Dawn Breaks

Dawn Breaks

When the fire of love
Flickers dims and dies
And a shadow falls
Deep in darkened eyes
Hollow words of love
Are but empty lies

That open door
of a tender heart
Has swung quietly closed
Round the fragile part

What once so sweet and effortless
Can never again feel right
And the fall begins so near unseen
As though but the passing of night

Until one morning no dawn breaks
No tenderness nor warmth awakes
And a loneliness encircles slow
You seek the one that you’ve loved so
She’s here arms reach
She shares your bed
You roll and turn and lift your head
You search her face in the predawn glow
Whose eyes these are you no longer know
You feel no tears you feel no fight
A sadness rises from this night
That it never truly will again be right

It’s in this painful clarity
You realize you know
That though you stayed quite sound asleep
You heart left long ago.

– rob Kistner 2013

The Dance

NOTICE: intended for mature readers only…


“Venus and The Sailor” by Salvador Dali, 1925

The Dance

he felt the weight of her thigh
pressing against his
and the flesh of her hip
urgent against his groin
and the warmth
as he responded involuntarily
feeling a heat spread through him
a quickening of his pulse
as he swelled and swooned
growing rigid and eager
and a deep need overtook him
as he reached ’round her
firmly encircling her waist
with his great arm
bending her forward
with the mass of his body
and with his other hand
freeing himself
to enter her fully
consumed by her wetness
in a dance of dizzying desire
his urges hot and husky
on her ear and cheek
as he churned in slow pleasure
building in evermore lustful lunges
ever increasing in pace and tension
as they danced and danced
spinning into a carnal fury
until a great release
swept over them
and they melted together
in a fevered bliss
matching breath for slowing breath
and he bringing his lips
softly to the sweet nape of her neck
as they drifted to earth
entwined in the joy
and the afterglow
of love’s lingered embrace

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

…I wrote this as one uninterrupted piece to reflect the passionate nature and consummate flow of those final peak moments when one is wholly swept up in the deep and urgent throes of making love…

this piece inspired by this visual prompt at Magpie Tales

Ghosts


“Summer Night” by Albert Bloch, 1913

Ghosts

trim taut tan legs
carry firm eager bodies
perfumed and cologne’d
‘round and ‘cross the dance floor

young groping lust
shadowed near the band shell
aglow in halo’d incandescence
throbbing with the big beat
of eternal rock & roll

beneath a high starry sky
clear as the naïve dreams
as humid as the shared embraces
hot as the stolen kisses
forever as the promised love
of sizzling teenage midnight

ghosts of my youth
recalled from long ago

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

this piece inspired by this visual prompt at Magpie Tales

Sanctuary


“Under Windsor Bridge” by Adolphe Valette, 1912

Sanctuary

dead calm envelops me

moist morning fog
adrift on the water
wraps ‘round me
like a cool blanket

it muffles the sounds
of daybreak’s industry

alone with my thoughts
in peaceful privacy
safe anonymity

the regrets of last night
dim and fade

this brief sanctuary
a soothing balm
so welcome
at the start of this heavy day

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

this piece inspired by this visual prompt at Magpie Tales

Cloistered

This piece deals with the strange duality we all carry with us through life, the unique contradiction between the person we think we are, and the ‘many’ other persons others perceive us to be from their experience of us, as filtered through their differing individual perceptions. Fair or not, convenient or not — we are ‘judged’, and our lives are impacted to one degree or another, every day by how we measure up to each of these interpretations of the “I” we are thought to be. This includes the “I” we perceive ourselves to be. Which one is real, which one is valid — or is any one of them truly definitive? The phrase “I am” presents a fascinating philosophical quandary.


image by René Magritte

Cloistered

when another
tells you of yourself
you’re shown the dance they see
your outward choreography

but you hear not of the music
that rings true in your mind
that leads and drives the steps
for this music they know not

you are shown the reflection
not the light that shines inside
that illuminates your soul
to guide your steps and stride

are we the I we know
the self we see full measure
or are we the other
the one known to another

for if the valid one
be the one most known
then we are that other
the one to ourselves unknown

for surely when compared
the majority story shared
is of the manifest other
the one seen by another

and so we live our life
cloistered in this other
and live this life alone
even when by many known
for the you that’s shown
is the you that’s not your own

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

Morphling


image by Francesca Woodman

Morphling

I will not be confined
always in motion
eternal ebb and flow
perpetual like the seas

my spirit an eternal liquid
in everlasting flux
expands unrestrained
seeking freedom

I will not be defined
my nature is fluid
my essence is turbulent
deep but ever changing

my heart in constant surge
challenges boundary
seeking balance that is mine
to change at will

reach not for me
I will not be held
do not name me
I will not be yours

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

this piece inspired by this visual prompt at Magpie Tales

Me Too


image by Zelko Nedic

Me Too

why do you find me dog
why will you not let me be
you belonged to her

but she is gone

you know this is so
don’t you dog

I see it in your eyes
the sadness there
sadness I recognize

the sorrow
pressing in
as these night winds stir
darkness pressing in

but she’s gone boy
lost into the lightless realm
beyond this chill encircling me

you shiver
you feel it too
don’t you boy

but I’ve no emotion here
save grief
as is buried
in your worried whimpering

I’ve no good comfort here
but come
come here boy
that’s a good dog

I know
I know
me too boy

oh gawd
me too

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

this piece inspired by this visual prompt at Magpie Tales

Perception’s Window


artwork by Jack Vettriano

Perception’s Window

we are infinite beings
awaking slowly
from some infinite place

our coming to be
unknown to us as any mystery
our essence an enigma

learned in stories
in waiting relationships
gradually we open to our identity

awareness dawns
like the rising of a newborn sun
breaking on our window of perception

we feel its warmth
and flow effortlessly into timelessness
as though immortal

we see not over the horizon
for we see no horizon
but limitless eternity

we comprehend no end
immersed only in the now
given of our origin

it is therein exists the miracle of life
we are infinite beings in this moment
dreaming to sustain the moment

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

this piece inspired by this visual prompt at Magpie Tales

Well Traveled

…while it is true that, in the end, it is the journey that validates the destination — we do arrive at a point in life, where keeping one’s eye looking down the road, while seeing all we pass along the way, is what keeps the journey alive and meaningful…

 

Well Traveled

from here
the road ahead
is traveled differently

a shorter stride
a stiffened gait
a lessened pace
guarantees it so

but being long a traveler
provides insight
to match the bruise and scars
of years and miles

and the will to move
can best the journey
where wisdom is employed

questions arise

what destination now
what supplies available
what light of day remains

with no destination
there is no journey
only aimless wander
and supplies are short
daylight precious

loss of purpose
lack of focus
hastens journey’s failure

at this distance
this late hour
failure
is not an option

so I will go forth
eyes down the road
one foot then the other
in steady stride
focused on the goal

to arrive at love
spirit whole
full spent
from a road well traveled

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

Startled man

…poem for day 8 of National Poetry Month 2012…

 

Startled Man

she is birthed
in his fractured dreams
as weak as a forest fawn
helpless as a snowflake
falling on a May predawn

he needs her frail
for at his sheltered core
he’s filled with mounting doubt
knows his time of tyranny
is quickly running out

but strong of will
she knows her mind
and speaks direct to what she sees
startled by her forthright way
he wants her down upon her knees

threatened
he seeks to dominate
silences her upraised voice
to keep her under thumb
he shunts her right of choice

she is captive
to his fearful heart
sustained in twisted fantasy
conjured by his crippled soul
stillborn in his fallacy

this seed
of possibility
this herald
to set the bitter free
now a lifeless
hollow
woman-husk
whose sorrow
haunts the growing dusk
whose spirit withers
in the dimming light
as nightmares rise
in the coming night
whose tears
parch the barren land
now denies
his outstretched hand

his courage is strained
to its final strand
as hope dies
for the startled man

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

linked at Magpie Tales

Yet

…inspired by the first day I met my wife, 25 years ago…

 

Yet

had she not appeared in that clearing
so lost

had she not crossed my threshold
on that september day

had not her voice
drifted like silk on a summer breeze
to wrap sheer and sweet
around my heart

had not I been drawn
like a bloom to the morning sun

had not I been captivated
as a hummingbird
by a drop of nectar
crystal on a velvet petal

had not my love come down
soft as a rolling mountain meadow

had not this dream been born

had not my life begun again

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

linked at Magpie Tales

 

Arrested

…something captivating about a woman in (or almost in) uniform…

 

Arrested

she’s left only her jacket on
unbuttoned
blousing open

the gold of her badge
glints fetchingly
in the glow of candlelight

her breasts
partially veiled
soft in the amber wash
gently rise and fall
with her heavy breath

helplessly
my eyes glide her length
fondled warmly
by the lush half-light
folding upon her
from the single flame

they pause
entranced by the velvet flower
sensuously shadowed
in the satin cleft
where supple limb
meets supple limb

intoxicated by this vision
I can only stare
and melt

utterly arrested

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

linked at Fireblossom Friday

 

The Hour of the Beast

 

The Hour of the Beast

when the most capable
believe they have risen above
the mucus, the shit, the afterbirth
of their origin

when in their reflection
they see perverse transcendence
towards entitlement
in which no allegiance
or kinship of nature
binds them to their center

nor founds them in the
fevered fumbling fury
of the frightened flesh parade
in which they lock step
flailing for survival

when their insanity of arrogance
so distorts their vision of time
of the ancient
of the sweating
bone-broken reality
of human will and wallow
through which they likewise trudge

shiny shoes or no

when they blatantly begin
to eat their own
while copulating with false gods
on forsaken gilded alters
of perjured horrors

then the hour of the beast
is certainly at hand

and we’ve all become
the hulking mass
of the apocalypse
deserving to be struck down

and our black hearts
torn out and severed
by the self-inflicted rapier
of raw wild justice
and our husks immolated
on the pyre of banished
abandoned truth

that moment
is near

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

Drowning

 

Drowning

on the boulevard outside
last night’s rain puddles
midst the chaos of metro-clutter
as if abandoned by the waters of earth

it shoulders its way through the culverts
in search of mother sea

this day begins golden and crisp
bird songs echo empty sunrise streets

lovers and their beloved
sit by morning windows
with tea and curiosity

they talk

in those moments
their souls spill one into the other
entranced

somewhere
tender lips are sculpting sweet words

but here in this quiet
I drown in your gaze
fallen into azul pools

• • •

rob kistner © 2012

linked at Magpie Tales