~
rob kistner © 2020
each step
cushioned by centuries of needle-drop
deep in this ancient forest
enjoying the rise and fall
twist and turn of the trail
I’ve ringed a portion
of the cerulean mountain lake
my crooked walking stick
smooth in my right hand
rounding a bend in the trail
brushing through waist-high fern
dappled emerald in scattered sunlight
I crest a knoll
by the restless azure brook
and stop
mesmerized
as before
I have reached my wonderland
filtered by the towering woodland canopy
light drifts down dreamlike
settles golden
into the natural cathedral before me
were it a manmade cathedral
or a grande ballroom
truly gorgeous
might describe it
but this is so much more
breathtaking
falls short
even magnificent
feels wanting
a cool lake breeze
enfolds me
filled with the heady scent
of the living earth
cascade red cedar
douglas fir
ponderosa pine
moss
fern
bark
loam
wildflower
ionized mountain air
intoxicated
I grow very still
listening
breathing
I become this moment
rapt
in touch with my soul
with the eternal
I’m transcendent
this is — paradise
This is the natural gateway on Trail #656 opening on the old growth stand.
Both well over 200 feet tall, and hundreds of years old.
1/2 mile ahead you leave the path, wandering into the heart of the giants!
mighty sentinels
guardians of the old growth
may ever you stand
rob kistner © 2020
First 2 of my 3 words are imbedded, in order, in poem. 3rd word: swanky
~
Why is Seth Wheeler not famous and revered? Why do we not celebrate his outstanding contribution to the world? Why is his accomplishment not taught in schools, as part of the fabric of our nation?
We all know the name of Thomas Edison. Though, in current time, we’ve learned Nicola Tesla is the man who actually fathered the AC electric current, which now powers the world. But, the names of these two men glow brightly through history. And Henry Ford, Bill Gates, and Steve Jobs — we know these men because they made our lives easier, more comfortable.
Poor Seth, uncelebrated. People have fought in the streets over his invention! Yet, he’s essentially unknown. Undoubtedly, we look at him through the wrong end of the long telescope of time. Like he’s been wiped from history. Sad! After all, he invented rolled and perforated toilet paper!
rob kistner © 2020
~
morn’s a feeling
a wonderful healing
the sunlight revealing
all darkness was stealing
from our sight
from our heart
in this night
daybreak is magic
rob kistner © 2020
that open door
of a tender heart
has quietly closed
‘round the fragile part
what once so sweetly natural
no longer feels quite right
the drift and fall so unseen
as but the passing of night
until one morning no dawn breaks
no tenderness nor warmth awakes
a loneliness encircles slow
you seek the one that you’ve loved so
you search their face in the predawn glow
whose eyes these are
you no longer know
dual worlds
close enough to touch
through which truth
stumbles blind
beyond reach
walking as a wraith
moving in these worlds
captive to the bonedeep lie
implicit in the toxic grin
of inflexible conformity
lethal tradition
revered in mindless trance
change
shackled cold
to the stone of fear
change
bound
with a grip
rough as rope
at the shadowed edge
of dark and light
ignorance and knowledge
change
so far to go
so much to learn
rise from this night
beckon the dawn
someone needs
release the light
rob kistner © 2020
~
early shadows fall softly ‘cross my face
vesper’s velvet blanket
drapes gently ‘round my shoulders
eager — I keep a lover’s pace
where this fall eve — homeward
rob kistner © 2020
Lunar Spring
~
Mad March finds me on the moon. I’ve brought me some flutter-bees, in hopes my humor may actually survive. Winter rains held on long this year on earth, but skies are clear up here — though cold as hell. This weightlessness improves my attitude, lifting my mood. Makes me feel like a feather. My prodigal smile breaks through a bit, watching the damned butterflies escape and flit.
We brought some paneled sun and bottled rain, gonna try to ignite these seeds here in my spacesuit pocket. Maybe we can get’em pushing their sprouts through this boxed fertile earth soil. Brought it all the way from Oregon’s Willamette River Basin. Oh look, the butterflies are cavorting among the moon rocks. Gotta get a picture of that, though they really don’t look very well!
We brought some recordings of chirping birds, and sealed fragrances of new blooms. We are working our butts off, and this lame luna wind ain’t gonna waft the fragrances. Well, we got the synthesized smells, hues, and sounds of Spring, but it ain’t makin’ my heart sing, or my spirit dance! Spring on the moon’s no romance, it sucks! Oh look, the fucking butterflies are at it again.
rob kistner © 2020
deep azure crystalline lake
bull frog rises slow
ripples lap the bulbous ryes
crisp scent of water lilies
ripples on this mirrored lake
rise and drift gently
into the golden sunlight
big bull croaks softly — dreams rise
rob kistner © 2020
https://earthweal.com/2020/10/02/earthweal-open-link-weekend-39
~
stalks lie down in fields
arbors ache ‘neath harvest moon
fall is on the land
rob kistner © 2020
~
the keeping of it
the regaining of it
when lost
life is awesome
an experience of the profound
it is the mystery
we are not meant to solve
rather
to celebrate
with grace
and wonder
so wonder powerfully
and dream ferociously
carry those dreams
in open hands
so promise’s winds
catch them to soar
bestow those dreams
wings of faith
to carry you
to wisdom’s shore
share those dreams
with an open mind
resonate truth
inspire others to be more
offer those dreams
in peace to all
in love to all
love is the door
the gateway
to the great mystery
love is all you need
in the end
the love you take
is the love you make
so share love
make love
love with great freedom
with great abandon
with gratitude
with the power of the spheres
just as the butterfly
lights upon the petal
so too
hold love
tenderly
love is the truth
love maintains the balance
rob kistner © 2020
~
In this moonlit forest, autumn shimmers bright and crisp, through the boughs of old growth, like a wisp of star clusters. Softly it sweeps our high-mountain meadow in a dazzling down.
This night falls brisk, quiet as a whisper, when a great white owl echoes through the frosted cedars. Lover and beloved, entwined ‘neath midnight’s window, we sigh, enchanted by this lullaby floating on the freshening breeze.
In warm embrace we muse, until with dreams, we drift into a gentle slumber, aloft in wonder, unmoored of time and place. We breathe deeply this lover’s nocturne, wrapped in the splendor of the ebb and flow of magic.
rob kistner © 2020
what is racism
you think that you understand
listen to pookie
then don’t just say, “I got it”
listen again — listen hard
rob kistner © 2020
His mom calls him Pookie.
My head was turned, and my mind and my heart was opened by this man, Brandon Leake, a spoken word artist — winner of this season’s AGT. He made this white man look a little more deeply at what I think I understand, and I thank him for it! Truth and revelation can be found in unexpected places.
To elucidate. The power I found in Brandon was his ability to make me better “feel” a bit clearer, the impact that racism has on a black parent — his mother. That woke me to realize that I have never “thought” I was racist, and still don’t, when I intellectualize it. But I had no genuine inkling of how it really feels, and still don’t at its full depth and measure.
But I now understand, and feel, at least the initial threshold of that particular black parent experience, in that I know well, in my gut, the fear and worry I have regarding the safety and well bring of my children and my grandchild — and I don’t have to include worrying about their very life, simply because of the color of their skin. I have “known” that such a situation existed in the black reality, but I never had to include that in my portfolio of parental fears and feelings.
My 18-year-old son Aaron was killed, so as a parent/grandparent, I always hope their lives are safe. But Aaron was not killed for the absurd reason of the color of his skin. Now, because of Brandon’s remarkable ability as a poet and spoken word artist, he has made me feel a bit of that unfortunate black terror.
My mind and heart have been expanded a little further because of Brandon “Pookie” Leak, a truly remarkable young man, whose words and voice I hope continue to ring out with the power and possibility that he embodies. Please stay safe young man! Peace!
descended from the loins of circe
she is a goddess of the wand
mistress of both love and mercy
she’ll take you to xanadu and beyond
fantastic is this spell she’s casting
magic of a splendorous kind
a world of wonder everlasting
in treasure troves of dreams entwined
in fantasy’s elaboration
through stars of splendor you’ll ascend
a journey through pure imagination
your blissful voyage will never end
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
the horror of that night
holds the seal tight
the memory riveted
grief’s blackened key
securely barring entry
none can pass
his bitter resolve
makes certain
none will try
this is a stark forbidden place
stoney
crypt-like
cold and barren
as the moon
unyielding
lifeless
a wasteland of the lost
inhabited by the dead
the gate grown over
by a tangle of despair
and anger
but see
a shadow falls across the threshold
someone approaches
a comely being
warm and alive
lays gentle siege
threatening to breach
his hardened fortress
but this lovely creature
fair and fragile
can not possibly gain entrance
must not
he will resist
this is wrong
this is trespass
this is cruel betrayal
of his lost beloved
he has no right
to leave this place of sorrow
no right
but his stronghold is succumbing
falling
to this delicate advance
he is vulnerable
confused
but it is useless to resist
searching with a patient heart
she has found the key
grasped in her loving hand
it has become golden
fingers tenderly enfold it
gently
she slides it into the lock
turning with great care
he is defenseless
he feels his heart slowly open
the long forgotten stir of love
begins to warm his soul
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
the horror of that night
holds the seal tight
the memory riveted
securely barring entry
none can pass
his bitter resolve
makes certain
none will try
this is a stark forbidden place
stoney
crypt-like
cold and barren
as the moon
unyielding
lifeless
a wasteland of the lost
inhabited by the dead
the gate grown over
by a tangle of grief
and anger
any memory
of a once vital presence
of a living breath
of warmth
of joy
forever gone
long ago
brutal night had fallen
on the void within
no sun can penetrate
the blackness soothes him
he retreats into its depths
embraces its lightless void
hiding
sulking
shielded from any possibility
of further pain
or remorse
he is unfeeling
safely lifeless
in that long ago
he gave his heart’s key
to dark despair
who
shrouded in mourning
atop the winged bird of misery
took flight
never to return
never to return
never
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
