my god
big as a house
great redwood
broken in repose

tangled root like tentacled mouth
ripped raw from breast of mother earth

massive girth
prone you still stand tall

and look there
look way down there

my son stood shoulder high to me
before he scaled
then strode your mammoth length
at rest on this forest floor

he's but a flailing fleck of color now

so small
so far away
yet still astride your hulking mass

mighty redwood
giant in a land of giants
soaring through the great canopy
of this majestic forest
thrusting skyward in your day,

and yet
you've fallen

shallow rooted I observe
but deep enough to proudly stand
this thousand years

you did not fall unnoticed
in your thunderous final bow

so sad
your end

though all around you
new life
sprouting even from your fallen form

in this lush calm green
of nature's vast cathedral
the eternal pulse of life goes on

not unaware of your misfortune
but certainly undaunted

you have fallen

spire becomes spawn

and life goes on


rob kistner ©  1994
This is a contemplation and a memory of a trip to the Redwood National Forest near Eureka CA. My oldest child, my daughter, and my 2 sons were with kathy and I. Aaron, my oldest son, 17 at the time, was the child running along the gargantuan truck of the fallen redwood. In less than a year, Aaron was killed in a tragic auto accident. This poem holds special meaning for me.

on a tail of two,
of a west meets an east;
no New York state of mind,
states differing you see
(we're more Oreganic than he),
in these musketeers three.
this traveler’s tale;
turning steed to the beach;
for a sharing of trails;
and of capes... one for each.
words, brisk in the wind,
under skies of azure,
walk on sands of gold,
and though aging in years,
three hearts grow not old.
for a crowning of points,
no, this vista ain't free;
though a highway may close,
or on views juxtapose,
on much they’ve agreed.
tis a free state of mind,
here on westerly breeze;
a binding of souls,
at five & forty degrees.
theirs a latitude free,
a bit shy a quorum,
with much space in-between,
but of this they are sure,
tis a kinship of verbs;
more poetic than words,
links theses brothers three!


post script.

from Oregon with love (Google those words), HePo has been good to us, to me, forging friendships, then erasing distance; first word to word, now hand to hand!!!  three capes, three brothers, three poets... that’s a lotta affinity here (Lipstadt, Yocum & Reimer).  of note- Three Capes Scenic Drive- Kiwanda, Lookout & Mears. Closed Highay- Historic Columbia Gorge Scenic Highway (America’s first) due to major fire of 2017.  Crown Point / Vista House- America’s million dollar rest stop circa 1918. Meeting place, a farm just north of the North 45th° parallel, halfway tween equator and North Pole.
  Jun 9 SE Reimer
Sally A Bayan
No one else, but a poet...can bring colors
to scenes...with verses, in crass or subtle
tones......gather words together in lines,
uncertain in their ebbing and flowing...
the results create surprise in many
hues that could make one cry,
grimace......frown......or smile

readers are led to far, or near
destinations...to the cool, sweet air
and peaceful atmosphere of paradise,  
or, to unlit corners...uncharted waters,
or deep into an abyss...or, a black hole,
an unknown corner, where moribund souls
are biding their time, maybe, they could
now define by themselves, purgatory and hell,
understand those sunken souls who have lost
all...except their arms, and begging eyes...
then, through appropriate words,
a poet paints a laborious path, or
a stairway...so an enlightened reader
may climb back to safe, calm waters...

a poet makes the mind see a human heart,
beating in many rhythms...throbbing,
.......aflame with longing and desire,
bursting from ecstatic, sublime moments,
then, later on,  shift to grayish thoughts
that cut deep....tormenting...crashing,
............gnashing the heart...
a poet paints a soul walking on cloud nine,
later, to dip feet in celebrative pools.

sometimes, a poet would rather not, yet,
an inner force prevails, thereby paints a
drooping soul...dying, in total surrender,
ready to fall..............but, again, with a
barrel of lively-colored words,  a poet
takes this despondent soul to berth,
with soothing verses, bring it to a rebirth...
every human being is worth an effort
..............even those that have fallen
.........................are worth savin' .....

a poet's palette is uniquely
enriched with colorful experiences,
a poet paints life in its truest colors,
..........could be dark...or bright
.....nothing more......nothing less...


© Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
    January 29, 2017
  Jun 9 SE Reimer
Nat Lipstadt
(from “A Love Song” by William Carlos Williams)


familiar that apple google and amazon
have me under 24 hour surveillance
e-specially now
as I am in their
geosphere of influence

but sending me a love poem of WCWs that isolates my locale, my intended inebriation status,
and is addressed to me personally (“you”),
that’s just creepy

so charged am I, obligated to oblige,
to counter-compose a love song of mine own,
under the pinot “influence,”
(in a manner of speaking)
which a love taught me to love

what if,
a new love song ecrit,
to an old and loverly land,
a woman-land designed to be desired,
no difference -
kissing a new girl first time,
a wet and unforgettable
when falling
on the neck of your one beloved anew renewed

now I tremble-tread
for the line of great predecessors,
“the land lover scribes”
skilled in natures homaging,
is like a line out the door,
around the corner as if
a new flavor ice cream
has just been isolated and mined and I...

but a novitiate
in a far away, wild untamed world
where my nature taken by her nature
cannot deny paying my just due:

late middle English, from self + edge

how perfect!
“an edge,
woven on a fabric during manufacture,
intended to prevent unraveling”

the pacific coast air
the irregular shoreline - expanding/receding,
god’s own forestry reserve,
the cascades, a goal on the horizon,
country roads where ancient wheat stalks grow wild
all a tonic intermingled, an alcohol to
imbibe through mouth nostrils eyes and skin

all will be my own selvage!
preventing the eastern unraveling disease,
a nearly incurable permafrost low grade
kate spaded infection,
brought along with me for decades,
my loon June companion, now stalling out,
lost from my happy head

a vineyard on every corner,
marijuana growing next door,
rivers that change like children growing up and down,
cheek to jowled property line
live the berries and the hazelnut groves,
god’s hay bales wrapped in plastic
like marshmallows dotting the landscape

all daring you to say

I could
it  here
A Love Song
William Carlos Williams, 1883 - 1963

I lie here thinking of you:—

the stain of love
is upon the world!
Yellow, yellow, yellow
it eats into the leaves,
smears with saffron
the horned branches that lean
against a smooth purple sky!
There is no light
only a honey-thick stain
that drips from leaf to leaf
and limb to limb
spoiling the colors
of the whole world—

you far off there under
the wine-red selvage of the west
  Apr 21 SE Reimer
you can’t right the same poem twice

hell, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide

substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice

the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those damn love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create him"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily

damn poems
damn love poems
damn love
2/2/2018   10:14pm
SE Reimer Apr 9


poetry reveals
its reader’s heart to themself...
if they will listen.

post script.

i think i have not listened for a long time; but...
my heart says it is too late, never!
your poetry is beautiful this morning.

from Tavarnelle Val di Pesa.
  Apr 1 SE Reimer
Smoke Scribe
Passover or Easter or Happy Any Ole Thing, Sam I Am

asks me good naturedly
which to wish me - a happy this or that
and a poem’s immaculate conception is instant arisen arising
hot damn

rueful smile and unruly reply
a solid out loud Ha!

neither either or he writes and so believes

for I am a god loving man,
whom we’ve -Him/It/Me have agreed
that I may call
Sam I Am
and the answer to your question is
why not

for most quests and questions can be well-answered
why not!

my genes my historical beings my ancestors and my issue
all declaiming that I am a jew who left egypt, no defaming, a slave to no man who cannot love another like his own self

but some in all that I write, this deity boss slips in quietly unseen in one of his jokes-on-us-disguises like singing ave maria

and thus whose to say
his rightful name, is not
Sam I Am

my choice and the big D
     (a self-employed informal his choice, nom-de-guerre)
has agreed via his acknowledgement in his normative style of
low volume taciturn tacit acceptance

so wish me a u happy
anything you want-to-call-it-day

don’t matter. but know this u were there
when, all on that happy day where, @ the manger,
when this Sam-Approved-Appeared
poem was born and Sam blessed it with a
hot damn!

she laughs, tosses back in my face, some schematic I
prior penned that I can’t recall the when or where or my
nom-de-guerre employed but fits this ex-slave perfectly

“there are no lines or lies in my writings
there are no definitions and
perception is only your truth”
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