Image & Verse – To dream the world alive

That Elusive Moment

Didn’t realize it was my time — I’d missed the EXIT sign…

Original DDE™ art: “I Wonder…” — by: rob kistner © 3/6/26.

—-<§>—-

somewhere
in the journals of life
a number was written—

was written beside my name—
a quiet prediction
made by statisticians
and the calendars of time—
my shelf life

seventy seven years…
seventy eight—
seventy nine perhaps

a tidy place for me
to fold my map
leave—
and they close my door

but…
my door never closed—
well — never stayed closed…

instead
it remained open—
I stepped through
walking on
beneath fluorescent skies—
my breath still moving
in and out—
so I move on—
beyond

…day after day
…week after week
…month after month
…now a couple years passed by

I missed the announcement
to please exit quietly—
so I remain
making my way…
beyond

like an old dog
that refuses to leave the porch

now
like an old dog
my bones complain
like old wood in winter

my stomach grumbles—
flatulence has become
an annoying friend

fatigue drapes itself
over my afternoons

the earth’s begun to wobble a bit
so I watch my steps—
which are fewer now

the sun still rises
with stubborn ceremony

clouds drift the same
as they did when I was twenty—
wind still moves
through the branches
high in the trees…
as if practicing nature’s musical—
birthday candles still sell—

I just sit here
wondering—
not why pain exists…
not why time carries on…
not about its heavy gravity…
not about angels on pinheads…
but why
my small flame of breath
still leans toward tomorrow

no answer arrives

only morning after morning
opening its quiet hand—
placing another hour in mine
as if it had always meant to

I feel my road should have ended—

I now travel borrowed miles

I suspect
there was once a ledger somewhere—
a neat column of years
of miles
allotted to me—
my expiration date

a careful estimate
drawn up by invisible clerks
of probability

the column must’ve ended—
but the road
has not

It keeps stretching forward—
through ordinary days…
through their fluctuating length…
through season upon season…
through rain tapping upon the roof…
through the soft blue television light
of midnight rooms

my body still carries
a caravan of complaints—
bones creak
energy wanders off
like a tired guest

still
the heart—
that stubborn drummer—
continues its slow
sometimes irregular rhythm
inside its quiet cavern of ribs

I walk unsteadily
very carefully now
through each morning

the air tastes the same
as it did in younger seasons—
cold…
bright…
intoxicating

birds continue crossing the sky
without consulting any statistics

light spills through windows
flooding across the floor
day after day—
increasing and decreasing
with extravagant generosity—
time continues
upon its relentless way—

but I realize
these extra miles I enjoy
are not owed to me—
they are only
borrowed distance—
in borrowed time

unexpected road
beyond the place
where my map was meant to end—
where my journal was meant to close

so I move on—
…gently
…gratefully
…and most curious—

like every human
who has ever
walked this beautiful earth—
wondering

—just how far
my road ahead
is willing to stretch—
how far the horizon
is willing
to keep stepping back—

how much time
have I truly been allotted—
…when does my journal finally close?

I wonder…

<~>

rob kistner © 03/7/26

Poetry at: dVerse

Endless Highway Blues

Original DDE™ art: “Endless Highway Blues” — by: rob kistner © 3/6/26.

—-<§>—-

cold van coughed awake outside another dim hall
for years now we been climbin’ this rock’n’roll hill

I tune my damned strings standin’ on the echoing empty stage
you sit memorizing lyrics on the dimm’d stage-front ledge

nearly 30 years now of this thunder-drummin’ big beat
our busted guitar cases betray what we’ve been about

our sweat droplets sparkle in colored gel’d stage lights
our sound climb’n in a roar into night club lofts

the magic smoke curl’n upward — crowd surges ’n shouts
sweet riffs just keep rise’n higher as the crowd-mind shifts

some nights the gig has our soul energy wildly stirrin’
some morning-mirrors return two ragged faces stare’n

your voice always softens the roar of a restless crowd
as my les paul ripps out raw with the rocker’s creed

we criss-cross this wide land tote’n battered gear
still chase’n the golden promise of the perfect gig

young bands arrive dreamin’ — bright with spunk’n’spark
we smile’n watch’em burn on — with our know’n smirk

along endless highways and in broken shabby motel rooms
the songs keep breathing hope — so the heart still roams

we carry mic chords, amps n’guitars in sore tired hands
following the siren’s echoes of our damned stardom plans

when the amps fall quiet as lights come up in the empty’n hall
…askin’ ourselves will we ever make it — believin’ we might still

<~>

My band: StoneFox and I (on left)

<~>

rob kistner © 03/5/26

Poetry at: dVerse

I added this last song because miss M makes me cry…

The Light We Carry

Original DDE™ art: “The Light We Carry – 1 & 2” — by: rob kistner © 3/4/26.

—-<§>—-

suppose one day
the people of earth awaken
and war has become
a forgotten language

museums hold rusted rifles
the way they now hold stone tools—
artifacts of an early mind
that had not yet learned
how to live together

could the earth finally learn
the long discipline of peace

imagine the planet turning
through its dark ocean of stars
with no nations sharpening steel—
no sirens climbing the night air

no young faces traded
for the arithmetic of war

cities would glow softly
like lanterns beside a river

markets would open with the sun

Original DDE™ art: “The Light We Carry – 3” by: rob kistner © 3/4/26

children would inherit a language
where the word enemy
had grown dusty with disuse

is such a world possible

or only a fragile dream
spoken by poets
and weary historians

a world
where the night skys
seems relieved—

where stars burning quietly
over a planet
that has finally lowered its fists

but peace
once found
would be fragile—
…like glass
…or frost
…or the wing of a moth

how would such a world
safely protect itself

not through power
power always hungers—
power devours

markets would open with the sun

Original DDE™ art: “The Light We Carry – 4“ by: rob kistner © 3/4/26

perhaps peace begins
much smaller than a planet

perhaps the guardians of peace
would be ordinary people
awake to their responsibility

parents teaching children
how easily anger multiplies

artists reminding nations
of their shared humanity

poets and writers
planting questions
where ill conceived certainty
once stood as the norm

peace might survive
only if earth’s citizens
learned to recognize
the first shadow of cruelty—
before it gathers weight

jnside each person
there is a small light—
not loud
not heroic—
only steady

the quiet light
that refuses cruelty

the patient light
that listens before judging

if enough of those lights
were kept alive—
…in kitchens
…in classrooms
…on sidewalks and buses—
their glow might gather

a slow constellation
rising across the human world—
a beautiful family oh peace

markets would open with the sun

Original DDE™ art: “The Light We Carry – 5“ by: rob kistner © 3/4/26

then the earth itself
might begin to shine differently

its cities bright
not with power—
but with understanding
with knowledge

yet…
if we reached such a moment
how would we guard it

peace cannot truly be locked
inside treaties

it survives only
when those inner lights
P
are tended daily—

when people remember
how easily darkness grows
in neglected corner

even in that careful world
adversaries would linger.

not a nations
not an ideologies—
something older

the restless appetite
that sometimes rises
in the human spirit—
…the desire to possess
…to dominate
…to believe one’s own story
is the center of the earth—

and even then
one truly critical danger would remain—
…not an army
…not a border
…not a cult or ism

only the old shadows
waiting in the human mind—
…envy
…fear
…the hunger for power—
…for more—

resentful covet

restless winds
chaotic winds
winds capable of
extinguishing the small lights
we carry within us

so a peaceful planet
would never be
a finished work—
impossible

Original DDE™ art: “The Light We Carry – 5“ by: rob kistner © 3/4/26

it would be a living sky
of human lights—

each person responsibleui
for keeping its heart-flame
clear

to help illuminate
this world of light—
of peace

it could become a garden
that every generation—
…tills
…tends
…and protects
with patient hands—

pulling weeds
as they learn—
…the language of forests
…the rhythm of rivers
…the pulse of nature

how its heartbeat
is like unto their own

because the ultimate danger
to a peaceful planet
will always be…

the unattended heart

<~>

rob kistner © 03/04/26

Poetry at: dVerse

Alone

Original DDE™ art: “Alone” — by: rob kistner © 3/03/26

—-<§>—-

dawn settles softly
around her quiet chair

the sunlight
remembers her warmth

nothing moves
yet something lingers

love’s breath
held hushed in the room

I reach for a cup

I remember her hands

her hands steadied mornings

her hands soothed my longing

her hands quieted my soul

time carries her voice
like dust

like dust in a cascade sunrise

like dust visible only
if light tilts just right

light cresting mount hood

I thought sadness was absence

absence is not sadness

sadness is a presence
without weight

sadness is an empty chair pulled close

sadness is a chair no one sits in

sadness is a lone morning mug

sadness is a heartbeat

a heartbeat felt in stillness

her laughter survives
in my habits of silence

her smile survives
in the waking sun

her soulful essence survives
in the way I pause
before speaking her name

what is gone

our dream is gone

our future is gone

what now lives
is her tenderness

her tenderness still breatths

breaths beneath everything

<~>

rob kistner © 3/03/26

Poetry at: dVerse

The Invisible Hand

Original DDE™ art: “The Invisible Hand I~II” — by: rob kistner © 3/2/26.

—-<§>—-

Last night the sky over the Pacific Northwest felt unusually clear, as if the brisk night had polished it. I stepped outside with my cane and let the reach of any ambient light fall away, giving the dark its full authority. The night set its gentle embrace upon me. Above my head was a cacophony of lights.

I noticed the stars held solid in their spacing — they endured their endless rank. Somewhere beyond their patient burn, beyond even the thin milk of the visible galaxies — something held everything together. It knew perfectly this brilliant scatter. I sensed an aliveness, felt a breathing presence. I was awed by the essence of the enormity. But save an occasional perceived twinkle, or streak of shooting star, or the slow lit slip of something manmade — all was still.

In Life on Mars, Tracy K. Smith writes of dark matter — the unseen force that keeps galaxies ordered. They say most of the universe is made of what we cannot detect. As if embraced by an invisible hand. I think of the quiet forces in a life — love, joy, sadness, anger. These are all unseen, but they add weight to life. We are held more by what we cannot see, than by what we can.

dark matter holds true
galaxies spinning in space
the unseen balance

<~>

rob kistner © 3/2/26

Poetry at: dVerse

Undaunted

Original DDE™ art: “Undaunted” by: rob kistner © 2/26/26

—-<§>—-

rain needles the canvas dome
each drop a small drumbeat
on the skin of air

the balloon heaves upward — stubborn
ropes creaking like old timbers
but the integrity of form holds

he stands in the wicker cradle—
bearded, bald, rainslicked
eyes narrowed against the lash of sky

lightning stitches white fire
through torn gray clouds—
threading the world to its danger

he lifts his fist into the thunder
not in wasted anger
but in absolute refusal to yield

wind shoves the craft sideways—
the burner roars back
a furnace answering the storm

below rivers and fields dissolve into shadow
roads vanish like unfinished sentences
the earth relinquishing its claim

the land breaks into rocks and black water
the far ridge an edge he must cross
no place to settle, no safe step offered

he has a critical crossing to make
a promise tied somewhere beyond
this wall of rain and noise

water drips from his glasses and beard
cold threads his jaw flesh and mouth
a line drawn firm and steady against retreat

fear moves through him like a ghost
old doubts rising from some left behind life
a scrap of doubt trying to take hold

the wicker basket shudders and trembles
the wind turns wild — chaotic
still he stands

he rises — bold as flame
carried through fracture and flash—
undaunted by the sky’s fierce argument

beyond the storm’s torn veil
somewhere past the roaring dark
the promise waits — calling him on

<~>

rob kistner © 2/26/26

Poetry at: Sunday Whirl

Poetry at: dVerse

Tattered & Battered

When sanity is silent — insanity speaks…

Original DDE™ art: “Tattered & Battered” by: rob kistner © 2/26/26

—-<§>—-

the union was never iron
only threads of perspectives
pulled taut across a loom of equality

it was a highway to hope — a new future
filled with promise and possibility
stretched far out before us

but that bright promising highway
now seems shattered — damaged
deeply potholed with lies

ballots once whispered hope
like wind through tall grass—
each blade leaning toward consent

now the manipulative hands of a few
threaten the sanctity of the ballot box
trying to fold voices into silence

now a few want to violate that sanctity—
to suppress the true voice of the people
and the truth for which it stands

courthouse hold their breath—
marble pillars remember
the weight of honest footsteps

laws bend first in language—
then in practice—
finally in the quiet of fear

now our lady liberty is blinded—
who used to welcome those in need
now only those deemed appropriate

neighbors lower their flags—
not in surrender
but in frazzled uncertainty

truth is sand in the gears—
ground finer each day
by the engine of corrupt power

Original DDE™ art: “This Guy Needs A Job” by: rob kistner © 2/26/26

when the sane and the just
sadly fall quiet and complacent
the unjust ones among us will rule

still, the shredded fabric of hope listens
for the now muffled sound of the brave
crying out for freedom and justice for all

because a union survives
not in the few’s crushing grip
but in the many’s courageous hands…

that refuse to unclasp—
don’t let go of love
don’t give up!

<~>

rob kistner © 2/26/26

Poetry at: dVerse

Soarin’ Stanley McGee

Original DDE™ art: “Soarin’ Stanley McGee” by: rob kistner © 2/21/26

—-<§>—-

there once was a ski jumper — Stanley McGee
who leapt with a holler of… “hey — look at me!”
he shot from the ramp like a sneeze from a cold—
then into the heavens untethered and bold

he skimmed over treetops — clean outta sight
like a rocket achieving suborbital flight
he sailed on the thermals — both arms outspread
and tickled the clouds with the top of his head

the judges kept watching as upward he rose
is he ever comin’ down again — nobody knows
parents grew nervous — young children cried
“helluva jump” they said — “can’t be denied”

so if you pass through when the north winds begin
we’ll point to the sky with a frost-bitten grin
“he hasn’t come down yet — and he left long ago—
we think he’s in orbit — not really sure though”

this probably happened — ain’t spreadin’ no jive
though my mem’ry is spotty — its mostly alive
as Kurt Vonnegut said it in Slaughterhouse-Five
“…all this happened — more… or less”. 😉

<~>

rob kistner © 2/24/26

Poetry at: dVerse

Please…

There are many hungers…

Original DDE™ art: “Please…” by: rob kistner © 2/23/26

—-<§>—-

hunger waits
at the edge of sleep
as I lay my head
on wanting’s pillow
folding darkness
around my stomach—

then toss’n’turn
under a blanket
of longing

I rise to rehearse
the feel of fullness
my hunger calls
through quiet rooms—

still…

nothing answers

<~>

rob kistner © 2/23/26

Poetry at: dVerse

A Walk With Our Father

Original DDE™ art: “A Walk With Our Father” by: rob kistner © 2/21/26

—-<§>—-

morning lifts its pale shroud
as a new day enfolds the valley

morning’s mist is loosening
from cedar—
redwood—
from fir

the voice of water sparkles
as it rushes between boulders—
worn smooth as memory

the rising sun ignites symbols
in spider silk and moss
which enwrap the willing bark
in their soft embrace

boot tracks lead
where we are meant to go—
our voices low
we follow

the path bends ahead
toward the rush of water

white fury striking rock—
spray lifting high
into the newborn rays—
flashing like diamonds
in the chill early sky

in my left hand
I grip my walking staff

in her steady right
my sister carefully clutches—
our father…
his ashes
in a beautiful copper urn

balancing—
I spear the path ahead
as we retrace boot tracks—
echoes of those
who passed before—
of our dad

whose memory
now feels stolen from us—
by time

in breath and footfall
we are keeping our promise
to our cherished father—
to his precious memory

step after step
through shadow and light
he walks with us today

we are on our way
to my dad’s favorite spot—
now our favorite…
by dusk — we will be there

the solitary trail
beckons us beyond

the forest stirs a chill—
a shiver

as we finally arrive
the moon is rising
shining through branches—
a pale witness

well dad
we made it
we’re here
with you
like we promised

at this bend
the river tumbles quietly—
a whispered prayer…
a gentle…
tearful—

goodbye dad

<~>

Poetry at: Sunday Whirl

Light Across The Lake

“Questions about age and wisdom…”

—-<§>—-

what first captures the eye
the quick brightness of youth
or the effortless grace of wisdom

who turns toward a beautiful face
and does not see and feel
the brief advantage it carries

how long can beauty
trade on charm
before the market closes

when beauty fades from the mirror
does perception sharpen
with that distraction lifted

what useful is learned
when the mirror no longer
negotiates on our behalf

who learns the weight of silence
the usefulness of patience
the mercy hidden in restraint

what radiance grows from endurance
from losses carried
and kindness chosen anyway

Original DDE™ art: “Waiting“ by: rob kistner © 2/21/26

what seasons wait
invisibly within the bones
patient as seeds beneath winter soil

is there a wisdom
carried in weathered hands
remembering storms skin forgot

who hears the deeper music
that follows grief, love, mistakes—
and the long labor of forgiveness

is there a steady voice
when pummeled by grief
then left shrouded in sorrow

is youth a bright candle
and age a shielded lamp
held against the winds of time

looking back ‘cross the lake of time
was youthful beauty the moon on the water
and aged wisdom the light on the dock

when the years
finish their accounting
what is priceless that remains

<~>

Poetry at: dVerse

I dare you to listen to Joni here and not shed a tear…

Younger Than Yesterday

Memories of my muse…

—-<§>—-

she arrived
this being of the ages
this muse
this nymph…
this spirit of the land—
like a vision
I hadn’t realize I’d petitioned—
like a beautiful day

like enveloping fair weather
I did not know
how much I needed

warm rain
across sunlit stone
cedar smoke
drifting through morning air

she—
beautiful as in all creation

her hair
the deep amber glow
of raw gold
in low light-
or catching fire
when ignited by the sun
in a warm sunset’s embers
on a late afternoon
deep in September

when she turned
she radiated warmth
as if morning…
evening…
all the day itself
lived in her—
like a kindled harth

her laughter—
moved like wind
through tall summer grass—
bending nothing
touching everything

her voice
smooth
like the feel of fine silk—
a tone
like the elixir of gods

she needed not shout
she shared wisdom
with velvet certainty

she walked
as though the land
recognized her returning—
let sigh at her passing—
slender, lithe, unhurried

any lights near
lean toward her passage

loved by language
she spoke with the calm certainty
of one who has listened deeply—
…to grief
…to conflicts
…to solutions
…to seduction
…to beauty
…to art
…to love

nothing in her asks permission
nothing in her forgets delight
nothing in her forgets gratitude
nothing in her forgets to share

her intelligence moves through her
like light through clear water—
sensed before understood—
a glimmer in the eye—
a knowing curve
at the corner of her mouth

she teaches me—
…the names of birds,
…the patience of roots,
…how the earth listens
before it answers

at twilight her voice softens
braiding stories into ember glow—
I gather each syllable
like sparks against the dark
wanting their warmth to remain

when she walks beside me
the ground feels steadier…
my footsteps lighter…
as if they have finally
found their proper rhythm

at dusk
her hand in mine
is both question
and shelter—
the world grows quieter around us

her lips at my neck — her breath
…is cedar
…rain
…sunshine
…firelight
it is the pull and power
of the surf
crashing on the shore

the slow warmth between us
rose like tidewater
in moonlight’s silver—
unhurried…
certain…
returning again and again

stars appeared

in their light
her eyes
were younger than yesterday—
but held the truth of ages
a history older than sorrow
belied by her youthful aura

but her heart—
deep
…with a tenderness
wide enough
to always call me home

but our time was fleeting
now she is gone

still—
I have so much to give
so much to learn…
as I ever yearn—
I will forever
dream her return

<~>

Poetry at: dVerse

Tumblin’

—-<§>—-

The laundromat on Aurora hummed with fluorescent patience, each dryer tumbling private histories into anonymous warmth. Mara fed quarters to the machine, watching the glass blur socks, denim, and his blue scarf — she had decided maybe to keep.

Steam rose from her paper cup, carrying the scent of burnt coffee, cinnamon, and bad memories. Her mother used to insist, lips forget what they have kissed, once enough ordinary days stack between — as if time were a shelf where longing could be misfiled.

Across the aisle, a child pressed her palms to another dryer door, laughing at the kaleidoscopic spin. When Mara’s cycle ended, she folded the scarf, hesitated, then placed it into lost-and-found near the counter. Outside, buses sighed, traffic thrummed low. She stepped back into the drizzle, hands gripping her laundry basket. It, and her heart, a bit lighter — her world washed cleaner.

<~>

Poetry at: dVerse

Water, Weather & Grace

—-<§>—-

along the edges
of a broken pier
at settling dusk—
the tides return
what storms have torn apart—
a scatter of floating debris
jaw-bone-white as tusk
bump in murmuring winds
—haunted voices
from the ocean’s heart

in the winds and time
the wooden dock
has come to tilt—
its planks and beams
made tender by the brine—
I kneel in grace to stitch
its splintered seams—
once carefully built…
I taste the salty mist
sharp as a tine

old ropes lie coiled
like tired ocean beasts
asleep on land—
their frayed fibers swollen
dark with tar and rain—
I slowly slather pitch
with careful hand—
to seal the wounds
caused by endless tides
and their tugging strain

beneath the orb of moonlight
the harbor turns a silver white
and this shattered vault for ships
will be once again made whole and tight

<~>

Sunday Whirl