Time Window

This piece is offered in response to visual prompt Mag 24 at Magpie Tales.




Time Window

•

In the solitude
of my assisted exile
the window above me
frames a grey
and barren sky

but with eyes closed
I see home
of long ago
alive with morning

the scurry of creatures
warmed by summer

I hear nature
in splendid voice

the chuff
of tree’d red squirrel

the song
chirp
and trill of birds

chickadee
goldfinch
western bluebird
and others

fly
flutter
and flit

cracking black-oil sunflower seeds
that spill from feeders

a red-tailed hawk
calls
from atop a Sitka spruce
swaying
in the crisp blue sky

the muffled belling of a deer
wandering the safety of old-growth
whispers
through the foothills

the distant bark
of a neighbor’s dog
echoing the basin
up along our stream
reminds me
we have friends nearby

my wife’s
gentle laughter
validates the friendship

her tender smile
validates our love

the rustle of leaves
stirred by the breeze
wafts through the valley

smartly punctuated
by the staccato
of conifer cones
that fall
from time to time
wrested free by chickaree
and chipmunk
chattering high in Douglas fir
busy with their forage

wap wap wap

they bounce off our roof
striking the ground

closely followed
by the scamper
of their liberators
crunching their way
to the heart-meat of the cone
the delicacy
that elicits this furious industry

drifting in the window
intoxicating fragrances

cedar
pine
fir

lily
rose
lilac

grasses
loam
and more

a rich
earthy bouquet

caught in my reverie
I breathe in
deeply
to suddenly remember

I am alone
carefully banished
to this forgotten cloister

sobered
I exhale
and do not open my eyes

a solitary tear
escapes

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

The Sudden Doe

I wrote this in response to the July 19th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

______________________

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

The Sudden Doe

•

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”

The Quiet

•

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


Gravity

…in response to the 12th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island, I offer a perspective on regret…




Gravity

•

if I could
but glide
like a bird in flight

I would soar skyward
in sweeping circles
lifted on mighty thermals
I would not be earthbound
not a captive of gravity

if I could
but break the gravity
of time
I would not be a prisoner
of regret

I would return to you

this day would be soaring
and swooping
and giving thanks
for feathers and hollow bones

and forgiveness

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

You Are Here


It was 15 years ago today
you were taken from this earth

I could not sleep last night
the tears come at times today

tears because I miss you
tears because I love you
tears because the memories
bitter and sweet
bring forth these true emotions

you abide within my heart these days
in a place of warmth and peace
I am so thankful you are here
and will always be

______________________________

in loving memory of my son
Aaron Robert Kistner
November 4, 1976 – July 3, 1995

Always Options

…in response to the 10th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island, I offer a perspective on perspective…




Always Options

•

he came upon divergent ways
that stretched beyond the road he’d trod

he would go forth this was his mind
but had no notion which way that was

the pathway left was sparse with step
the roadway right was traveled plenty

leaning low to great extreme
he examined close the evidence

it came clear that those who journeyed left
were light of weight with timid step

while those who traveled onward right
wore finest boot of heavy heel

he thought on this for quite some time
until at last he knew for sure

he started neither left nor right
but instead went straight ahead

he hacked and carved and blazed a trail
into the new for those who’d follow

wise in life possessed of logic
he realized to where he’d come

the threshold of a new frontier
too raw for the sated too brute for the weak

those that would survive and prosper
would be among the enlightened bold

it would be those who’d choose this trail
full of promise made by his hand

with spirit full and muscled zest
he whacked and chopped and cleared the way

for those who’d come who were empowered
to seize possibility — a bright new world

• • •

(haiku)

•

trail forked this spring morne
white-tails chose the woods instead
always more options

• • •

rob kistner © 2010



• dedicated to the visionaries who see beyond •

Questions

…I wrote this in response to the June 28th prompt at Big Tent Poetry
and for prompt #59 at Carry On Tuesday


 

Questions

•

he lifts himself quietly
from beneath the sheets
soiled with neglect

makes his way carefully
past the shallow-breathed crumple
that lay milky-eyed in a heap
un-moving on the floor
save a twitch of the sodden head

this wreckage is his mother

why do you just lie there mother
my head is full of demons son

the response only imagined
she remains slack and death-like
where nocturne angels of sweet release
had laid down lush upon her
in fevered embrace
lustfully conjured
by last night’s spoon and lance
still skewered silver in the soured vein

mother — why do you want to die
the return is only silence

he lingers but a moment
verifying life
then moves on
head down

he angles to the bathroom
to the scum-brown bowl
to wash his face
a face lit sallow by the yellowed bulb
that hangs bare and lonely

eyes of knowing
eyes of sadness
stare into the mirror
broken as his heart
then close

your eyes hold a story my son
will you tell me your story

yes mother
if you really want to hear about it
if you really could

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


No Longer Imagine

…in response to the 9th prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I offer a perspective on love…
…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

•



No Longer Imagine

•

I can 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



• photo of Oregon coast at top entitled “Neverending” by: Marc Adamus, an incredible wilderness landscape photographer based in Corvallis, Oregon

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

Eve’s Eyes

• In response to prompt #5 of the newly opened We Write Poems, this is a surrealistic poem I created using a technique of creative omission called erasure. I am generally not a fan of fashioning a poem to or from a form or device — but this was interesting. The original poem I “mined” was entitled “Pointed Roofs”, by Dorothy Miller Richardson. You might find it interesting to compare Dorothy’s piece with my finished piece…



Eve’s Eyes

•

plentiful
the long faces

the girls
numerous
brought the sense of misery

the girls
nervous
were part of the remuneration

the very first
eve
playing a melody

swollen
her fingers weak
unexpectedly stiffened
her trembling hands
dreadful

she stood
angry

stupid people
had made her play

her discomfiture forgotten
she simply poked the piano

almost unrecognizable
she played with burning eyes

thumping
and thumping again
she played afresh
laughed into the air
back to the wall
behind the piano

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

________________________________

…the painting above is entitled “HOMAGE for GILLES CARLE”, by: Estelle St-Pierre

Lupus Luna

 

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

  • collage above entitled “Lupus Luna” by: rob kistner © 2010
  • Letters of Love

    …this is from my draft archives, in response to prompt #118 at One Single Impression

    Letters of Love

    •

    letter by letter
    word by word
    I reach out

    from fingertips flow feelings

    memories alive
    spirit full
    my heart pours forth
    warmed

    I share honest emotion
    barriers down
    longing for connection

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2001

    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