dignity trampled beneath the feet of humankind’s baser instincts. Perhaps good people have turned the other cheek for too long. Maybe being passively resigned to the perpetraters of evil is not the way. Perhaps it requires an extreme natural culling of the tribe to remove the evil, the result of the arrogant stupidity of that group. Whether I should revel in that possibility is something my peaceful self has been truly struggling with the past few years — since the extinguishing of the Obama light. It goes against my nature. But the continuing greedy, destructive, and heartless ways must end, or perhaps be brought to an end. At my age and health, I, and most of my Aquarian generation, can’t, or won’t, effectively mount the resistance. We lack the stamina or money, or both. Too many among my generation, who may be capable, have lost the vision — turned during the mine-me-first Reagan 80’s, and the grab-fest in the years that followed. I feel we need responsible, strong young leaders to organize on a large scale, activate on a broad scale. It breaks my heart to say it — but me and my generation, we failed. Those who are coming after us, can’t afford to — or humankind and this great spaceship earth, truly are fucked! The power can belong to the young — take it, and wield it wisely! Sorry if I shocked or offended. Just the honest humble opinion of a tired old man. Not too tired to *** VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! ***
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And now {{{deep breath}}} time for the poetic entertainment:
***
…inspired by the Kate Bush video, “The Sensual World”…
This is a 2nd revision of my original 2012 version.
That Velvet
~
would I were that velvet
that she reaches for so fondly
strokes with delicate pure fingers
with soft silken hands she lingers
embraces to her bosom
wraps ’round her slender shoulders
tingles with excitement
as she surrenders to its touch
would I were that velvet
that drapes her lilting essence
that falls and folds and fondles
as she ascends the stairs each night
the plush and luscious fiber
that rises on her breasts
with each soft and subtle sigh
each deep impassioned breath
oh would I were that velvet
that glides her naked form
on those sunset autumn evenings
enwraps her perfect body warm
that chills and thrills in shivers
as she opens it ‘neath moonlight
and swoons hushed smouldered gasps
as she blooms forth firm and pleasured
oh would I were that velvet
would I were that velvet
oh sweet sensuous angel
would I were
would I were
