•
no life without love
like a tree without blossoms
barren and fruitless
• • •
Barren
Tag: nature
The Sudden Doe
______________________
This is a response, not so much to the letter of Carolee’s prompt, but to it’s essence. Instead of picking a fovorite poem, I have focused on my favorite poet, Gary Snyder. Given I am deeply moved by most of Gary’s work, choosing a “favorite” seems unrealistic.
Gary Snyder (born May 8, 1930) is an American poet (often associated with the Beat Generation and the San Francisco Renaissance), as well as an essayist, lecturer, and environmental activist — frequently described as the “poet laureate of Deep Ecology”. Snyder is a winner of a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. His work, in his various roles, reflects an immersion in both Buddhist spirituality and nature.
He grew up here, where I live, in Portland Oregon and attended Reed College here. He was friends with Allan Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and most of the beat writers, the majority of whom had urban backgrounds. Gary spent much of his youth, including his college years, hiking and working in the Northwest backcountry. This experience and his interest in things rural, made him appear exotic to his Beat Generation peers — who often referred to Snyder as ‘the Thoreau of the Beat Generation’.
Gary uses mainly common speech-patterns as the basis for his poetry, and does not typically use conventional meters nor intentional rhyme. His personal sensibility arose from his interest in Native Americans, their involvement with nature, their knowledge of it and balance with it. He argues that poets, and humans in general, need to adjust to very long timescales, especially when judging the consequences of their actions. His poetry examines the gap between nature and culture so as to point to ways in which the two can be more closely integrated.
A world traveler, with a fondness for the Far East; Gary has spent many years of his life exploring, and living in the wilderness of the western United States, especially the Pacific Northwest. He loves this region, as I do, and his work is strongly influenced by this love. I offer this poem I’ve written in the spirit of Gary Snyder. I pulled it together from a notebook I keep of my wilderness sojourns into this part of the U.S. as well as bits and pieces of drafts I’ve written, all influenced by Gary — not so much by how he writes, but who he is.
Gary Snyder
•
my footfalls
drum the root chambers
of the cascade mountain old growth
each step cushioned
by centuries of needle-drop
in this ancient forest
rounding a bend in the trail
brushing through waist-high fern
I crest a knoll
and stop
mesmerized
light drifts down dreamlike
filtered by the woodland canopy
settling soft around me
suddenly
I’m startled
a young doe bounds onto the path
standing proud
golden in the glow
she considers me briefly
then disappears
quick as a stolen glance
quiet as passing time
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
• photo by Giuseppe Moretti, for Beat Scene Online
The Quiet • The Strike
…I’ve written two pieces in response to Three Word Wednesday July 21st prompt • the first is entitled “The Quiet” • the second is entitled “The Strike”…
•
left like spent bait
in the disapproving sun
to rot from apathy
the carcasses of constituents
foolishly quiet
curl brittle and crack
victims of their trust
they did not jump
their chance for change
and so they wither
hollowed by ignorance
and purposeful neglect
while the dark beast
slouches off with eden
marrow dripping from a smile
• • •
The Strike
•
warm
familiar
comfortable in my palm
my fingers wrap natural cork
index raised
gauging line tension
precision brings the willow’d shaft
high above my shoulder
rod flexing expectantly
a flick of my wrist
and the line arcs forward
increasing the pressure
on my fingertip
as it rolls ahead
accelerating
then
a careful pluck
like a string
on a guitar
it is released
the golden lure
at line’s end
sails silent
into the squinting summer sun
with a subtle plick
the barbed hunter disappears
slipping ‘neath the sparkle
of the undulating steam
seductively
with quickening pulse
eagerly visualizing
I retrieve the bait
anticipating the strike
patience draws the lure
dancing ever nearer
I long for the sharp
powerful tug
for the slender thread
unreeled before me
to rise
and dart away
in a sliver of silver spray
for my heart to jump
as a proud trout
breaks water
victim to my seduction
in this moment
mind focused
breath steady
senses heightened
awaiting sudden contact
I reflect
there is a simple truth in fishing
in life
the thrill of possibility
can be as rich
as the reward
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Breakfast Lovers Fanatsy
•
whether panning for poached
fishing for fried
or sifting for softly scrambled
maybe bobbing for boiled
or sunny side up
angling for over easy
perhaps baiting a hook
for benedict
or dangling a lure for deviled
be they baked in cakes
or dropped in soup
it’s a whites & yolks wet dream
it’s a breakfast lovers fantasy
going to the eggs stream
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
No Longer Imagine
…but first a short verse I wrote inspired by prompt #8 at We Write Poems…
see feel hear touch breath live
life is a sensual garden
no longer imagine
•
•
the heat of the red rock desert
soothing my weary bones
nor the vivid red
I can no longer imagine
the power of the blue pacific
thumping the huge stack rocks
on the coast at sunset
I can no longer imagine
the sweet face of my first-born son
held in loving embrace
passed on now 15 years
I can no longer imagine
the soft spring rain
misting the morning light
bringing life to winter earth
I can no longer imagine
the stir of a summer breeze
shimmering across the surface
of a high mountain lake
I can no longer imagine
the filtered autumn sun
falling gentle golden
through a red wood canopy
for I have experienced
these wonders
known these treasures
they enrich me
I need no longer imagine
the fire in a woman’s eyes
the magic of a woman’s smile
the tenderness of a woman’s touch
the passion of a woman’s kiss
nor what it is to love you
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Extinction’s Shadow
and strongly influenced by prompt #7 at We Write Poems…
•
smothered by big oil
our blue planet is dying
greed’s shadow falls hard
•
future is mortgaged
to petrochemical lust
fatal addiction
•
mankind is drowning
in a flood of fossil fuel
black tide of folly
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
by: rob kistner © 2008
That Hollywood Sparkle
•
it’s not so much we resent the hungry
no more than do we despise the poor
rather we avoid and dismiss them
with the dull cough of apathy
we find them disturbing and dangerous
they disquiet our comfort
we do not flow with the milk of kindness
our part is more the dark brandy of denial
we do however praise our stars
for their sensitivity toward the downtrodden
it makes the less fortunate more glamorous
and we like the hollywood sparkle it imparts to tragedy
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
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…
•
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!
• • •
Anger – 3 Contemplations
• 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
•
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
•
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 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
In loving memory of my son, Aaron Robert Kistner: 11/4/76 – 7/3/95
Words of the Wizard
John Wooden 1910-2010
•
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
Lupus Luna
~
wolf moon hangs heavy
in the damp night sky
I feel its powerful tug
bulbous moist pearl
rolling in a cold chromium fog
forging my steely urges
hardening my unspeakable needs
wet slivers of cloud
smear themselves across its face
irregular
dappling my perverse metamorphosis
translucent sacks of moonbeams
glide the blue black sky
breathing
the hoarse breath of the beast
festers a howl
rumbling deep in my throat
in the heavens
glassine billowing pillows
oozing
soaked with midnight
stars float and spark
glinting
dripping
shivering
as I shudder
in dread of this witching hour
engorged with unearthly power
frozen splintered crystal tips
diamond chips
pinprick rips in blackened space
piercing
white hot
my ungodly eyes
seared with bloodlust
probing
hunting
stars wink and wane
and glisten
shattered bits of silvered light
snapping here then not
behind the ghostly white vapor
that slithers through the firmament
I slink the midnight mists
eternally cursed
driven by a horrible hunger
the world
devoid of color
aglow in sterling grey
a negative of day
thick and chilled
filled with the sound
of stalking
after-dark things
abominations of nocturne
in this sorrowing hour
to lay bare your soul
in periled introspection
in grief of secrets
~ ~ ~
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
Blue Temple
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 Templeâ€, including for your pleasure, the Vorfffy art piece of the same name.
•
birds in the blue sky
sampans on the blue waters
blue temple gateways
serenity is sacred
approach with your heart open
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
In A Heartbeat
•
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
•
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
• • •
a box within more boxes
so deeply buried
by the years of failed dreams
you must not lose your wonder
• • •
a box locked inside your heart
lost in the rubble
of years of broken promise
you can find it if you look
• • •