When the most capable
believe they have risen above
the mucus, the shit, the afterbirth
of their origin
when in their reflection
they see perverse transcendence
towards entitlement
in which no allegiance
or kinship of nature
binds them to their center
nor founds them in the
fevered fumbling fury
of the frightened flesh parade
in which they lock step
flailing for survival
when their insanity of arrogance
so distorts their vision of time
of the ancient
of the sweating
bone-broken reality
of human swill and wallow
through which they likewise trudge
shiny shoes or no
when they blatantly begin
to eat their own
while copulating with false gods
on forsaken gilded altars
of perjured horrors
then the hour of the beasts
is certainly at hand
and the power of wild nature
will rise up to dominate
and we’ll all become
the hulking mass
of the apocalypse
deserving to be struck down
and our black hearts
torn out and severed
by the self-inflicted rapier
of raw wild justice
and our husks immolated
on the pyre of banished
abandoned truth
As you read this Christmas poem, with its taste of bittersweetness, see it not in a dark light — embrace it as a tale of a long-awaited journey, to be with the one beloved.
B rushed my shoulder on this morning’s train
then at the market it was there again
while in line to get my breakfast tea
from our favorite table it beckoned me
in the crowd at the festive mall
glimpsed like a flicker of candle light
I swear I saw it fleeting fall
upon the gifts I did not wrap this night
upon the tree I did not decorate
the greeting cards I did not write
in frail voice I chastise fate
singing carols doesn’t feel right
this season I see it everywhere
the shadow of your love
elusive as a shopper’s smile
caught up in the crush and shove
but soon I’ll catch and hold it close
warmly to my breast
it will sweetly fill my heart
lay soft with me this midnight rest
for it returns this night each year
the same night you went away
in dreams you kiss away each tear
touch my lips that beg you stay
taken from my life in sleep
gone without a last goodbye
as we dreamed at midnight deep
each year I weep and wonder why
but this year I’ll not awaken blue
in the end an easy thing to do
this night I’ll make our dreams come true
this midnight deep I will come to you
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! ***
========================
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
Aeropachydermicide: recklessly causing the death of someone or something by actions that result from the foolish belief that one is so smart and powerful that one can make an elephant fly.
Aeropachydermicide
Debunking the ridiculous theory of human dominion.
~
somewhere between our petrochemical insanity
and our reckless dance with fractured atoms
we believed we were the miracle
and it all went seriously awry
we fantasized we had dominion
that we understood the vast unknown
could control the raw chaotic
that we had figured out the why
so we delved into dark science
with no regard for frail nature
flailed our way across the planet
belched our leavings into our sky
we so bought into our egos
that we perceived ourselves as gods
that we were capable of anything
perhaps make the elephant to fly
but we humans lost sight of balance
did not comprehend our place
as only one of precious many
we let the tipping point slip by
now we wonder what will happen
to our misbegotten dream
stare through disbelieving tears
as we watch it slowly die
For society to have a real chance we need quality education!
Last Hope
~
I lift myself quietly
very quietly
from beneath the sheets
soiled with neglect
soaked with my nightmares
I am again awake
from another dark night
that began with fear
fear I might not survive
and ends in sorrow
realizing I did
I rise
make my way carefully
past the shallow-breathed crumple
that lay milky-eyed
in a heap on the floor
un-moving
save a twitch of the head
a head which now harbors demons
where nocturnal angels of sweet release
had lain down lush upon it
in fevered embrace
lustfully conjured
by last night’s spoon and lance
still skewered silver in the soured vein
this wreckage is my mother
I stop but for a glance
verifying life
then move on head down
angle to the bathroom
to the scum-brown bowl
to wash my face
lit sallow by the yellowed bulb
that hangs bare and lonely
strange eyes
hold me in the mirror
broken as my heart
eyes of knowing
eyes of sadness
grief courses through me
weighing upon my being
burning into my heart
I want to cry out
but there is no one here to hear me
no hero that can help me
driven by instinct to survive
by urgency to flee
I shudder away the paralyzing despair
in this dank food-less morning
in this ruined single room
in this coat-less chill of predawn
I gather up my books
step lightly through the door
down the damaged stairs
into the hostile streets
heavy with this childhood of strangled dreams
I duck and dodge
in and out of shadows
praying to once again avoid the evil
that lurks and slinks
among the garbage and graffiti
of these crumbled bricken’d canyons
that rolls slow and lethal
gripping cold blue steel
in predatory drive-by
evil
seductive as a smile
deadly as a snake
evil
which if diligence should fail
I fear will consume my soul
deliberately I continue
until at last I find my way
to the building
to the classroom
to my teacher
to my desk
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…
1ST REFLECTION
Endings
•
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
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
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
