Air Head
•
yes
I agreed
it did make your voice
sound funny
but
I warned you
there might be
negative side-effects
• • •
rob kistner © 4/10/11
Air Head
Tag: absurd
Sooth
•
seek not the pompous
swelled with false confidence
dispensing the formulas of bliss
condemning you as the un-visioned
while fleecing you of your hard begotten
follow not the kings and queens of mammon
who worship the bottom line
desiring the upper hand
who would despoil the world and all it offers
as their playground of gratification
suffer not the priests and priestesses
who would say that only they have heard
and in so saying would dictate your thoughts
and direct your deeds
to conform to this truth of the god in their pocket
do not be cowered by the iron hand
of the bullet-brained who march in step
to crush under boot the will of any who will not queue
into the line that they have deemed
leads to the only way that life must be
do not be swayed by those who know
possessed of absolutely no uncertainty
knowing sure that what they know is what is
and in their infallible knowledge
know that what they know is was and will ever be
instead — gather with those who do not know
find the curious and the uncertain
those still filled with wonder
drawn to unfolding discovery
who embrace the constancy of learning, change, and growth
it is they who will traverse this evolving world
fashioned as a fair and better place
• • •
rob kistner © 2011
Over The Edge
also prompt 22 at Writer’s Island,
and prompt #135 at One Single Impression.
•
From down there, down there,
it’s coming from down there.
From where — down there?
Yes Sis, I swear!
That horrible smell
that’s filling the air,
the one that’s most certainly
impossible to bear,
is coming from that women
with the massive blue hair
sitting alone on the patio chair,
on the deck of the house,
that’s below us — right there!
What a putrid aroma,
you’d think that she’d care.
There are simply some things
that one never should share,
like the stink that is rising
from that patio chair,
on the deck of the house
that’s below us down there.
And the hideous color
of that mountain of hair —
I can’t help it, can’t help it,
I can’t help but stare.
It’s a tangled and horrible monument to
a disgusting and eye-blinding
shade of bright blue —
and it’s causing a feeling of nausea too!
I must look away my heads starting to whirl,
and I feel that my toes are beginning to curl,
I fear over the edge here I’m going to hurl —
and I don’t want to do that in front of a girl.
Maybe I’m wrong
but I would assume,
if one’s going to bathe
in a noxious perfume,
they’d at least have the manners
to exhibit some pride,
and not foul the ozone,
instead — stay inside.
Not to be the forecaster
of gloom and of doom,
but keep the eco-disaster
contained to one room.
And if you’re chromatically challenged my friend,
consider the others that you might offend.
A monumentally grotesque rat’s nest of blue,
is not something I care to look at on you!
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Mag 33
Final Sentinel
as generations
moved forward
as civilization
painstakingly
progressed
set foothold
knowledge
unfolded
slowly
I observed
the millenniums
of human endeavor
as they awakened
to self-reliance
less dependent
on hive mentality
mastering machines
eliminating conflict
striving for truth
ever evolving
I saw
nature
the world
reshaped
tempered
resilient
proud
I stand tall
thrust skyward
closer to heaven
than any living thing
a perpetual presence
the constant sentinel
a witness to triumph
would
that all that
were true
I watched helplessly
as generations receded
as empires crumbled
greed ran rampant
wisdom ebbed
civilization
imploded
I observed
millenniums
of human folly
misguided logic
flawed reasoning
as they flailed
stumbling
to a cold
isolated
world
disconnected
from one another
from the environment
serving their machines
serving their avarice
perfecting violence
racing to ruination
becoming aliens
in a mad eden
disillusioned
depraved
diseased
until
they were
no more
I watched through tears
as the natural world
slowly declined
diminished
withered
scarred
died
putrid
toxic air
permeates
burnt terrain
to far horizons
and now I stand
thrusting skyward
in this decaying hell
praying for a heaven
the only living thing
the pitiful survivor
the final sentinel
time’s witness
to tragedy
watching
the end
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2010
(revision © 2018)
_____________
Breakfast Lovers Fanatsy
•
whether panning for poached
fishing for fried
or sifting for softly scrambled
maybe bobbing for boiled
or sunny side up
angling for over easy
perhaps baiting a hook
for benedict
or dangling a lure for deviled
be they baked in cakes
or dropped in soup
it’s a whites & yolks wet dream
it’s a breakfast lovers fantasy
going to the eggs stream
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
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
Maneater
• In response to prompt #6 of the newly opened We Write Poems, I find arrogant, manipulative divas to be difficult to tolerate, or to understand…
•
auburn mane with sable streaks
frosted ermine — lush with pride
a bounce and whip, and tiply snap
with each stiletto’d wanton stride
taught hips roll on slender stems
that part in ripples then enmesh
a brushing sigh of stirring heat
toned thighs gliding flesh on flesh
a stare of comely crystal blue
floats above a ruby pout
that takes you in devouring
has its way, then casts you out
tongue tip teases top lip’s edge
like supple paintbrush flowing
a smile to burn and hypnotize
that wraps around you knowing
luscious wench — worldly wise
sleek as steel — tall and strong
swift and cunning, motor running
she might acquiesce, but not for long
poor fool who tastes this lusciousness
is hopelessly addicted
there’s only one word for this life-force
that word, my friend, is — wicked!
• • •
Integrity
•
I have fondled
the fabric of fame
and now you look
for a pattern in my life
a tincture in my clarity
a glitch in my resolve
you seek the proof
that I will forsake decency
doff this cloak of dignity
don the garb of lechery
but your search is futile
no such precedent will you find
my integrity will not crumple
I will not capitulate
not for weighty purse
nor promised power
there is nothing material
can turn my heart from love
• • •
Purse Department Sign
•
never fondle
crumple
or capitulate
strange sign
to be found
in the purse department
proof
there is a glitch
in the pattern of logic
that no tincture
of common sense
can cure
any comparison
to sapient demeanor
is futile
so I doff my robes of reason
and don the garb of lunacy
• • •
Oh Brother!
Presented in response to the May 10th prompt from Big Tent Poetry, which suggested “be playful! Let the sound of the words carry the weight (of the poem)” — so here is my playful poem of sounds…
•
ACHOO!
exploded in the quiet room
followed by a couple loud sniffs
cover your mouth
I blurted in a whisper
before I bonk you on the noggin
he crackled with disdain
clicked the snap on his backpack open
and with a clunk and a clatter
surprisingly retrieved a tissue pack
from the cluttered contents
looking at me like I was cuckoo
he flicked one out
as a second fluttered to the floor
I growled my disapproval
he just giggled
honked his hooter
and hissed defiantly
jangling the keys
he had also pulled out
I knocked them from his hand
back into his backpack
and mumbled at him to hush up
and settle down
he murmured something unintelligible
rattling his pack shut
and plopping it back on the floor
I shushed him again
and started to slowly sizzle
suddenly I hear slurping
as he is sucking a soda
through a straw
splashing the liquid
over the ice
as he swirls and shakes his paper cup
I snap
and shout
shut up
thumping my fists on my knees
suddenly
everyone is eyeing me
I hear the lady next to me
going tsk tsk
like I’m the problem
it was all I could do
not to whip around in my seat
and whack her
yikes I thought
enough is enough
so I hopped to my feet
zipped my coat
grabbed him by the hand
and zoomed us out of there
into the car
slamming the driver’s door
and vrooooom
sped us home
never again I snorted
never again will I take you
little brother
to the movies
he just whipped on his iPod
began humming to his tunes
and ZAP…
flipped me off
• • •
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
• • •
NaPoWriMo #27
• one acrostic
• one tanka
____________________________________
•
Even in chaos nature finds balance.
Violent floods beget fertile fields.
One thing ends, another begins.
Life is a cycle of birth and death.
Untamed wildfire creates forest ash.
The ashen remains nurture growth again.
In the caterpillar lives the butterfly.
One thing ends, another begins.
Now and forever, the mandella spins.
• • •
•
garage sound check great
groupies at the ludlow door
allmans soon to start
damned duane is still m-i-a
we stone fox boys are ready
• • •
NaPoWriMo #24 – In Vain / Daddy’s Girl
• one free verse poem
• one tanka
____________________________________
• This poem that follows is inspired by Marie Gauthier’s NaPoWriMo day 23 prompt at readwritepoem to find and use a colloquial phrase — and by the current frustration I am feeling trying to deliver on my promise of at least 1 poem a day for 30 days. This day I am blank – my muse is being quite difficult. So for inspiration I looked to a poem I’d written 3 years back about just such a situation of writer’s block. I wrote this new poem from those 3-year-old bones, sparked additionally by Robert Lee Brewer’s NaPoWriMo day 23 prompt at Poetic Asides: exhaustion.
•
the virginal glare
of the backlit void
taunts me
the tiny pulsing cursor
throbs like a migraine
in the blank white field
untouched
ignored
impatient
no burden of remorse
no weight of mystery
does it bear
no sting of anger
no wink of mirth
to reflect
nothing sensual
or sensitive
to share
no coin of phrase to save
just empty screen
tormenting nothingness
30 in 30
pressing down
dissonance spills through my open window
the scatter of rain
stir of wind
rustle of wet leaves
muffled keens
bursts of barks
distant yelps
the edgy din
of dripping
prowling
april night
intrudes in damp insistence
to fill my head
and leave not one small space
for wit
or insight
all in vain
there is no spark
in this soggy midnight
left high and dry
no muse in sight
only exhaustion
nothing clever
or profound
in the air this night
chilled
slack
uninspired
• • •
•
shy knock at front door
lovely daughter descends stairs
who is this brash boy
shake his hand or run him off
daddy’s decision is tough
• • •
NaPoWriMo #20 – Heroes
• two free verse poem
• one tanka
____________________________________
•
distant
slurred
reverberant
like a voice in a canyon
I hear her calling in my mind
my name
rolling sweet as nectar
from lips soft as orchid petals
full as a bursting peach
glistening deep coral
as they wrapped softly
‘round each pouted syllable
when she bid me tender farewell
so long ago
our fingertips had strained to grasp
until the final sensation of warmth
of touch
had faded
and they had drifted apart
I had struggled to tear my eyes
from her tears
that glistened on her lashes
and around her swollen crystal blue eyes
to slip softly over the crests
of her velvet cheeks
then down the contour of her face
flushed as sunset
to lightly salt her quivering lips
and as I passed
numb and dazed
through the tunnel of the loading gate
toward the jet
that took me to hell
I had at that moment
locked the image
of that sorrowed face of love
deep in my heart
It had proved my salvation
my only grasp on sanity
in those horrific years
over there
my lips too had quivered on that day
with the sting of separation
and the chilling knowledge
I would soon taste the bitter blood of war
foul with the stench of death
having not yet departed
I had already longed to gaze again
into her brilliant blue eyes
and taste her sweetness
yet
as I return this day
trying to face reality
from 30,000 feet
I taste the salt of sadness
for I fear
a kiss from me
with my killer’s mouth
will forever defile the fragile innocence
of those luscious lips
soft as orchid petals
full as a bursting peach
that glistened
and quivered
when last we parted
• • •
•
tears on flushed pale cheeks
warm held hand grows cool and still
she has left this earth
my love is now eternal
how do I face tomorrow
• • •
•
phineas morton is not a happy guy
that’s not to say he’s sad
he just decided long ago
not to live life on the extremes
so he would describe himself as
well
as centered
yes
phineas morton is a centered guy
he lives in the abandoned hull
of a short
yellow
school bus
left there by his parents
when he was 12
as they went off to find
well
to find happiness
this situation may also account
for his less than enthusiastic embrace
of the whole concept of
well
of happiness
phineas dreams of
someday
doing something
something
well
something interesting
shunning the extreme nature
of
of great
he is not really interested
in doing something
great
interesting will do just fine
he has a girlfriend
well
sort of a girlfriend
more like a
well
like a girl acquaintance
that sounds less “on the edgeâ€
which suits his centeredness
just fine
her name is flo
though she has come to spell it
phlo
as an expression
of her affinity for phineas
you know
phineas and phlo
the whole ph
sounds like f
thing
you know f
fuh f fuh
well
anyway
phineas wants everyone to know
that while he waits for his
interesting life to begin
he can be found
out by ole’ doc patterson’s pond
in his shell of a bus
you’re more than welcome to come by
just
if you do
don’t be too happy
if you know what I mean
doesn’t sit well with the lad
so if you come by
bring some jelly beans
red jelly beans
because
well
just because
and a tip from me
if you do drop in on phineas
don’t be clever
you know
don’t make any wisecracks about
well
no “short bus†remarks
ok
ok
• • •