Maneater

• In response to prompt #6 of the newly opened We Write Poems, I find arrogant, manipulative divas to be difficult to tolerate, or to understand…



Maneater

•

auburn mane with sable streaks
frosted ermine — lush with pride
a bounce and whip, and tiply snap
with each stiletto’d wanton stride

taught hips roll on slender stems
that part in ripples then enmesh
a brushing sigh of stirring heat
toned thighs gliding flesh on flesh

a stare of comely crystal blue
floats above a ruby pout
that takes you in devouring
has its way, then casts you out

tongue tip teases top lip’s edge
like supple paintbrush flowing
a smile to burn and hypnotize
that wraps around you knowing

luscious wench — worldly wise
sleek as steel — tall and strong
swift and cunning, motor running
she might acquiesce, but not for long

poor fool who tastes this lusciousness
is hopelessly addicted
there’s only one word for this life-force
that word, my friend, is — wicked!

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Anger – 3 Contemplations

…I offer this 3-part contemplation on anger in response to the June 7th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

• the first poem is a free verse conceptual perspective on the essence of anger
• the second is a poem I would like to share, which touches the primal anger I felt at the time of the tragic death of my 18-year-old son, Aaron — written shortly after the horrible event
• the third is the pantoum which was directly suggested by this prompt — it is based on a poem I wrote while in the early stages of my grief, also regarding the raw, unfiltered anger I felt, and still feel occasionally, surrounding Aaron’s death



Anger

•

love
bruised

crying out
to be understood

so loudly
that it cannot hear

frustrated
that its capacity to feel

is far greater
than its ability to express

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

______________________

Primal

•

i remember well the day he died
the searing pain
that fueled my rage
setting fire to the skies

primal power

giving life to sorrowed hatred
sustaining me no food or sleep
while i cursed the cruel heavens
in ringing spite that toppled mountains

and leveled to despair
every mocking face of care
reaching out to touch me
saying how they understood

they sure as hell — did not

or they’d have never gotten near me
they’d have given me vast berth
for all i wanted was to strike them
make them scream
make them hurt

i would have given him my life
with little thought have taken yours
for if my son could no longer live
nor would anyone on this earth

• • •

rob kistner © 1995

______________________

This Cannot Be

•

this cannot be the way his story ends
his youth snuffed out by someone’s mindless deed
this cannot be the horror fate intends
if life you want mine now I do concede

his youth snuffed out by someone’s mindless deed
if debt is owed please I will make amends
if life you want mine now I do concede
hell’s threshold now to where I stand extends

if debt is owed please I will make amends
anger grips me like a poison seed
hell’s threshold now to where I stand extends
my soul ablaze my heart begins to bleed

anger grips me like a poison seed
god your cold and heartless name offends
my soul ablaze my heart begins to bleed
a blackness here within me now distends

god your cold and heartless name offends
hatred of you deep inside does breed
a blackness here within me now distends
upon my very essence it does feed

hatred of you deep inside does breed
cruel god is this the horror you intend
upon my very essence it does feed
this cannot be the way his story ends

please tell me this is not the way his story ends

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• collage above entitled “Stages of Grief” by: rob kistner © 2010


______________________


In loving memory of my son, Aaron Robert Kistner: 11/4/76 – 7/3/95

Words of the Wizard

…I wrote this in response to prompt #6 at Writer’s Island, the prompt is “Unforgettable”



“The Wizard of Westwood”
John Wooden 1910-2010

Words of the Wizard

•

John Wooden has,
on this 4th day of June,
in the year 2010
left this mortal realm
after 99 years
of untiring service
impeccable wisdom
and great love

a man of balance
and spiritual depth
such as John
comes so seldom
it must be seriously considered
that this world
has lost
one of its special angels

and that the warmth
and the stability
of humankind
may in fact
suffer consequence

I shed not a tear
for John
he needs no pity
it is for the rest of us
that I heartily cry

the following
are the immortal words
of a great and profoundly humble man

gather close
and hear

•

a mentor is someone
who can give correction
without causing resentment

ability is a poor man’s wealth

adversity is the state
in which man
most easily becomes
acquainted with himself
being especially free of admirers then

be more concerned
with your character
than your reputation
because your character
is what you really are
while your reputation
is merely what others
think you are

be prepared
and be honest

it is amazing
how much can be accomplished
if no one cares
who gets the credit

although there is no progress
without change
not all change is progress

consider the rights of others
before your own feelings
and the feelings of others
before your own rights

do not let what you cannot do
interfere with what you can do

don’t measure yourself
by what you have accomplished
but by what you should have accomplished
with your ability

failure is not fatal
but failure to change
might be

ability may get you to the top
but it takes character
to keep you there

listen
if you want to be heard

never make excuses
your friends don’t need them
and your foes won’t believe them

failing to plan
is planning to fail

if you don’t have time
to do it right
when will you have time
to do it over

there is nothing stronger
than gentleness

the true test
of a man’s character
is what he does
when no one is watching

if you’re not making mistakes
then you’re not doing anything
I’m positive that a doer
makes mistakes

it isn’t what you do
but how you do it

it’s not so important
who starts the game
but who finishes it

don’t let yesterday
take up too much of today
make every day
your masterpiece

it’s the little details
that are vital
little things
make big things happen

it’s what you learn
after you know it all
that counts

players with fight
never lose a game
they just run out of time

material possessions
winning scores
and great reputations
are meaningless
in the eyes of the lord
because he knows
what we really are
and that is all that matters

never mistake activity
for achievement

success comes from knowing
that you did your best
to become the best
that you are capable
of becoming

success is never final
failure is never fatal
It’s courage that counts

success
is peace of mind
which is a direct result
of self-satisfaction
in knowing
you did your best
to become the best
you are capable
of becoming

talent is god given
be humble
fame is man-given
be grateful
conceit is self-given
be careful

the main ingredient
of stardom
is the rest of the team

the worst thing
about new books
is that they keep us
from reading the old ones

there are many things
that are essential
to arriving
at true peace of mind
and one of the most important
is faith
which cannot be acquired
without prayer

things turn out best
for the people
who make the best
of the way things turn out

what you are
as a person
is far more important
that what you are
as a basketball player

young people need models
not critics

you can’t let praise
or criticism
get to you
It’s a weakness
to get caught up
in either one

you can’t live
a perfect day
without doing something
for someone
who will never
be able
to repay you

• • •

words by: John Wooden 1910 – 2010
opening by: rob kistner © 2010

• To learn more about John, please click here

HeartFire

…I wrote this in response to the May 24th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

 

HeartFire

•

the velvet nape
of your slender neck
swept with wisps
of your silken hair

the tender swells
of your pouted lips
blossomed full
and glistening

your quiet sighs
of throaty passion
breathy hushed
in twilight deep

autumn sunrise
crisp and fresh
blushed coral
on your waking smile

sterling moonlight
that fondles you
in naked slumber
‘neath midnight’s window

sunlight’s gold
that falls dreamlike
filtered soft
in old growth forest

unspoiled nature
to far horizons
from where I watch
on mountain’s crest

a 6 series beamer
cool and cruisin’
down 101
on a perfect day

splendid jazz
inspired verse
christmas eve
a soul-felt tear

my child’s joy
a quiet snow
an evening breeze
spiced with cedar

pristine beaches
pacific sunsets
a waterfall
laughing with you

what fires my heart
what stirs my soul
what turns me on
these are a few

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


_________________________________

…from my archives, here is a bit more of what turns me on…


Trouble Comes to Dry Gulch

• In response to the 4th prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I introduce you to my imaginary childhood friend. In the heart of a terrified young boy, he was more than real…




Trouble Comes to Dry Gulch

•

you were my truest friend
my steady rock of safety
my captain of escape
you were always there

the amazing man of magic
the hero of the weak
defender of the helpless
my always gentle friend

when the footsteps in the hall
woke me in the night
I would feel you tug my hand
and under we would go

through the secret passage
you kept beneath my bed
to the waiting viking ships
and off to fight the dragons

in the land of snow and castles
carved from clear blue ice
in our robes of fur
we struck with swords of gold

you were very brave
in the face of fear
I knew you would appear
never laughing at my tears

when the grating metal rasp
of door latch in the dark
would bolt me from my sleep
you would have the horses ready

we would thunder off to dry gulch
to wrangle up our posse
save the townfolk from the bad guys
and return when all was calm

you were very swift
in a snap you would arrive
in time to get me out alive
helping me survive

below the ocean we would dive
in your crystal submarine
down to the coral world
marveling at the creatures

we would leave the sub
to swim among the wonders
to dart and spin and float
far from pain and worry

you were very smart
my midnight flight arranger
to rocket us from danger
far from the evil stranger

we would soar to venus
in your silver ship
or to some distant star
and do battle with space monsters

and when they all were slain
we would fly the milky way
circle all the planets
thankful to be weightless

no matter how afraid
I knew that you would find me
knew you’d never judge me
I knew how much you loved me

knew you’d have me back by day break
with the dark night far behind us
and the warmth of welcomed sun
would once again embrace us

the midnight footsteps now are quiet
the ships and rockets sailed away
no more trouble comes to dry gulch
the crystal sub now long in dry dock

I’m not sure I ever thanked you
perhaps took your love for granted
without you I’d never have made it
I never will forget you

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Integrity

…I wrote this in response to the May 17th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

 

Integrity

•

I have fondled
the fabric of fame

and now you look
for a pattern in my life
a tincture in my clarity
a glitch in my resolve

you seek the proof
that I will forsake decency
doff this cloak of dignity
don the garb of lechery

but your search is futile
no such precedent will you find

my integrity will not crumple
I will not capitulate
not for weighty purse
nor promised power

there is nothing material
can turn my heart from love

• • •

…the following is my insane wordle poem…

Purse Department Sign

•

never fondle
crumple
or capitulate

strange sign
to be found
in the purse department

proof
there is a glitch
in the pattern of logic
that no tincture
of common sense
can cure

any comparison
to sapient demeanor
is futile

so I doff my robes of reason
and don the garb of lunacy

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Book of Ardor

• In response to the 2nd prompt on the newly opened We Write Poems, this piece was inspired by my listening to the 1974 vinyl record album entitled “Mysterious Traveler”, by Weather Report.


Weather Report was one of the earliest and most influential Jazz-Rock groups. Keyboardist Joe Zawinul and saxophone player Wayne Shorter formed the group in 1971. Both originally members of the Miles Davis’ group, they were joined by the legendary bassist, ,Jaco Pastorius, making Weather Report a milestone group of modern music…

_____________________________
…here is my poem inspired by their music…

Book of Ardor

•

eyes dark and deep as nile nocturne
scorching as nubian sundance
this blackthorn rose
is the secreted passion

the sultry jungle goddess
inscribed in the book of ardor

fired in molten scarlet
woman forged of earthen bronze

ablaze in the sensual dreams
of writhing midnight

she is smoke and flame
the mysterious traveler

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

________________________________

• The beautiful woman in the photo above is Jourdan Dunn

The Key

• In response to the 3rd prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I offer a gothic tale…
• I also offer this in response to prompt #116 at One Single Impression




The Key

•

I must move quickly from this light
that pools incrementally
in this long
pungent
segmented hallway

there is some safety in the shadows
that linger tight
to the arch walls

so I bolt
through the full moon’s glow
that seeps silvered through the windows

I press myself
against the damp irregular surfaces
that are the stacked-stone
boundary breaks
of this eerie chiseled passage

I pause at each
until I reach the last

I halt

sliding two fingers
of my right hand
into the small pocket of my waistcoat
to confirm that it is still there
I feel the cool brass
of the oddly carved key

relief seasons my trepidation

nothing in my being
wants this dire mission
to which I am shackled

but it is only my hand
on the inscripted dagger
gripped tightly in my left
that can bring an end
to my uncle’s unholy
reign of horror

I am the last surviving member
of our cursed bloodline
so the brutal deed
falls to me

creeping stealthily forward
like a shade on the dank wall
I move cautiously closer
to the iron-laden
dense wood door
of his sleeping chamber

my heart pounding
my diaphram starved for breath
I feel I may pass out

but still I pursue
the evil incarnate
that lies
locked away
in undead repose

suddenly
a noise
immediately behind me

it echoes through these catacombs
pierces my taut raw nerves
and instantly paralyzes me

trembling
I turn

no one there

hushed
I listen intently

no other sounds
save the blood
pulsing as a roar
in my ears

I begin to move
but again
I hear it

panicked
I jerk my head around
and see

in this frozen moment
my stressed mind deduces
the source of the noise

moisture
collecting on the stone ceiling
gathers overhead
into sagging condensation

it released
as a weighty droplet
splattering on the floor
just behind me
with a sharp startling slap

I relax a bit
enough to again draw
tensioned breath

several more labored
careful steps
and I place my hand
gently on the wrought handle
of the immense door

transferring the lethal dagger
to my quivering right hand
I reach
steadily as possible
into my pocket
and withdraw the strange key

it is unnaturally heavy
and seems to emanate
an unearthly energy

I clutch it firmly
fearing if I lose my grip
I will lose my nerve

I guide the key
into the slot
of the ornate handle plate
seating it fully

slowly I begin to turn it

I feel the resistance
as the key’s teeth
engage with the bolt
and begin to grudgingly
draw it from its secure well

just before I have fully retracted it
I pause
my mind racing
blood pressure soaring
overcome by the magnitude
of what I am about to do

no turning back now
this must be done
and I must do it
but I am terrified

still I hesitate
attempting to gain
my much needed composure

I slow my heartbeat
steady my breathing
steel my resolve
and turn the key
its final quarter inch

the lock clicks
the handle releases
and the door unseats inwardly

this is it
fate has dealt the deck
I am prisoner
in this horrible game

I swing the door open
ever so gradually
and step in
toward my destiny…

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Oh Brother!

Presented in response to the May 10th prompt from Big Tent Poetry, which suggested “be playful! Let the sound of the words carry the weight (of the poem)” — so here is my playful poem of sounds…

____________________________________

 

Oh Brother!

•

ACHOO!
exploded in the quiet room
followed by a couple loud sniffs

cover your mouth
I blurted in a whisper
before I bonk you on the noggin

he crackled with disdain
clicked the snap on his backpack open
and with a clunk and a clatter
surprisingly retrieved a tissue pack
from the cluttered contents
looking at me like I was cuckoo

he flicked one out
as a second fluttered to the floor

I growled my disapproval

he just giggled
honked his hooter
and hissed defiantly
jangling the keys
he had also pulled out

I knocked them from his hand
back into his backpack
and mumbled at him to hush up
and settle down

he murmured something unintelligible
rattling his pack shut
and plopping it back on the floor

I shushed him again
and started to slowly sizzle

suddenly I hear slurping
as he is sucking a soda
through a straw
splashing the liquid
over the ice
as he swirls and shakes his paper cup

I snap
and shout
shut up
thumping my fists on my knees

suddenly
everyone is eyeing me

I hear the lady next to me
going tsk tsk
like I’m the problem

it was all I could do
not to whip around in my seat
and whack her

yikes I thought
enough is enough

so I hopped to my feet
zipped my coat
grabbed him by the hand
and zoomed us out of there
into the car
slamming the driver’s door
and vrooooom

sped us home

never again I snorted
never again will I take you
little brother
to the movies

he just whipped on his iPod
began humming to his tunes
and ZAP…

flipped me off

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

____________________________________

photo from: Getty Images

Blue Temple

…response to prompt #14 from Magpie Tales



The image of this plate above, this week’s prompt at Magpie Tales, immediately put me in mind of serenity. Also, while the plate may be Chinese in origin, it also made me think of the ancient Japanese poetic form called tanka.

Tanka are 31-syllable poems that have been the most popular form of poetry in Japan for at least 1300 years. As a form of poetry, tanka is older than haiku, and tanka poems are evocative.

During Japan’s Heian period (794-1185 A.D.) it was considered essential for a woman or man of culture to be able to both compose beautiful poetry and to choose the most aesthetically pleasing and appropriate paper, ink, and symbolic attachment—such as a branch, a flower—to go with it.

Tanka have changed and evolved over the centuries beyond the traditional expressions of passion and heartache, and styles have changed to include modern language — but the form of five syllabic units containing a total of 31 syllables has remained the same.

Each line of a tanka consists of one image or idea. One does not seek to “wrap” lines in tanka, though in the best tanka, the five lines flow seamlessly into one thought or feeling.

This particular visual prompt also sparked my recall of a simple, but wonderful piece of art I discovered a few years back, entitled “Blue Temple” by Vorffy.

So here I present my tanka entitled “Blue Temple”, including for your pleasure, the Vorfffy art piece of the same name.

_____________________________




Blue Temple

•

birds in the blue sky

sampans on the blue waters

blue temple gateways

serenity is sacred

approach with your heart open

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Why I Write

In response to prompt #87 at Poetic Asides




Why I Write

•

I write as proof that I exist
so as not to lose my mind

to prevent my sorrow
from choking the life
from my soul

to know what I really think
to ride the currents of my joy
and laughter

to track my growth
share what I have experienced
shed light on my ignorance
to leave my trace

expose my vulnerability
in hopes others won’t rebuke
banish
or hurt me
but rather see me worthy of mercy
of love
to see me not so unlike themselves
and have pity

because there is an urge
to break the mental silence
to make a din
create a literate clatter
to be certain I am not ignored
forgotten
or misunderstood

because I am sad
I am crazy
I am odd
I am insecure
I am lonely
frightened
cursed
clever

because I am thrilled
full of life
nearing death
desperate to know
confident in my knowledge

because I am entangled
and strangled
by the why of it all

because I can
and so that I might

for all of this
I write

and to survive
I have no choice

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


In A Heartbeat

In response to prompt #52 at Carry On Tuesday, and prompt #115 at One Single Impression




In A Heartbeat

•

the trip to visit you
is filled with memories
sweet anticipation
knowing the warmth of your hello
the strength of your handshake
your fond embrace

the stretch down I-5
we’re laughing and singing
miles zipping by
till we spy your exit

then west toward the coast
a quiet buzz of excitement
fills the car

at last we catch sight of your vineyards
as we crest big rock ridge

then the left turn
down your valley road
so beautiful
so familiar

hands on the wheel
I anticipate every bend and rise
every dip
exhilarating
as I navigate the gorgeous vistas

the sound of our tires
as they trundle ‘cross
the narrow wooden bridge
that fords your stream
boulder’d and crystal clear
as it tumbles and falls
brisk from mountain snow-pack

coming round
we see the corridor
of faithful old-growth firs
stepping back for us
inviting our return

the regal mountains reign
high above
granting us safe passage

boughs bend
branches sway
celebrating that we are back
when your gate comes into view
swung open in welcome

it’s left up your gravel drive
the pebble and crushed rock
crunch and clatter in stony rustle
as we traverse your hill
to see you and Michelle
cuddled on your porch swing
your family pouring down the steps
into the yard
beaming bright eyed
arms open for embrace

six hours and 300 miles
separate us
but the journey always goes by
in a heartbeat

the road to a friend’s house is never long

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Boxes – Contemplation in 3 Parts

In response to the Ist prompt on the newly opened We Write Poems, I contemplate boxes




Boxes

Contemplation #1

•

my memories gather and squabble
like crows in fallow fields
they pick clean
the bones of my recall

bones against the cruel clay
of an arid barren mind

bones spilled from soul boxes
in which I’d desperately collected
the scarred and damaged pieces
of my broken dreams

dreams now parched and withered
dried brittle in the coarse winds
of my dire confusion

their promises scratched and raspy
slowly slipping unintelligible
into the chaos and cacophony
of the crows in fallow fields

• • •



Contemplation #2

•

tanka

wonder’s trapped within
a box within more boxes
so deeply buried
by the years of failed dreams
you must not lose your wonder

• • •



Contemplation #3

•

tanka

love is sealed within
a box locked inside your heart
lost in the rubble
of years of broken promise
you can find it if you look

• • •



rob kistner © 2010

Mind’s Eye

…response to prompt #13 from Magpie Tales




Mind’s Eye

•

I sit
with my mind’s eye
I watch the flow of people

the shuffle of feet
with their different sounds
according to their shoes

I see wan faces of unsmiling lips
their void curves denounce this night

yet unseen
is the gossamer curtain’s fall
that defines their soul’s duality

the divergent reality
through which truth stumbles blind
to move in the world rough as a rope
taut as every promise made
frayed as wisdom
leaned in whispered from behind

grab at time like dropped money

I might learn something tonight
if someone will release the light
so I can shine like a child
who likes ice cream most of all

this child reads old mens’ minds
and notices the shoes
the belts all made of leather

I feel a shiver of sad imbalance
a confliction in my soul

so I will watch the shoes
and practice non-attachment
because I can

but pieces of me
stick to whoever gets too close

you may have seen me
silhouetted against the sky
the coldest night in January
howling with the frozen moon

then moon and I
sneak through fate’s construct
among cages of studs & trusses we run

from room to imaginary room
the whole world close enough to touch

we eat a midnight lunch of damaged bread
seasoned by caution and foreign lands
with onion’d thoughts layered deep

show mercy
peel back the layers
peel me away thin by thin
skin by skin
to my quivering soul

I hope I am not ugly in your sight

these thoughts become too heavy to hold
to tough to chew or swallow
my thoughts
bone-white lies of morality plays
open for you to peek

hope they are not ugly in your sight
hope they do not make you weep
as you peel back all the layers

onion’d thought layers
held fast and firm
like a carapace
to which I’m stitched and welded
and can no more leave than you can truly enter

they tie me down sometimes
but sometimes barely so

inescapable optimism in my bare-bones grin
flashes in the brittle moonlight

a stranger comes to where I sit
to see
his stare blinds the stars from my eyes

behind his fey smile
his radar dreams scan the forgotten creases
the clandestine getaways in my mind

standing over
he peers down with probing gaze

one of us
will learn a thing or two this night

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

____________________________________________
…an edited re-write of an earlier draft…

Message in a Bottle

In the spirit of the 1st prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I retrieved this message from my imaginary bottle, unrolled, then read it — this is what it said:

___________________________

Seamen brave and strong as we

There’s a truth that we all learn

When brave and strong men go to sea

Tis not certain they’ll return
___________________________

October 23rd, 1997

This may be the last few hours of my life. I feel compelled to take this paper and pen and chronicle my end – to feel I did not die in vain… in faith that someone may find this.

I penned the brief sea chant you see at the top, because it continues to turn over and over in my head.

I have no radio or communications devices. They were all destroyed. I have no way of getting a message out — save this crude method.

How I hope that someone will find this. The address of my family and their phone number is on the back. Please, whoever may discover this – see that it gets to my family. Thank you so very much!

I’m the only one left. Carey was killed in the crash, and Gill succumbed to his mortal wounds last night. I rolled his body into the ocean to satisfy the sharks, and keep them at bay for a bit longer.

They’ve circled through the night — it’s the third night they returned. They get bolder each time – the largest has lost all fear. He’s bumped me several times in the last couple of hours. He’s taunting, he knows I’m nearing my end.

When the attack comes, and come it will very soon — it will be vicious and final. I’m certain I will not survive it, but I’m reasonably confident it will be over quickly. At least three of the most aggressive circling are great whites – large enough to finish a man in a few quick rips.

I’m so very weary; I almost wish it would just happen. The uncertainty of waiting is getting to be too much… I’m exhausted… I’m ready.

This was to be our last run up from Cuba. So many uneventful trips… I think we grew careless. We’d broken out a couple bottles of the contraband Varadero and lit up a couple of the Cohibas to celebrate this last trip. I never ceased to be amazed how much money we were making smuggling in illegal Cuban Rum and Cigars… just unbelievable.

We were literally flying over the wave tops in our custom 32′ Donzi race-hull speeder. We weren’t full open, but we were doing 70 knots on the calm seas — the 1,000 horses purrin’ like a kitten.

We were too caught up in the booze and stogies to notice the sleeper cross-wave until it caught us sideways at mid-hull and snapped this cigarette boat like a twig – it just exploded out from under us.

One minute I am in a speeding boat with my two best friends skimmin’ the waves – the next minute we’re in the water, with just a piece of the aft hull in tact. The rest was splintered flotsam and jetsam. Our cargo, what wasn’t destroyed, or on the bottom of the deep blue — floated and bobbed in their wooden cases like square corks.

Carey was dead, Gill critically wounded, and I – just dazed. I dragged Gill and I up onto the small fragment of the Donzi that was still afloat, where Gill eventually died. Carey had floated away. The sharks found him in less than an hour. They finished him in a turbulent frenzy.

Before the end comes I want to say my farewells to my family. Ironically, I’m going to seal this message in one of the Varadero Rum bottles. It was smuggling this shit that got Carey and Gill killed – and soon I as well.

Kathy, my sweet wife, you’ve been the love of my life – patient, understanding… you make me so happy, though I don’t show it all the time. I get caught up in the fog of life’s distractions — buried in my pride and insecurity.

But alone out here, under the warm Atlantic sun, a calm has settled over me. I’m filled with peace, and a joy that is my love for you! I see with great clarity how much you mean to me as my wife. My emotions are overwhelming me. I see how remarkable our relationship is.

So, my love, when I’m gone, please see these words as a place you can visit and be nurtured. A private, wonderful place you can go, to know these treasures that have always been in my heart. I will be there – close your eyes and you will feel me there, and my love.

And my darling daughter Jennifer — after all these years, you have never lost your magic. Like a brilliant sorceress, with one word, you can cast your spell, and put me in a wonderful dream. Your magic word is, “Daddy!” You say this as you smile deeply into my eyes — “Daddy!” I melt.

I will always be your daddy and you will forever be my little girl, my firstborn, my beautiful daughter! Thinking of you here, now, tears fill my eyes.

You make certain you don’t settle in life for anyone who doesn’t love, respect, and appreciate you as much as I do, as your family does.

You make sure you introduce any guy you may fall for to mom, and to your brother. If they don’t approve, you listen closely to their reasons why. Do not compromise your integrity — ever!

Your father loves you Jen… I love you dearly.

And Justin, my son — my baby… ours is a tough relationship, tough love, no room for timid. It is so easy for me to see your faults, and poke at them — for there in you go I. We are so very much alike it scares me.

Your imperfections glare at me because I possess them all, every one of them within me — and more. Photos of me from my past, uncanny, they might as well be you.

But it’s where we are not alike that your miracle begins.

You are smarter than I ever was. You care for people, honestly. You face life with strength and courage. I just marvel at you – I really do! You have accomplished so much already in your life – and you’ve just begun.

We argue at times, but my love for you is deep son… my pride is lasting. It’s impossible with these words, to tell you what you mean to me. But every word for love and pride – I feel in my heart for you!

I know you will miss me, and probably feel lost and angry at first – but you will recover quickly, I know you will. I know how intelligent and strong willed you are.

Please take care of your mother, and Jenny. They will need your strength, just as you will need their nurturing.

I love you Jus, and I know you love me — I always have known. We are father and son. inseparable forever — remember that!

And Aaron, I find myself thinking so much about you. I’m looking at your picture in my wallet. It’s my favorite picture of you, son — the one I cherish most since your passing.

It is the simple snapshot, taken at the airport, upon your return from having run the New York City Marathon.

You have a gentle, triumphant smile. Your eyes are beaming behind the “cool” shades you have on. Your jacket sleeves rolled in casual hip-ness, bag thrown carefree over your shoulder, and your medal hangs proudly around your strong neck.

You are 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 was run, your bag was packed, and your reward was in your hand. You now fly my sweet angel – fly!

Dad will be there soon. I can’t wait to throw my arms around you. I have missed you so very much, my gentle giant – but I’m coming.

Kathy, Jenny, Justin – I don’t want you to cry for this old man too long. I am not afraid out here right now. I feel Aaron with me, so very close – and soon he and I will see each other again.

We will both wait for each of you guys to finish your business down here on earth – then we will all be together. But take your time and enjoy all there is in life.

Don’t be too upset with wayward old me. I might have been a smuggler, but I never hurt anyone – and I loved you all from the bottom of my heart.

I only have two pieces of paper, so this message must come quickly to an end. I really am not frightened. With my last breaths and energy I will be hugging you all, squeezing you tightly – and kissing you all good-bye.

I love you; please know that – I love you all so much!

Kathy, go see Warren. He has a key for you. Then go see Grace, she has an address for you. Finally see Barry, he has a box number for you. They don’t know about each other.

Use these things together and you will be comfortable for the rest of your life.

When you trim the Christmas tree each year, think of me as you hang the Father Christmas ornament. You know it is my favorite.

Good-bye… until we are all together again!

poem & flash fiction by: rob kistner © 2010