For No One

…this piece is in response to prompt #17 at We Write Poems,
and prompt #69 at Carry On Tuesday,
also the September 1st prompt at Three Word Wednesday…




For No One

•

the cadence
to which I tight step
pulses
in my heart
alone

it is my coursing vital
stirs my spirit
steels my resolve
drives me on
into the fray
emboldened

“to thine own self”
resonates
the chambers
of my soul
sweet
as the song
of angels

if one is not
author
of the life
one lives
it is
plagiarized
and its essence
forged

it is my pen
scribes my epitaph

the spark
must be authentic
or the fire
arson

the flame
that burns within
is mine

do not expect
I will ignite
for you
or blaze
to your vision

you are not
my flint

do not attempt
to chart
my course
I search
my own
horizon

do not
contain me
I live
outside

do not
seek me
on the surface
I break deep
below
the negative

do not
summon me
to your queue

yours is not
my grid
or file

you are not
my piper

this
I know

I stand in line
for no one

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• artwork by Aynaku, embellished by: rob kistner 2010

True Work

I offer this piece in response to prompt #18 at Writer’s Island.

______________

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I had this incomplete 3-year-old draft of my poem “True Work” (loosely inspired by Gary Snyder’s “Real Work”). I had wanted, for some time, to edit it into a piece, with which I would be more satisfied. The above listed prompt inspired me to create a suite of poetry, threaded together by the phrase: true work. My focus for this suite being humanity, which was the crux of the “True Work” draft I already had. The digital rendering I created of the hand holding the world helped me finish my vision of this poetry suite.

______________

“empty your love into the world”
“the true work is never done”

 

True Work

____
I bend my back and squat
then straighten at the waist
hunkered ‘neath the weight
I lift clean the load
the warehouseman’s refrain
always on my mind
“back straight
lift with the legs”

the first test – no result
I try a second
then a third
on and on
day after day
long hours in the lab
the formula must be perfect
only perfect will save lives

drywall must be flush
and plumb
also square and seamless
meticulously
I set each sheet
with the level and the bob
then pause
to wipe my sweating brow

I curse the clay
do battle with fatigue
I coax my muse
to commit to form
the first draft of my vision
to then modify
and remold
until the ultimate creation

these are elements of the work I do
or did
or may yet do
and I am you
and you are me
and we are all together
in this endeavor of our daily life

but this is not our true work

to bend to lift someone in need
to help carry their burden
until they again stand steady

to seek the components of peace
to formulate the dialog
that fosters understanding

to measure well tolerance
to stand squarely flush
with truth and level justice

to visualize universal love
to create the enduring model
for a free and vital world

this — is our true work

so little done
so much to do

* * *

 

If Only
____

stressed beyond limits

earth’s fragile balance falters

but this can be changed

her future is in our hands

if only we do true work

* * *

 

Endeavor
____

abstain from false pride

prayer does not a halo make

that requires true work

____

rob kistner © 2010

 

* photorendering above entitled “In Our Hands”
by: rob kistner © 2010

Old Man’s Prayer

…this piece is in response to the 16th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island,
and visual prompt Mag 27 at Magpie Tales (see image at bottom),
also offered for prompt 129 at One Single Impression,
and for prompt 228 at Sunday Scribblings….




Old Man’s Prayer

•

successful as a younger man
the grind became my home
and I a conduit of worry
could I keep the crazy pace

years spun wild as a top
around faster ever faster
life layering its patina
etched deeply in my face

suddenly no longer young
now looking back from 63
I’ve known triumph I’ve known tragedy
they’ve marked me both the same

I’ve borrowed bought and sold
strayed through several shades of grey
but have I leveraged my soul
just to play the fleeting game

I pray I will not be an old man
gazing lonely out my window
trying to remember
exactly how long it has rained

not sitting silent by the fire
lost in contemplation
wondering if all I lost
was worth what it was I gained

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photo of top from the movie Inception

_________________



Mag 27

Mirrored

I’ve written this pieces in response to the July 28th prompt at Three Word Wednesday




Mirrored

•

you cannot abuse my trust
you will not cramp my love
with hatred

never shall you
defile my dream

I am your mirror
the light
that fills your dark void

the found for your lost
the hope for your despair
the grace for your sin

I am your neutral
blanking your negative

expelling it
from the realm of joy

it cannot sustain
I watch
as it withers

and fades
away

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Always Options

…in response to the 10th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island, I offer a perspective on perspective…




Always Options

•

he came upon divergent ways
that stretched beyond the road he’d trod

he would go forth this was his mind
but had no notion which way that was

the pathway left was sparse with step
the roadway right was traveled plenty

leaning low to great extreme
he examined close the evidence

it came clear that those who journeyed left
were light of weight with timid step

while those who traveled onward right
wore finest boot of heavy heel

he thought on this for quite some time
until at last he knew for sure

he started neither left nor right
but instead went straight ahead

he hacked and carved and blazed a trail
into the new for those who’d follow

wise in life possessed of logic
he realized to where he’d come

the threshold of a new frontier
too raw for the sated too brute for the weak

those that would survive and prosper
would be among the enlightened bold

it would be those who’d choose this trail
full of promise made by his hand

with spirit full and muscled zest
he whacked and chopped and cleared the way

for those who’d come who were empowered
to seize possibility — a bright new world

• • •

(haiku)

•

trail forked this spring morne
white-tails chose the woods instead
always more options

• • •

rob kistner © 2010



• dedicated to the visionaries who see beyond •

Questions

…I wrote this in response to the June 28th prompt at Big Tent Poetry
and for prompt #59 at Carry On Tuesday


 

Questions

•

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


Anger – 3 Contemplations

…I offer this 3-part contemplation on anger in response to the June 7th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

• the first poem is a free verse conceptual perspective on the essence of anger
• the second is a poem I would like to share, which touches the primal anger I felt at the time of the tragic death of my 18-year-old son, Aaron — written shortly after the horrible event
• the third is the pantoum which was directly suggested by this prompt — it is based on a poem I wrote while in the early stages of my grief, also regarding the raw, unfiltered anger I felt, and still feel occasionally, surrounding Aaron’s death



Anger

•

love
bruised

crying out
to be understood

so loudly
that it cannot hear

frustrated
that its capacity to feel

is far greater
than its ability to express

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

______________________

Primal

•

i remember well the day he died
the searing pain
that fueled my rage
setting fire to the skies

primal power

giving life to sorrowed hatred
sustaining me no food or sleep
while i cursed the cruel heavens
in ringing spite that toppled mountains

and leveled to despair
every mocking face of care
reaching out to touch me
saying how they understood

they sure as hell — did not

or they’d have never gotten near me
they’d have given me vast berth
for all i wanted was to strike them
make them scream
make them hurt

i would have given him my life
with little thought have taken yours
for if my son could no longer live
nor would anyone on this earth

• • •

rob kistner © 1995

______________________

This Cannot Be

•

this cannot be the way his story ends
his youth snuffed out by someone’s mindless deed
this cannot be the horror fate intends
if life you want mine now I do concede

his youth snuffed out by someone’s mindless deed
if debt is owed please I will make amends
if life you want mine now I do concede
hell’s threshold now to where I stand extends

if debt is owed please I will make amends
anger grips me like a poison seed
hell’s threshold now to where I stand extends
my soul ablaze my heart begins to bleed

anger grips me like a poison seed
god your cold and heartless name offends
my soul ablaze my heart begins to bleed
a blackness here within me now distends

god your cold and heartless name offends
hatred of you deep inside does breed
a blackness here within me now distends
upon my very essence it does feed

hatred of you deep inside does breed
cruel god is this the horror you intend
upon my very essence it does feed
this cannot be the way his story ends

please tell me this is not the way his story ends

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• collage above entitled “Stages of Grief” by: rob kistner © 2010


______________________


In loving memory of my son, Aaron Robert Kistner: 11/4/76 – 7/3/95

Words of the Wizard

…I wrote this in response to prompt #6 at Writer’s Island, the prompt is “Unforgettable”



“The Wizard of Westwood”
John Wooden 1910-2010

Words of the Wizard

•

John Wooden has,
on this 4th day of June,
in the year 2010
left this mortal realm
after 99 years
of untiring service
impeccable wisdom
and great love

a man of balance
and spiritual depth
such as John
comes so seldom
it must be seriously considered
that this world
has lost
one of its special angels

and that the warmth
and the stability
of humankind
may in fact
suffer consequence

I shed not a tear
for John
he needs no pity
it is for the rest of us
that I heartily cry

the following
are the immortal words
of a great and profoundly humble man

gather close
and hear

•

a mentor is someone
who can give correction
without causing resentment

ability is a poor man’s wealth

adversity is the state
in which man
most easily becomes
acquainted with himself
being especially free of admirers then

be more concerned
with your character
than your reputation
because your character
is what you really are
while your reputation
is merely what others
think you are

be prepared
and be honest

it is amazing
how much can be accomplished
if no one cares
who gets the credit

although there is no progress
without change
not all change is progress

consider the rights of others
before your own feelings
and the feelings of others
before your own rights

do not let what you cannot do
interfere with what you can do

don’t measure yourself
by what you have accomplished
but by what you should have accomplished
with your ability

failure is not fatal
but failure to change
might be

ability may get you to the top
but it takes character
to keep you there

listen
if you want to be heard

never make excuses
your friends don’t need them
and your foes won’t believe them

failing to plan
is planning to fail

if you don’t have time
to do it right
when will you have time
to do it over

there is nothing stronger
than gentleness

the true test
of a man’s character
is what he does
when no one is watching

if you’re not making mistakes
then you’re not doing anything
I’m positive that a doer
makes mistakes

it isn’t what you do
but how you do it

it’s not so important
who starts the game
but who finishes it

don’t let yesterday
take up too much of today
make every day
your masterpiece

it’s the little details
that are vital
little things
make big things happen

it’s what you learn
after you know it all
that counts

players with fight
never lose a game
they just run out of time

material possessions
winning scores
and great reputations
are meaningless
in the eyes of the lord
because he knows
what we really are
and that is all that matters

never mistake activity
for achievement

success comes from knowing
that you did your best
to become the best
that you are capable
of becoming

success is never final
failure is never fatal
It’s courage that counts

success
is peace of mind
which is a direct result
of self-satisfaction
in knowing
you did your best
to become the best
you are capable
of becoming

talent is god given
be humble
fame is man-given
be grateful
conceit is self-given
be careful

the main ingredient
of stardom
is the rest of the team

the worst thing
about new books
is that they keep us
from reading the old ones

there are many things
that are essential
to arriving
at true peace of mind
and one of the most important
is faith
which cannot be acquired
without prayer

things turn out best
for the people
who make the best
of the way things turn out

what you are
as a person
is far more important
that what you are
as a basketball player

young people need models
not critics

you can’t let praise
or criticism
get to you
It’s a weakness
to get caught up
in either one

you can’t live
a perfect day
without doing something
for someone
who will never
be able
to repay you

• • •

words by: John Wooden 1910 – 2010
opening by: rob kistner © 2010

• To learn more about John, please click here

Eve’s Eyes

• In response to prompt #5 of the newly opened We Write Poems, this is a surrealistic poem I created using a technique of creative omission called erasure. I am generally not a fan of fashioning a poem to or from a form or device — but this was interesting. The original poem I “mined” was entitled “Pointed Roofs”, by Dorothy Miller Richardson. You might find it interesting to compare Dorothy’s piece with my finished piece…



Eve’s Eyes

•

plentiful
the long faces

the girls
numerous
brought the sense of misery

the girls
nervous
were part of the remuneration

the very first
eve
playing a melody

swollen
her fingers weak
unexpectedly stiffened
her trembling hands
dreadful

she stood
angry

stupid people
had made her play

her discomfiture forgotten
she simply poked the piano

almost unrecognizable
she played with burning eyes

thumping
and thumping again
she played afresh
laughed into the air
back to the wall
behind the piano

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

________________________________

…the painting above is entitled “HOMAGE for GILLES CARLE”, by: Estelle St-Pierre

Trouble Comes to Dry Gulch

• In response to the 4th prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I introduce you to my imaginary childhood friend. In the heart of a terrified young boy, he was more than real…




Trouble Comes to Dry Gulch

•

you were my truest friend
my steady rock of safety
my captain of escape
you were always there

the amazing man of magic
the hero of the weak
defender of the helpless
my always gentle friend

when the footsteps in the hall
woke me in the night
I would feel you tug my hand
and under we would go

through the secret passage
you kept beneath my bed
to the waiting viking ships
and off to fight the dragons

in the land of snow and castles
carved from clear blue ice
in our robes of fur
we struck with swords of gold

you were very brave
in the face of fear
I knew you would appear
never laughing at my tears

when the grating metal rasp
of door latch in the dark
would bolt me from my sleep
you would have the horses ready

we would thunder off to dry gulch
to wrangle up our posse
save the townfolk from the bad guys
and return when all was calm

you were very swift
in a snap you would arrive
in time to get me out alive
helping me survive

below the ocean we would dive
in your crystal submarine
down to the coral world
marveling at the creatures

we would leave the sub
to swim among the wonders
to dart and spin and float
far from pain and worry

you were very smart
my midnight flight arranger
to rocket us from danger
far from the evil stranger

we would soar to venus
in your silver ship
or to some distant star
and do battle with space monsters

and when they all were slain
we would fly the milky way
circle all the planets
thankful to be weightless

no matter how afraid
I knew that you would find me
knew you’d never judge me
I knew how much you loved me

knew you’d have me back by day break
with the dark night far behind us
and the warmth of welcomed sun
would once again embrace us

the midnight footsteps now are quiet
the ships and rockets sailed away
no more trouble comes to dry gulch
the crystal sub now long in dry dock

I’m not sure I ever thanked you
perhaps took your love for granted
without you I’d never have made it
I never will forget you

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Integrity

…I wrote this in response to the May 17th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

 

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

• • •

…the following is my insane wordle poem…

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

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

The Key

• In response to the 3rd prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I offer a gothic tale…
• I also offer this in response to prompt #116 at One Single Impression




The Key

•

I must move quickly from this light
that pools incrementally
in this long
pungent
segmented hallway

there is some safety in the shadows
that linger tight
to the arch walls

so I bolt
through the full moon’s glow
that seeps silvered through the windows

I press myself
against the damp irregular surfaces
that are the stacked-stone
boundary breaks
of this eerie chiseled passage

I pause at each
until I reach the last

I halt

sliding two fingers
of my right hand
into the small pocket of my waistcoat
to confirm that it is still there
I feel the cool brass
of the oddly carved key

relief seasons my trepidation

nothing in my being
wants this dire mission
to which I am shackled

but it is only my hand
on the inscripted dagger
gripped tightly in my left
that can bring an end
to my uncle’s unholy
reign of horror

I am the last surviving member
of our cursed bloodline
so the brutal deed
falls to me

creeping stealthily forward
like a shade on the dank wall
I move cautiously closer
to the iron-laden
dense wood door
of his sleeping chamber

my heart pounding
my diaphram starved for breath
I feel I may pass out

but still I pursue
the evil incarnate
that lies
locked away
in undead repose

suddenly
a noise
immediately behind me

it echoes through these catacombs
pierces my taut raw nerves
and instantly paralyzes me

trembling
I turn

no one there

hushed
I listen intently

no other sounds
save the blood
pulsing as a roar
in my ears

I begin to move
but again
I hear it

panicked
I jerk my head around
and see

in this frozen moment
my stressed mind deduces
the source of the noise

moisture
collecting on the stone ceiling
gathers overhead
into sagging condensation

it released
as a weighty droplet
splattering on the floor
just behind me
with a sharp startling slap

I relax a bit
enough to again draw
tensioned breath

several more labored
careful steps
and I place my hand
gently on the wrought handle
of the immense door

transferring the lethal dagger
to my quivering right hand
I reach
steadily as possible
into my pocket
and withdraw the strange key

it is unnaturally heavy
and seems to emanate
an unearthly energy

I clutch it firmly
fearing if I lose my grip
I will lose my nerve

I guide the key
into the slot
of the ornate handle plate
seating it fully

slowly I begin to turn it

I feel the resistance
as the key’s teeth
engage with the bolt
and begin to grudgingly
draw it from its secure well

just before I have fully retracted it
I pause
my mind racing
blood pressure soaring
overcome by the magnitude
of what I am about to do

no turning back now
this must be done
and I must do it
but I am terrified

still I hesitate
attempting to gain
my much needed composure

I slow my heartbeat
steady my breathing
steel my resolve
and turn the key
its final quarter inch

the lock clicks
the handle releases
and the door unseats inwardly

this is it
fate has dealt the deck
I am prisoner
in this horrible game

I swing the door open
ever so gradually
and step in
toward my destiny…

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Boxes – Contemplation in 3 Parts

In response to the Ist prompt on the newly opened We Write Poems, I contemplate boxes




Boxes

Contemplation #1

•

my memories gather and squabble
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

• • •



Contemplation #2

•

tanka

wonder’s trapped within
a box within more boxes
so deeply buried
by the years of failed dreams
you must not lose your wonder

• • •



Contemplation #3

•

tanka

love is sealed within
a box locked inside your heart
lost in the rubble
of years of broken promise
you can find it if you look

• • •



rob kistner © 2010

Stowaway

In response to the 2nd prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I step from my place of hiding




Stowaway

•

slowly
with great caution
in halting measured step
I creep from sanctuary dark
to leave this place of safety

to sidle in uncertainty
into the chafing
cutting light

head bowed
spirit crushed
tensed for flight

emerging
visible again
though barely

poised to recoil
from any sudden emotion

long now in hiding
stowed away in sorrow
fragile as a newborn bird
unsteady as a fawn
just as frightened
as unsure

my wounded soul
took refuge in aloneness
dug in
resolved to disappear
become invisible
perhaps to die
the weight of life too great

simple breaths
a considered labor
but still I drew them
hesitantly

long I lay
shallow breathing
unwashed
unfed

resigned to simply vanish
from this hopeless realm

despaired I would never find
a reason to go on

yet slowly I emerge

but please
no impulsive expectations

permit me slow and careful evolution
from my chrysalis of anguish

let me find my way
back into the light
from my place of hiding

offer only patience
and safe distance

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Mind’s Eye

…response to prompt #13 from Magpie Tales




Mind’s Eye

•

I sit
with my mind’s eye
I watch the flow of people

the shuffle of feet
with their different sounds
according to their shoes

I see wan faces of unsmiling lips
their void curves denounce this night

yet unseen
is the gossamer curtain’s fall
that defines their soul’s duality

the divergent reality
through which truth stumbles blind
to move in the world rough as a rope
taut as every promise made
frayed as wisdom
leaned in whispered from behind

grab at time like dropped money

I might learn something tonight
if someone will release the light
so I can shine like a child
who likes ice cream most of all

this child reads old mens’ minds
and notices the shoes
the belts all made of leather

I feel a shiver of sad imbalance
a confliction in my soul

so I will watch the shoes
and practice non-attachment
because I can

but pieces of me
stick to whoever gets too close

you may have seen me
silhouetted against the sky
the coldest night in January
howling with the frozen moon

then moon and I
sneak through fate’s construct
among cages of studs & trusses we run

from room to imaginary room
the whole world close enough to touch

we eat a midnight lunch of damaged bread
seasoned by caution and foreign lands
with onion’d thoughts layered deep

show mercy
peel back the layers
peel me away thin by thin
skin by skin
to my quivering soul

I hope I am not ugly in your sight

these thoughts become too heavy to hold
to tough to chew or swallow
my thoughts
bone-white lies of morality plays
open for you to peek

hope they are not ugly in your sight
hope they do not make you weep
as you peel back all the layers

onion’d thought layers
held fast and firm
like a carapace
to which I’m stitched and welded
and can no more leave than you can truly enter

they tie me down sometimes
but sometimes barely so

inescapable optimism in my bare-bones grin
flashes in the brittle moonlight

a stranger comes to where I sit
to see
his stare blinds the stars from my eyes

behind his fey smile
his radar dreams scan the forgotten creases
the clandestine getaways in my mind

standing over
he peers down with probing gaze

one of us
will learn a thing or two this night

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

____________________________________________
…an edited re-write of an earlier draft…