•
no life without love
like a tree without blossoms
barren and fruitless
• • •
Barren
Tag: sorrow
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 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
Gravity
•
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
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
Questions
and for prompt #59 at Carry On Tuesday…
•
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
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
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
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…
•
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
• • •
…the painting above is entitled “HOMAGE for GILLES CARLE”, by: Estelle St-Pierre…
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
The Key
• I also offer this in response to prompt #116 at One Single Impression…
•
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
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
• • •
Stowaway
•
with great caution
in halting measured step
I creep from sanctuary dark
to leave this place of safety
to sidle in uncertainty
into the chafing
cutting light
head bowed
spirit crushed
tensed for flight
emerging
visible again
though barely
poised to recoil
from any sudden emotion
long now in hiding
stowed away in sorrow
fragile as a newborn bird
unsteady as a fawn
just as frightened
as unsure
my wounded soul
took refuge in aloneness
dug in
resolved to disappear
become invisible
perhaps to die
the weight of life too great
simple breaths
a considered labor
but still I drew them
hesitantly
long I lay
shallow breathing
unwashed
unfed
resigned to simply vanish
from this hopeless realm
despaired I would never find
a reason to go on
yet slowly I emerge
but please
no impulsive expectations
permit me slow and careful evolution
from my chrysalis of anguish
let me find my way
back into the light
from my place of hiding
offer only patience
and safe distance
• • •
rob kistner © 2010