Deep Azure

This poem is offered in response to prompt #21 at We Write Poems.

Deep Azure

•

on the boulevard below
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

lover and beloved
we sit by the morning window
with tea and curiosity

we talk

for this moment
our souls spill one into the other
until I am distracted

your lips continue sculpting words
but I’ve fallen into your deep azure eyes

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Over The Edge

This piece is offered in response to visual prompt Mag 33 at Magpie Tales seen at bottom of post,
also prompt 22 at Writer’s Island,
and prompt #135 at One Single Impression.

Over The Edge

•

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

The Taste

This type of poem is known as a haibun, and combines prose with haiku. It is offered in response to the September 20th prompt at Big Tent Poetry.

The Taste

•

It was an embrace I’d wished had been endless, at our tearful farewell – your body supple and warm, pulsing with life.

lips lush as cognac
open softly to kisses
urgently linger

I passed through security, turned and fixed on your gaze – prayed it was not the last time I’d look into your eyes. I wandered dazed down the ramp, to the jet that would take me to the fury of hell. I locked your face of love deep in my heart.

That cherished image proved my grasp on sanity through two years of horror – through the sting of separation, the bitter taste of war, the foul stench of death.

I return this day, facing reality at 30,000 feet, the salt of sadness on my lips. I am ashamed, frightened to see and touch you again, but I burn to do so.

so different now
my hands angry with bloodshed
innocence is lost

I fear a kiss from my killer’s mouth, will forever defile your precious lips – lush as sweet cognac, that day we parted.

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

NOTE: this piece is by no means a condemnation of the men and women who are sent into the teeth of hell to fight, suffer, and sometimes die. Rather, it is an expression of my deep respect for what they endure, and a quiet tear for what is so often sadly lost in so doing.

On Friendship

When I sat down late last night (actually early morning hours today) I had glanced at the words from 3WW, and decided to write something primarily for We Write Poem’s prompt #20, to simply write a stream-of-consciousness piece. What you see here is an unpolished first essential draft of what came forth. I chose not to touch it any further, or dress it, but to let it be, fundamentally unembellished, just as it came. It disturbs me, and that compels me to share it. I am calling it:

On Friendship

(be advised, this is raw on several levels)

•

a grey malaise settles round
shrouds right down to the ground

to face myself in this
cuts deep and jagged
bloody to the bone

I am not one
not a good one

oh I celebrated the sap of youth
in the gaggle of my buds
In the band of my salt brothers

we laughed and surged
with lust for the ladies

straddled us a few
when we weren’t thrown over
the heat and steel
of our low-slung two-wheeled cocks

all combustin’ in a hammer thrash
rollin’ in a roar and frenzy
4-cycle sex rockets
and how the ladies liked to ride

they’d get right down
and squeeze it with their thighs
wrapped snug
painted in denim
to feel it pulse and throb
then explode down the asphalt
their asses clenched to hang on tight
to feel the rush
the tease of the G’s

made them weak in their knees
wet as a summer downpour
ready as a bimbo-slut

but I was seldom really there
for them

I took more than my fair share
my gait was bold and brash

with but a nudge
took gladly more than my share
proudly present – but not there
for anyone

not for my gang of guys

I loved them for what they were
for me
not for who they were

I was never one
just my way of brooding lonely
without being alone

my youth was my show
my production
with an ever-evolving cast
little more than familiar extras
important in that I needed them
to flesh out my soft parade

cause I was never really one

I was there for me
and my loins
and my needs
and my fears
and my insecurities
and my my my

I just was never one

I broke the rules
I fucked the rules completely
playin’ out my sad control game
terrified of letting go

playin’ hard on their needs
to wrap up tight
inside their fear and joy
to make it mine

to take it down inside my darkness
and hunker over ‘til it cooled
then scrubble out to grab some more

I wrapped them in my clever ways
and bundled them in laughter

I was good at laughter

dispensed it freely
but never gave it away

it was my tool
my hook
my way of hangin’ on
steerin’ the procession
takin’ in and hoardin’

I was the cutting clown
laughter by cutting down
on those that gathered ‘round
to watch me dance
to sing and prance
to celebrate my “specialness”
my talents and great gifts

my illusions

but I was never really there
not to elevate them
because I wasn’t one

I dealt with them
and rushed it through
to get back to me
never did do “you” — that well

I just wasn’t one

never knew how
never trusted

emotionally scarred
mentally brutalized as a child
by trust
until I abandoned trust
never gave it
never honored it
never believed it was real
too frightened to trust trust
still a scared little boy
I broke all the rules
of friendship

shattered them

and now I regret it so

I am in the shadow of my death
my body lays siege to my life
my heart is final stage failure
and now I need
what I never gave
never really understood

true friendship

gave acquaintance on a grand scale
but not friendship

not as a young man
when the seeds of such
are fresh to plant
to take the long and lasting root
and ripen through the years

I missed the season

to quote the Floyd
the race has run
I missed the starting gun

I have had 3 wives
still married
and I have children
have their blessed love

no one who knew me
as an arrogant young man
would have believed then
that I’d manage that miracle

but no deep enduring friends

dark grey malaise settles round
shrouds right down to the ground
and now I am so sorry
such deep regret
it seems too late
for meaningful friendship

I broke the rules
I’m paying the price

* * *

rob kistner © 2010

• this also satisfies the 9/22 prompt at Three Word Wednesday,
and prompt #71 at Carry On Tuesday.

Ripples

Tankas inspired by this wonderful painting offered as prompt #21 at Writer’s Island,
and by prompt #134 at One Single Impression.



Reflections

•

memories of you
ripples on a mirrored lake
rise and drift gently
into the golden sunlight
carrying me on their crest

• • •

Joie de Vivre

•

clear blue summer sky
deep azure crystalline lake
cool breeze on my face
fresh scent of water lilies
ripples gently lap the boat

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• painting entitled “Fisherman” by: Vane Kosturanov

Mute

This piece is offered in response to the September 13th prompt at Big Tent Poetry.




Mute

•

there is no half-eaten answer
with which to embellish
or to skirt the evidence

the stench of truth
permeates the debris of proof
in a swarm of crusted guilt

the orphaned child of supposition
abandoned on the dock of iniquity
impaled by the chant of sterile innuendo

wearing a temporary backbone
fashioned of suffering
and the tears of innocence

to witness the violent clash
of malevolence and courage
and remain forever mute

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Believe

This piece is offered in response to prompt #19 at We Write Poems
and in response to the visual prompt Mag 23 at Magpie Tales seen at bottom of post.



• image entitled “Weary” – colorized, digitally rendered by: rob kistner 2010


Believe

•

I’d like to make myself believe
the dream I dreamt as a young man
that we can change the world’s heart
to embrace love for one another

I’d like to make myself believe
people are by nature good
that we can live in peace
and make the world a better place

I’d like to make myself believe
universal understanding
is a common goal
of the peoples of this planet

I’d like to make myself believe
we haven’t lost our faith
in these sacrosanct ideals
of an elevated life

I’d like to make myself believe
there still exists somewhere
a shared and nurtured vision
of a paradise on earth

I’d like to make myself believe
but empty runs the hourglass
again I’ve heard the daily news
and I’m so weary, and brokenhearted

yes, I’d like to make myself believe
I’d like to, really like to
but sometimes now I even wonder
if anyone ever truly did

• • •

• poem above borrowed key line from the song “Fireflies” by Owl City

_________________

Time Running Out

•

once demure discourse

now rhetoric to offend

volatile neighbors

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• haiku above also offered for the visual prompt Mag 23 at Magpie Tales,
and the September 15th prompt at Three Word Wednesday.


Mag 23

Bit ‘O Whimsy

This piece is offered in response to prompt #70 at Carry On Tuesday.



Bit ‘O Whimsy

•

One misty moisty morning
The mist was most prevailing
And then it started storming
On that misty moisty morning

It came up without a warning
hailstones began to hailing
And I missed the morning mailing
On that misty moisty morn

Though I mostly miss the morning mail
That morn I felt mostly forlorn
I had to catch the mail that morn
But by 10 minutes I was trailing

So I began to flailing
Down the lane my feet were sailing
But the mailman was ailing
And hadn’t made his morning mail

So on that misty moisty morning
In a storm that had no warning
When I should have been emailing
My mail and me got mostly soaked

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• painting entitled “Rain Man” by: Vane Kosturanov

Final Sentinel

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Final Sentinel

~

I watched
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)

  • Author’s Note: let’s strive to see part two never happens…

    _____________

  • What Do You See

    Mother-less

    This piece is offered in response to prompt Mag 31 at Magpie Tales



    Mother-less

    (bastard’s lament)

    •

    undesired
    discarded
    thrown away

    though whole
    sound
    and useful

    no matter

    labeled mistake
    misbegotten
    unfortunate

    shown the back

    outside
    looking in

    left behind

    alone
    by the side
    of life’s road
    to endure
    the harsh weather
    of abandonment

    tried
    convicted
    sentenced for life
    to suffer confusion
    shame
    the sorrow
    of the unwanted

    condemned

    guilty only
    of the crime
    of inconvenience

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    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