Month: January 2009

Ghost of Love

 

Ghost of Love

•

(In loving memory of my son, Aaron Robert Kistner)

in the tears of this turbulent night
you come
as a breeze
stirring through my open window

a plaintive zephyr
yet sweet

you come
as a faint sound in the darkness

an easy laugh
rich voice

a song

you come
as a comforting thought

kindness
strength

a gentle way

you come
as a remembered presence

warm smile
clear eyes

peaceful eyes
full of wonder

the beauty of youth

you come
as a moment recalled

that precious last time
we stood embracing

this night
you come as a ghost of love
a specter of my longing heart

• • •

rob kistner © 2009

 

This Journey

 

 

This Journey

•

this pilgrim’s lot
is cast to wander
in search of what
is not clear known

step by step
day after day
uncertain fate unfolds
this journey

filled with wonder
joy
and awe

fraught with sadness
pain
and tears

it’s carried me
‘cross boundaries
borders
mass of lands
‘cross time and space

it’s shown me mysteries
marvels
magic

good & evil

the best
the least

it’s brought me pleasures
fame and fortune
to claim them back
with no remorse

I’ve known satisfaction
adulation
a woman’s love
a child’s passing

it’s been true and faithful
genuine
to turn away
and break my heart

it’s been fact
fiction
and contradiction
fantasy
and harshly real

I’ve been ignored
I’ve been betrayed

honored
as a man of standing

then left behind
to cry alone

I’ve traveled light
traveled fast
stumbled burdened
weighed with grief

I’ve lead and followed
lost my way
regained direction
to lose belief

I’ve walked hand in hand
with fear
and death

stared down depression
to be consumed

then arose again
to venture forth
without a clue my destination

with no regard the fated outcome
nor consideration of my plight

long ago I abandoned worry
having learned it’s of no use

I’ve realized
despite our difference
at the core
we’re all the same

this realm we entered all alone
and here we’ll leave alone again

but all of this is of no matter
foolish so to dwell upon

of no concern
of no regard
most certainly not worth the measure

in reflection
one sees far too late

it is this journey
that is the treasure

• • •

rob kistner © 2009

 

The Gig

 

…a musician’s tale told in multi-era players’ lingo…

 

The Gig

•

man we was cookin’
we maxed the zone
the gig
was flamin’ righteous

I was on my chops
hammered primo riffs
my fender
was really smokin’

our upright dude
laid down cool bottom
his big axe
thumped with thunder

the scene was jake
we was jammin’ smooth
our stick man
rocked his traps

we kicked our tunes
brought down the house
the night
was true far out

the leg were fox
freak, we were stoked
to my pad
we all were trukin’

but first château blanc
to down some slyders
sweet midnight
belly bombs

next the pony keg
to cop some kingers
to set
a mellow buzz

then down the rabbit hole
full blown away
to wrap
this trip pure golden

• • •

rob kistner © 2009

 

…following is the English interpretation

The Performance

we were playing quite good
one of our best performances ever

I personally was playing my guitar exceptionally well
technically and creatively

our bass guitar player was playing deep and strong

everybody present was having a great time
our drummer was playing his very best

every song sounded very good
the crowd reacted with tremendous applause

the women in attendance were beautiful
we all were able to secure dates and were going to my house

but first we went to White Castleâ„¢ restaurant
(a hamburger chain found throughout Midwestern USA)
for some hamburgers

then we stopped at a convenience store
to purchase some Schoenling Little Kings Cream Ale
(beer that comes in short 7oz. green bottles)

and had a wildly exciting party
that lasted until sunrise

 

• • •

…poem inspired by read write poem #61, found at “readwritepoem”

 

Killer

 

Killer

•

…put two bullets in his brain

I shot him twice
at close range

to witness
the power of life
crossing over

and

to feel him die…

cool precision
in a quite rage

sacred act
of raw release

purity of instinct

• • •

rob kistner © 2009

 

•

NOTE: The poem above was written in response to the prompt, “The Other Side” — posted by the Totally Optional Prompt writing prompt blog. We were asked to write a poem from the point of view of a bad person. It could be someone from history, legend, or fiction; it could be someone who’s alive and making headlines. Regardless, someone whose acts you consider criminal or reprehensible.

*The man and his actions, as depicted in this poem, are totally fictional — and purely evil.

Inner Moonlight

 

 

Inner Moonlight

•

you let lose the madness
of your inner moonlight

you and Jack

suckling life’s sweet underbelly
quaking
in the nocturnal neon zoo

both of you
and Neal
groin deep in human wallow

swilling full the brain-drug flesh festival

spewing forth
to fill all fertile ears
with the siren song of sacred dissatisfaction

your fingers burned
from dancing with the fire-whores
of truth
angst
and indignation

you put your queer shoulder to the wheel
and rolled out the new truth
crushing apathy
to run down ignorance

you torched the darkness
with a blinding light

igniting bohemia
in a rolling demon’s fire
illuminating the night

while you danced
with every devil you could find

howling mad
and mind expanded
you ranted
raved

you flamed

a combusting carnal fireball
roaring
hormoned-hungry
for all of life’s deliciousness

ferocious appetite

lusting
longing to consume
every forbidden morsel and crumb

to gorge upon
life’s smorgasborgadelic mindfeast

in gluttonness conspiracy
with Neal
Jack
Tim
and Ken

gut full of insight
kindled by the new freedom
it was flashpoint

each blaze burned so brightly

madder men the world will not soon see

but one by one
each burned out

now a flicker
in the eyes of angles

• • •

rob kistner © 2008

photo above is Allen Ginsberg (1926 – 1997)

 

SpitShine

 

SpitShine

•

he snapped his shine cloth
and shared his stories

tales of joy
tales of pain
of injustice

of his Memphis blues
his beloved big muddy

warm eyes
earthy brown
turbulent as that river

his stare
a deep current
impossible to escape

his voice
a tempered edge
honed by sorrow
sweetened by laughter

broadleaf husky
thick as sorghum
smooth as Beale Street bourbon

his weathered face cut with truth
marked and scarred by years of burden
of witness

each sculpted crease bore testament
to a genuine soul

cracked and seasoned hands
would reach with suffered care
to wrap tailored leather
in polished honesty

callused fingers
yellowed by habit
rolled the rhythm rag
to pull the sheen
with sweat and spit
blood and bone

as if to wipe clear
the broken promises
the failed love

the stain of dirt field
cruel street
back alley

of harsh wisdom
hard learned

the pop and slap
would resonate to fill my ears

the soulful cadence would stir my spirit
lift my worry

and make my step
light as a feather

a spit-shine like no other
will ever be again

• • •

rob kistner © 2008

_____________________

photo above entitled: “routine” — by: Tres

• • •

…poem inspired by read write image #6, found at “readwritepoem”