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
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
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”. 😉
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
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.
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
I can’t stop the questions
wandering through my mind—
the walls somehow hear
the walls are unkind—
exposing my thoughts.
revealing my secrets
taunting my fear
I move carefully now
as if the floor might remember
where I stepped yesterday—
I’m moving slowly
dreading exposure
small things feel rehearsed—
the way the kettle clicks off
how the fridge kicks on
the ticking of my watch
the way your message ended
abruptly—
no closure
at night I lie still
not sleeping
not thinking
just waiting—
waiting for the moment
something almost happens
…it never does
that is the worst part
the air grows heavier
harder to breath
each empty day
time ticking away—
no consequences
I no longer seek answers
…I measure pressure
…I measure delay
…I measure the distance
between my heartbeat—
and the next
I have begun to distrust
the ordinary
light falls across the table
too precisely
the refrigerator hum stops
just as I listen for it—
the stop feels purposeful…
but only momentary
I leave drawers open slightly
just to see
if they close themselves
nothing moves—
that unnerves me
this stillness feels arranged—
like furniture
set for a guest
who has not arrived
in my unraveling mind
I postulate explanations
I do not believe—
tracking the silence
as it widens…
deepens
deceives
even my mirrored reflection
seems delayed—
a fraction of a second
behind real time…
and what it returns
is not mine
I do not seek discovery
I attend
to the tension
that is gripping me
something is near—
not touching…
not speaking…
only stealing the air
in increments
too small to prove
I examine everything—
tremors in my hand
dust in the window-light
distant sounds—
patterns bloom
where they can’t be
I turn
gazing out
into the night sky
mentally drawing lines
between unconnected stars
until the sky feels crowded—
dangerous…
threatening
I tell myself to rest
knowing even in stillness
my mind keeps pacing
thoughts keep racing
my eyes keep scanning—
scanning the walls
for a hidden seam…
a gaw-damned door
outta this bad dream
then I hear it
in my head
a muffled wail
a silent scream
something is there
I feel it—
feel it watching me…
then I realize—
its watching with my eyes
Original DDE™ art: “Endless Highway Blues” — by: rob kistner © 3/6/26.
Original
