Rob Kistner – Page 16 – Image & Verse

Sky of Ardor

“Demand & Supply” by: Erik Johansson

T here’s an island city
rises from the sea
may not be for you
it’s heaven for me

every desire is satisfied
every night’s a fantasy
but you work your ass off
ain’t nothin’ free

there’s a suspended gondola
locked to most
but for the special
there are keys

those invited
have been given one
those who have none
are not invited

take your pitiful
elsewhere
please

to the inner sanctum
the gondola rises

come barefaced and honest
this place is brutal real
knife edge zeal
no agendas
no false guises

a place of labor
a place of ardor
a place of hard truth
a place of tough love
of amazing miracles
from wondrous minds

this place’l grip ya’
like steel binds

it’s the ever-pulsing artery
feeding the beating heart
of the truly free

come with me
and you will see
a most surreal
reality

but know
these are not lies

if you enter that door
to make that rise
you will be changed…

…forevermore

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

Moon & Zephyr

“Shoot for the Moon, even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.” — Les Brown

“Full Moon Service” by: Erik Johansson

PROLOGUE

This is the perfect moon tonight
I made certain it’d be just right
silkenly cool and subtly bright
a sublime orb of heavenly light

MAIN POEM

Moon spills in
the open window
paints the room
a soft silver glow

as a moonlit breeze
comes tumbling in
stirring a hush
of sweet refresh

it dances deftly
up your arms
across your chest
to tease your flesh

in whispered rushes
lightly lilting
fluttered breaths
caress your face

to wrap itself
soft upon you
in soothingly
fond embrace

as the moonlight
holds you tender
zephyred fingers
toss your hair

moon’s unexpected
cool companion
this night breeze
performed with flair

EPILOGUE

With this perfect moon tonight
the zephyr was a surprise delight
all my plans worked out just right
and my crew has moons for future nights

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

Now, for some music:

Pack Man

I possess a wild heart. I’m a free spirit, living my best life to remain free — in sacred balance with my world — this earth we human creatures, share with all creatures.

It was long ago, summer 1955, on this day, without a date that I recall, I was first introduced to my wild nature, in the Canadian wilderness, by a kindred wild soul, who’d adopted me into his pack.

That day he began helping me understand, and seeking my balance with nature, standing in small-town Espanola, filling our fishing boat with gas and provisions, at a small general store, on a back street, dusky with growing Canadian sunset. Under the breathtaking Aurora Borealis, as we drove into Ontario wilderness, he talked in depth, of life ahead, on a primitive fishing island. Amazed, I actually howled. I grew to manhood runnin’ with our pack.

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

W e must genuinely strive to never lose our sense of wonder, the wonder we had as a child. To a child the world is wonder. Do you remember the excitement, curiosity, pleasure, the fear, uncertainty, sometimes pain, but the overall amazement that surrounded you as a child on your journey growing up? The sheer joy of being a child. We must always encourage and help them in their growth, and never discourage or block their exploration. The children truthfully are our future. Just because we are old, and perhaps have become jaded, never let that interfere with our ability to see through the beautiful, clear orb of joy that surrounds a child; treasure it, nourish it, and celebrate it!

~ meet our new doggy: Myles ~

SunsetGunn

NOTE — I borrowed lines and inspiration from my 2011 poem: Skye Fyre

The SunsetGunn is loaded, the controls, in GunnMaster’s grip
calmly concentrating, he scans the horizon with careful eyes
the golden sun having made his journey, is weary from the trip
quicksilver moon will very soon, traverse the starry skies

Gaia rolls on gently, hushed in quiet space
GunnMaster has her skyline, locked squarely in his sight
Gaia pulls a veil of stars, slowly across her face
GunnMaster has a task, he needs complete before its night

he’s to set the sky ablaze, before he falls to sleep
a fiery coral-orange, twilight-blue, and crimson-red
in patterns broad and bold, in colors rich and deep
he carefully aims the SunsetGunn, and blasts it overhead

in a brilliant, blinding flash, he sets the dimming skies a’fire
in vivid hues, and lavish shades — the dusky sky ignites and burns
GunnMaster has succeeded, so for this night, he can retire
the SunriseGunn already loaded, in early morning, he returns

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

A few more from Animal Logic — GOOD SHIT!

Love On The Wing

Standing at land’s end
atop a soaring precipice
jutting into the Pacific
I’m observing an Osprey
aka sea hawk

a magnificent single species
with four subspecies
these creatures
have ridden earth’s thermals
over eleven million years
fishing every type water
of every continent on the globe

the one I’m watching
is suspended in flight
high overhead
130 feet above the ocean
aloft on the westerly breeze
billowing up
then wafting down the cliff

just then
a tight wing tuck
a silent dive

effortlessly
it snatches a surprised trout
from its water’s home

using its deft skill
with talons
turns the fish
headlong into the wind
inherently aware of aerodynamics

he’s taking it back
to its stick-built
life long nest
high in the top
of a conifer at water’s edge

I’m mesmerized

this is a younger Osprey
though it will make this dive
over and over
in its 25 years of life
always taking the catch back
to it’s monogamous mate

this is a love story

he and his mate
will remain together
during their lives
and may travel 150,000 miles
including extensive migrations
always returning to home nest

he first attracted his mate
performing an aerial display
known as the “sky-dance”

he hovered
wobbled in flight
and screamed for attention
all in the name of love

snapping out of this recall
I am suddenly taken
by the breathtaking beauty
stretching before me

undulating azure blue
that’s falling away
over earth’s edge
into forever

unfurling below
a white ribbon of sand

fragile

pristine

a breath between eternal sea
and towering rock facades
flanking left and right
in sweeping panorama

the Oregon Coast
in all it’s majesty

this is my summer perch
up with the Osprey
since first I discovered it
thirty three years ago

my thoughts are adrift
enveloping me once again

just then
the breeze freshens
disrupts my reverie
tosses my hair
buffers my chest

I shudder
bracing against vertigo
swept up in a feeling
as an Osprey
rockets down the cliff face

oh to be un-tethered
weightless
no longer earthbound
like that magnificent raptor

my eyes close
my soul lifts
takes wing
soars skyward

I feel the wind on my face

I’m flying!

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

Come fly with Michael Hedges!

NOTE: Ospreys are amazing raptors. They require nest sites in open surroundings for easy approach, with a wide, sturdy base and safety from ground predators (such as raccoons). Nests are usually built in treetops, or crotches between large branches and trunks; also on cliff edges, or human-built platforms, such as forest fire spotting towers, and large power poles of towers, generally in the wilderness, or isolated areas very near wilderness. Osprey pairs return to the same nest each year and add new nest materials to the old nest each year. The only exception is when their nest is obliterated behond reclamation, either natually, such as by forest fire, or by man. The male osprey collects the sticks, branches, and debri, while the female assembles thd nest.

I’m Here

T onight
memories unfold

fragile
as an old map
creased deeply
with regret

too late
I’ve returned

mom
you’ve joined dad

ghosts
in this old manor

father’s strength
your love
will be
forever-present
within these walls

the saddest tears
cloud my eyes

”I’m here”
I whisper

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: dVerse

Tongue Tangled

Muted void
in soundless gape

through which
language stumbles
stutters
mumbles

and left failed

cruel fate
impaled
on the horn of broca

thus expressionless
meaningless

darklinged
amorphous
ever-elusive
tongue-less exasperation

unsaid frustration

‘round and down
cerebral corridors
in search of
the temple of words

structure blurred
form unfound

unbound to sound
of worth
or understanding

dispossessed
of diction
of spoken function

meaning fractured

chasing the elusive
train of thought

and yet
to know

frail clarity though
lost

mired
in chaotic utterance
communication breakdown
logic unbound

in the heathen’d secret
of cacophony

it fogs and fades
flounders
unformed

intent lost
falling to stammer
unfocused yammer

helplessly stilted
stifled

abandoned in a
scattered field
of rigid expression

to fall
to silence

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Brother Can You

When one needs help
more often than not
we share with the other
what it is we got

but when I asked today
could a hand be lent
this sure as hell
ain’t what I meant

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Musicalirious

”The only truth is music.” – Jack Kerouac

~ inspired by the images – envisioned in a jazz scatt vocal style ~

Oh spirits
of the toned wood
and taut tuned twine
come to me

be with me
play for me
talk to me
knock me out

whisper
in a resonant breath
about the chordal’d structure
of harmonic truth

tell me about
the wirebirds
of violaville
in the tenth world

taunt me
in a flurry
of rhythmic dissonance

of sizzling
scalded jazz

free me from this tiny
box of lies
lift this veil
from off my eyes

deliver me from this
life in a bottle

let me throw wide my heart
to release my soul

tell me how
to get to dreamland

to cotton avenue
on a hot off-night
back-street in jericho

rise from your knees
reveal your mysteries

tell me of the fires
on paprika plains
that consumed your souls
a’top lustful fretboard pyres
in tempos of immortality

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

see — I remember

I want to go
I am ready

an inferno burns
inside me

desire rages strong
to rise in musicality
ride’n the bliss of rhythm
fervor’d in song
spotlessly syncopated

totally musicalirious

father downbeat
bang the drum
I am your snaredrum son

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

impassioned
I will prowl
the shadow’d haunts
of beal street
searching hard
for a secret lover

alight me lyrical
perched talon to key
on a moonlit eighty eight

aflame
with the creole spices
of the quartier français

following your ghosts
in second line lockstep
down bourbon sidewalks
in a gumbo’d swing

let me be loosed
in the beautiful
ethereal world
of love and music
inhabited by Aurora
if I can truly deserve
an earthly angel’s presence

all while seeking
don jaun’s reckless daughter

my scarlet jezebel
my nocturne angel
my torchsong diva

to take me
in a 3-4 fever

at sunset
strip me down
to the bleeding beat

or whirl me ‘round
to burn me down
to nashvillian dobro’d ash

charted forever
in the wild ivory winds
and rimshot rains
of reverberant recall

come

take me now
back to those precious
percussive peaks
of taut rockin’ riffdom
dangerclad
and streetsmart

carnal dark seraph
I’m eager ’n itchin’

come to me

*
rob kistner © 2023

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

More poetry at: dVerse

OLN poetry at: dVerse

Fill My World

Music music is everywhere
the sound of music
can fill the air

it can slip right through the tiniest hole
it can fill a room
it can fill your soul

the power of music has great potential
its power to fill
is exponential

feeling deflated — hope won’t float
music will fill it up
note by note

soft music on a sunny April afternoon
can evoke sweet daydreams
even make you swoon

music can put you in a joyful trance
it can fill your feet
full of dance

it can fill the void in an empty life
it can obliterate sadness
eliminate strife

a tender song might coax a gentle hum
a rocker makes you wanna
bang the drum

music can stir your passions up
it will fully fill
your lovin’ cup

the right song and you might discover
you have a hidden desire
for a secret lover

by flowing into the empty part
music can fill
a lonely heart

a score or lyric in your favorite style
will fill your face
with a beaming smile

music is powerful and invasive stuff
but in this angry world
can there be enough

Poetry at: dVerse

https://youtu.be/bKUSknURDWw

A Boy Of Spring

T his time every year, rich memories stir my soul, perhaps coaxed by the warming breezes of spring. Memories filled with the smell of leather, oiled in Neatsfoot. Maybe its the clatter of wooden bats in a canvass bag, the rattle of metal spikes on concrete, the snug feel of the ballglove, or tuggin’ on the ballcap, with the bill rolled just right.

Perhaps it’s the smoothness of the cowhide sphere, my finger grip on raised seams, that stirs in my warm recall. Or the click and clack of the catcher’s gear, as he crouches, giving me the signs. Maybe it’s my right foot on the rubber, just before my leg coils for delivery. The “hey batter batter” chatter from my infielders, just before the loud pop of the ball in the pocket of the catcher’s mit — me waiting eagerly to hear “steee-rike threeee” ring out from the ump!

Or is it your arm around my shoulder, the pride in your eyes, as I step down, entering the dugout, after retiring the other team. “Nice job pitch”, you say. “Thanks dad, I mean coach” is my reply. Your were my Little League coach, and you helped make me a helluva hurler — which carried my ball career all the way through high school.

It is every year at this time, that I think of all of this, that I think of you dad. How you wanted me to try pro, and how the scout felt I had the arm — but it is the path I didn’t take. I chose music and the arts, and you never made me feel sorry for my choice — one that you supported as genuinely as you did my sports. It is you I think of this time of year, you I still miss so. You dad, are these memories, and I love you deeply, now in this tearful moment — and always. Thank you for coaching me, and for loving me!

vivid white chalk stripes
laid neatly on soft tan dirt
dad’s gift of baseball

Poetry at: dVerse

Strange Things Folks Say

Hey Sundance, watch this back-dive!
¥

Naw, I’m fine — haven’t finished my last cup yet.
¥

Outdoor concert my ass! Look at all this seagull shit.
¥

Wow! This butterfly is surprisingly quite good! Crunchy!
¥

Damn! Got myself cornered.
¥

Oh my! I think perhaps I’ve over watered yet again.
¥

Hey Clarence — what the hell ya’ think cape-lady wants?
¥

I sure feel like I been in a rut lately.
¥

IMAGES ABOVE
1 by: Jimmy Mitchell
2 by: Rebeca Cygnus
3 by: Vincent Bourilhon
4 by: Volkan Kacar
5 by: Alison Scarpulla
6 by: Josh S. Rose
7 by: Lara Zankoul
8 by: Anonymous

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Existential Pudding

Yesterday is money spent
a corner turned
the choice that’s made
the tear that’s shed
the sentence spoken
the breath exhaled
the fuel consumed
the life that’s lived
all gone to ash

today is influence
momentum moving
the raindrop falling
hands on the wheel
the river flowing
the voice that’s singing
it’s life breathing
it’s face to face
it’s real time

tomorrow is the land of dreams
it’s the great unknown
the wheel of fate
it’s the far horizon
the dawn approaching
the planted seed
has no guarantee
yet it’s full of promise
and it’s full of dread

yesterday was once today
today likewise was once tomorrow
tomorrow will be yesterday
but first it must become today

this is the strand continuum
how we see it through our eyes
it stretches from before awareness
and far beyond all that dies
are we essence — riding it timeless
or being — to but wonder and surmise
as we watch it passing by — so helpless

Poetry at: dVerse

Day 22 at: NaPoWriMo 2023

Relativity Explained

Red Shutters

“To live without passion is to not live.” Molière

P assion
let it flare fire red
red as the shuttered windows
of Paris rue du limuze
that conceal the carnal
intertwined
on a starburst night

in the throes
of steaming conquest
ripe with release
coursing with hunger
for the tender flesh
of reckless passion

white hot
as a deflowered bride
burning with the lust
of an august first-night
impaled on the horn
of promise and desire

there will be no truth
in these minglings
only raw bleeding need
and the quenchless thirst
for bittersweet
forbidden nectar

when you hear
the hushed whispers
know that it was so
and so it will remain
in the lithe loins
of the skin slaves
fully aflame
behind Paris red shutters

”Harlot” by Andrew Atroshenko,