You have a wonderful heart my angel. It is filled with love, joy, and care for others. It is a splendid heart, shared with me, and our family. It beats with love for us all.
I have a high milage heart. In fact, it has been broken, and I mean literally, not metaphorically — and more than once my dear. But despite congestive heart failure, and the numerous stents — it beats perfectly, electrified by my Pacemaker. I am now a bionic man!
I am not sure you want this bionic heart of mine? But know, if you do, it pulses just for you, now and forever — just change the battery.
Rebuilt as it is
my heart is yours my darling
battery powered
let us plug in together
be my bionic lover
This poem deals with my long time dream to create a book of my poetry, lyrics, and art; and to share some interesting life experiences. The dream has been hampered by my lifetime struggle with acute ADD and depression. In past few decades — diabetes, four heart attacks, congestive heart failure, declining hearing and sight. In past couple years with debilitating arthritis in both hands. But I stumble forward with the dream.
Veiled in promise
it beckons me
seductively
the elusive dream
upon my heart embossed
yet there is a storm
can rage within
to churn at times
my weary mind
focus turned and tossed
the way grows foggy
direction blurred
the path unclear
the purpose slurred
this journey can exhaust
to stay the course
I cast and chart
and reference often
in handmade note
but not every “t” gets crossed
I fire my dream
on electronic pages
share it with the world
progress at times freezes up
I pray it will defrost
so my life gets lived
in bits and pieces
scribbled on scraps
of random papers
so many soon so lost
in losing them
confusion rises
chaos threatens
hopes can scatter
my elusive dream the cost
failing health presses in
as does ravaging time
can I ever finally
get my dream to rhyme
before my clear thought wafts
~ in loving memory of my father, Robert T Kistner, Sr ~
Wilderness forests have always been part of my soul. I was first introduced to the wild natural world by my adoptive father in 1951, when I was four years old. We’d go deep into the Canadian forests of Ontario twice every year, 3 weeks each time — to explore and enjoy the remote lakes and streams… fishing, hiking, camping, totally off the grid. No phones, no TV, no electricity — it was glorious.
We’d have to portage through a chain of pristine lakes and narrows, to the small, private island that dad co-owned with a Canadian family. Hand-built, self-cut log cabin, with huge wood burning black iron stove for cooking the fish we caught, and small game dad hunted, and to heat the cabin. Small log and sawdust ice house out back. Double hand-built docks, one on each side of the stone island. It was a bit over an acre in size, covered in tufts of scrub grass, moss, wild lowbush blueberries, and originally with a good stand of white pine, mostly felled to build the cabin. Later a small lawn of Kentucky bluegrass was maintained in front of the cabin porch. Pure glacial drinking/cooking water came right out of the lake.
Chilled mornings, meant waking up to meet the sunrise, cabin falling into a Canadian morning chill, the sound of lake loons echoing across the water, through the morning mist. Then into my boots and fishing jacket, then flashlight in hand to the outhouse, the chill nipping at my ears and cheeks. Back to the cabin, the smell of bacon, eggs and potatoes, beginning to permeate the warming air inside. Intoxicating.
With the rising sun, just nearing the horizon, it was grab the Coleman kerosene lantern, put on two new mantles, then pump and light, so we could maneuver the early morning dark to the low hiss of the lantern. We then grab the rods, reels, nets, stringers, and tackle box, and into the boat. Crank up the Evinrude for a morning of mythical fishing — which we also repeated every evening, the old Coleman, reaching its glow cross the twinkling ebony water, helping us locate the dock, coming home under the crystal clear, billion-star Ontario night. We were often treated to the arora borealis (northern lights).
Afternoons were for cleaning fish, swimming in the cold northern water, hiking the forests that came right down the the bouldered shores, across from our island, sometimes going to the beaver lodges and gig the mud for little green frogs, with which to live fish for large mouth bass and northern pike — pike also loved the chub and shiner minnows we’d seine for. Some afternoons found us pole navigating the narrows through the lake chain to get to the small wilderness store at Lehman’s Landing, to pick up basic supplies, and block ice from their big sawdust-filled log ice house. Amazing memories.
When I started my music performance career, launching the first of my numerous bands at age 16, those incredible Canadian days ended for me. Broke my heart, but my life was moving on, about to enter a several-decades long chapter of writing lyrics and poetry, designing home theaters and contemporary furniture, and creating art that continues today. The years that followed that, found me ultimately crossing the country, to help innovate and elevate the home entertainment industry, ultimately becoming part of the George Lucas creative group at Lucasfilm LTD. But that is all another story — and it ain’t rated PG.
You may have seen me, silhouetted against the sky, this coldest January night — howling with the frozen moon. Moon and I conspire, the whole world close enough to touch. We eat a midnight banquet, seasoned with colors of my guilt.
Show mercy. Peel back the layers to my authentic soul. I hope I’m not ugly in your sight. That thought becomes too heavy to hold, to tough to chew or swallow. My thoughts, bone-white lies of morality plays, open for all to see.
The grey of my indifference , the black of my sins, hope they are not frightening. My purple of betrayal, my red of anger, my green of vengeance — hope they do not make you weep. They’re a carapace to which I’m stitched. Everything I do is stitched with its color, and will no more fade, than I can wash it away.
