You & Me

I offer this piece in response to prompt #69 at Carry On Tuesday,
and prompt #18 at We Write Poems,
also the September 6th prompt at Big Tent Poetry,
and the September 8th prompt at Three Word Wednesday

You &Me

(a poetic quadratych)

•

The Secret

what I said was
don’t touch
go away
leave me be

while inside
I cried out
draw near
stay with me

you are light
you are pure
you are joy
you are free

I am not
I am dark
I am beast
can’t you see

without you
there is much
you don’t know
about me

The Revelation

I lived at the light’s edge
that pooled in the night
on the bleak back streets
of the sad brokenhearted

I hid in the anguish
of the loveless who cowered
in the dark nightmare alleys
of the lost and forgotten

I fed on the grief
of the mourners who wailed
for their horrific loss
in the ruins of death

this was my heartscape
black as mid-winter night
a lightless horizon
no glimmer of hope

trusting was toxic
no foothold for love
relations were carnage
scattered lifeless and cold

The Change

’til a beautiful being
eyes brilliant and true
approached from afar
bearing tinder of love

the graceful arrangement
was deftly ignited
and patiently tended
the fire gently stoked

afraid to come forward
I held outside the glow
but your kindness drew me
we stood by the blaze

with passion it roared
its light pierced my blackness
its heat thawed my soul
my cold heart was warmed

The Miracle

you wrapped yourself ‘round me
gazed into my eyes
your kiss soft and serene
was the essence of healing

with you in my life
I am darkness removed
soaring and weightless
radiant and rising

vital and caring
my spirit’s renewed
illuminated wholly
by a new dawn of dreams

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photo above is of the GOASTT, digitally enhanced by: rob kistner 2010

Breakthrough

…this piece is in response to the 19th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island,
and offered for prompt 132 at One Single Impression,
and for prompt 231 at Sunday Scribblings….




Breakthrough

•

rise up
clad in colors of a joyful life
rebuke the strife

tilt against convention
the prevailing norm
is a toxic storm

buck the winds of rebuff
ignore the false contention

stare down the face of ridicule
if buffeted by cruel
condemnation

shun the foolish
sadly blown off course
by the brutish force
of blind conformation

be not inclined to fear
nor falter

choose instead
to quell their mindless dread
and so to alter
the contradiction
which grips their head

stay one’s ground
leaning hard on raw conviction
wait the weight
until one’s strength is found

be anchored bold
and deeply hold
to the true and genuine
until your patience spent
revives again

do not resent
remain flexible
to withstand the blows
resisting those
who would see you swayed
and lowly bent

who would see
your spirit broken
for so to savor

instead
raise high your head
don’t ever waver

be never rigid
brittle
prone to break

do not forsake
your heart song
eschew the wayward
noisy throng

breakthrough

wisdom is a supple soul
struck through
by true enlightenment

pierced clean and strong
by wonder

bleeding tolerance
and promise

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photo by: Kevin Day, digital photorendering by: rob kistner 2010

Soulfruit

version 1

I taste you like a peach
sweet juice trickles to my chin

I bite you like an Apple
your crisp laughter fills my ears

I devour you like a strawberry
tart and succulent on my tongue

I drink you like thick nectar
you flow rich into my soul

I desire you completely
longing to be fulfilled

I consume you wholly
flushed with wanton pleasure

____

IMG_8651

version 2

my mouth on you
soft
like a peach

you glisten
trickle from my lips

I bite you
sweet
like an apple

your hushed breath
staccato crisp

you taste
tart as a strawberry
succulent
as love’s nectar

a delicious
wanton pleasure

____

rob kistner © 2010

______________

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

S’wonderful

This piece is offered in response to prompt Mag 28 at Magpie Tales




S’wonderful

•

slow
satisfying
soak

serenely steamy

soft supple skin
salaciously slathered
shaved smooth
satin-silky

seductive scent
subtly spread

sensuous strokes
sliding
stimulating
stirring sighs
shivers

savoring

so
so
so slippery

• • •

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

Too Still

This piece is offered in response to prompt Mag 26 at Magpie Tales




Still

•

it sits
still
atop the corner
of our garden wall
just where she left it

how many lilies
did it nourish
how many fuscia
lilac
rose
and morning glory
did it quench

it dispensed its
life giving waters
so gracefully
in her hand

such a delicate hand
gentle in its task
of planting new growth
but rugged on the weeds
that threatened her beloved garden

she was the giver of life
and the guardian
of her realm

but she could not
stop all that threatened
and I had not
her gift of life giving

and so it rests
atop the wall
no longer is it lifted
by her tender
hand of nurture

that hand now
is still

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Blood Moon

This piece is offered in response to prompt Mag 25 at Magpie Tales,
prompt #13 at We Write Poems,
and the August 2nd prompt at Big Tent Poetry.




Blood Moon

•

icy round
the wolf’n eye
soft and round
the riding breast
roundness
in the grande dame’s fear
a circle round
the blood moon’s crest

there are lies
within that circled moon
that surround
this cruel charade
they gather
and collect the tears
‘til midnight’s debt
is fully paid

‘til innocence
is found to want
and purity
so deep defiled
that cold and soulless
lupen eyes
will cleave the sweet
in red and wild

and all that once
was tender
will on this night
turn beastly raw
and guilted
hearts be locked away
to deny at dawn’s light
the truth they saw

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Burn

…in response to the 13th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island, I offer a piece I wrote inspired by Joni Michell’s album entitled “Don Juan’s Reckless Daughter”. Embedded in this work is the title of every track that appears on that album / also for prompt #126 ‘Angel’ at One Single Impression…



Burn

•

come to me
talk to me otis
and
marlena
reveal your mystery

I am your brood
sired by your seed
bloodied
from your womb

whisper
in a scorching breath
tell me about
the tenth world

taunt me
in scalded apparition

tell me how
to get to dreamland
to cotton avenue
on a hot off night
back street in jericho

tell me of the fires
on paprika plains
that consumed your souls
in flames of hunger
to lust
for immortality

made you dance
at midnight
wrapped in
the silky veils of ardor
on prurient
smoldered embers

I want to go
I am ready

an inferno burns
inside me
desire rages strong
to ride the bliss of sin

son of concupiscence
I am
your son

your lifeblood
courses through me
hammers in my temples
sets my heart ablaze

impassioned
I wil prowl
the shadow’d haunts
of jericho

the dark places
of the tenth world
following your ghosts

seeking
don jaun’s reckless daughter
my scarlet jezebel
my nocturne angel
to take me
in a fever

to whirl me ‘round
to burn me down
to ash

to scatter me
by moonlight

forever
in the winds
of memory
on those plains
of ardor

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photorendered collage entitled “Dance of Ardor” by: rob kistner © 2010

Elton The Elf

I wrote this in response to the spirit of the July 26th prompt at Big Tent Poetry


Elton The Elf

•

an angel-eyed velvet-clad curious elf
was sitting alone on a leaf by himself
quite lost and he didn’t see anyone else
he was scared and he hid and he tried to be stealth

“I wish I was home like a good little elf
‘cause I left my big glasses on my bedroom shelf
and this is no a place for a song-writing elf
these damp woods are not very good for my health”

his mother warned “Elton, you’re a wee little elf,
don’t go wandering off in the woods by yourself
take Bernie along, and your cell phone as well,
dear son please consider your fame and your wealth!”

but wee little Elton was a quite stubborn elf
tired of playing piano in his room by himself
bored with being a world famous rock ‘n roll elf
with gold records – Don’t Go Breaking My Heart was his 12th

you know it really is hard being a curious elf
curiosity is why he’d snuck off by himself
now he’s lost and can’t find his way home without help
sometimes its dangerous being sneaky and stealth

could this be the end for sweet Elton the elf

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

The Sudden Doe

I wrote this in response to the July 19th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

______________________

This is a response, not so much to the letter of Carolee’s prompt, but to it’s essence. Instead of picking a fovorite poem, I have focused on my favorite poet, Gary Snyder. Given I am deeply moved by most of Gary’s work, choosing a “favorite” seems unrealistic.

Gary Snyder (born May 8, 1930) is an American poet (often associated with the Beat Generation and the San Francisco Renaissance), as well as an essayist, lecturer, and environmental activist — frequently described as the “poet laureate of Deep Ecology”. Snyder is a winner of a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. His work, in his various roles, reflects an immersion in both Buddhist spirituality and nature.

He grew up here, where I live, in Portland Oregon and attended Reed College here. He was friends with Allan Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and most of the beat writers, the majority of whom had urban backgrounds. Gary spent much of his youth, including his college years, hiking and working in the Northwest backcountry. This experience and his interest in things rural, made him appear exotic to his Beat Generation peers — who often referred to Snyder as ‘the Thoreau of the Beat Generation’.

Gary uses mainly common speech-patterns as the basis for his poetry, and does not typically use conventional meters nor intentional rhyme. His personal sensibility arose from his interest in Native Americans, their involvement with nature, their knowledge of it and balance with it. He argues that poets, and humans in general, need to adjust to very long timescales, especially when judging the consequences of their actions. His poetry examines the gap between nature and culture so as to point to ways in which the two can be more closely integrated.

A world traveler, with a fondness for the Far East; Gary has spent many years of his life exploring, and living in the wilderness of the western United States, especially the Pacific Northwest. He loves this region, as I do, and his work is strongly influenced by this love. I offer this poem I’ve written in the spirit of Gary Snyder. I pulled it together from a notebook I keep of my wilderness sojourns into this part of the U.S. as well as bits and pieces of drafts I’ve written, all influenced by Gary — not so much by how he writes, but who he is.


Gary Snyder

The Sudden Doe

•

my footfalls
drum the root chambers
of the cascade mountain old growth

each step cushioned
by centuries of needle-drop
in this ancient forest

rounding a bend in the trail
brushing through waist-high fern
I crest a knoll
and stop

mesmerized

light drifts down dreamlike
filtered by the woodland canopy
settling soft around me

suddenly
I’m startled

a young doe bounds onto the path
standing proud
golden in the glow

she considers me briefly
then disappears
quick as a stolen glance
quiet as passing time

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photo by Giuseppe Moretti, for Beat Scene Online

The Quiet • The Strike

I’ve written two pieces in response to Three Word Wednesday July 21st prompt • the first is entitled “The Quiet” • the second is entitled “The Strike”

The Quiet

•

left like spent bait
in the disapproving sun
to rot from apathy

the carcasses of constituents
foolishly quiet
curl brittle and crack

victims of their trust
they did not jump
their chance for change

and so they wither
hollowed by ignorance
and purposeful neglect

while the dark beast
slouches off with eden
marrow dripping from a smile

• • •

The Strike

•

warm
familiar
comfortable in my palm
my fingers wrap natural cork
index raised
gauging line tension

precision brings the willow’d shaft
high above my shoulder
rod flexing expectantly

a flick of my wrist
and the line arcs forward
increasing the pressure
on my fingertip
as it rolls ahead
accelerating

then
a careful pluck
like a string
on a guitar

it is released

the golden lure
at line’s end
sails silent
into the squinting summer sun

with a subtle plick
the barbed hunter disappears
slipping ‘neath the sparkle
of the undulating steam

seductively
with quickening pulse
eagerly visualizing
I retrieve the bait
anticipating the strike

patience draws the lure
dancing ever nearer

I long for the sharp
powerful tug

for the slender thread
unreeled before me
to rise
and dart away
in a sliver of silver spray

for my heart to jump
as a proud trout
breaks water
victim to my seduction

in this moment
mind focused
breath steady
senses heightened
awaiting sudden contact

I reflect

there is a simple truth in fishing
in life

the thrill of possibility
can be as rich
as the reward

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Ardor

This piece is offered in response to visual prompt Mag 23 at Magpie Tales (shown below the poem).




Ardor

•

eyes dark and deep as nile nocturne
scorching as nubian sundance
this blackthorn rose
is the secreted passion

the sultry jungle goddess
inscribed in the book of ardor

fired in molten scarlet
woman forged of earthen bronze

ablaze in the sensual dreams
of writhing midnight

she is smoke and flame
the mysterious traveler

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• The beautiful woman in the photo above is Jourdan Dunn

________________________________



• Magpie Tales prompt Mag 23 •

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 •