deep azure crystalline lake
bull frog rises slow
ripples lap the bulbous ryes
crisp scent of water lilies
ripples on this mirrored lake
rise and drift gently
into the golden sunlight
big bull croaks softly — dreams rise
rob kistner © 2020
https://earthweal.com/2020/10/02/earthweal-open-link-weekend-39
Sorry for this interruption. Feel free to ignore this section and move directly down to the poem, if you choose. The poem is much more sensual and dreamy. This first section is cold, no-filtered, stark reality — fully and sincerely expressed, as I see it. You see, I need to sum up my final, perhaps controversial thoughts, on the issue of protest, introduced here last Thursday. I have been slowly simmering since then: Love MUST win. My proud hippie soul tells me it can — it must for earth, and her human tribe to flourish. As naive and pollyanna as this may sound, I haven’t lived nearly 74 years believing that peace, love, and intelligence will find a way — to simply stand by and see these qualities of integrity snd dignity trampled beneath the feet of humankind’s baser instincts. Perhaps good people have turned the other cheek for too long. Maybe being passively resigned to the perpetraters of evil is not the way. Perhaps it requires an extreme natural culling of the tribe to remove the evil, the result of the arrogant stupidity of that group. Whether I should revel in that possibility is something my peaceful self has been truly struggling with the past few years — since the extinguishing of the Obama light. It goes against my nature. But the continuing greedy, destructive, and heartless ways must end, or perhaps be brought to an end. At my age and health, I, and most of my Aquarian generation, can’t, or won’t, effectively mount the resistance. We lack the stamina or money, or both. Too many among my generation, who may be capable, have lost the vision — turned during the mine-me-first Reagan 80’s, and the grab-fest in the years that followed. I feel we need responsible, strong young leaders to organize on a large scale, activate on a broad scale. It breaks my heart to say it — but me and my generation, we failed. Those who are coming after us, can’t afford to — or humankind and this great spaceship earth, truly are fucked! The power can belong to the young — take it, and wield it wisely! Sorry if I shocked or offended. Just the honest humble opinion of a tired old man. Not too tired to *** VOTE! VOTE! VOTE! ***
That Velvet
would I were that velvet
that she reaches for so fondly
strokes with delicate pure fingers
with soft silken hands she lingers
embraces to her bosom
wraps ’round her slender shoulders
tingles with excitement
as she surrenders to its touch
would I were that velvet
that drapes her lilting essence
that falls and folds and fondles
as she ascends the stairs each night
the plush and luscious fiber
that rises on her breasts
with each soft and subtle sigh
each deep impassioned breath
oh would I were that velvet
that glides her naked form
on those sunset autumn evenings
enwraps her perfect body warm
that chills and thrills in shivers
as she opens it ‘neath moonlight
and swoons hushed smouldered gasps
as she blooms forth firm and pleasured
oh would I were that velvet
would I were that velvet
oh sweet sensuous angel
would I were
would I were
rob kistner © 2012
(revision © 2020)
~
stalks lie down in fields
arbors ache ‘neath harvest moon
fall is on the land
rob kistner © 2020
~
the keeping of it
the regaining of it
when lost
life is awesome
an experience of the profound
it is the mystery
we are not meant to solve
rather
to celebrate
with grace
and wonder
so wonder powerfully
and dream ferociously
carry those dreams
in open hands
so promise’s winds
catch them to soar
bestow those dreams
wings of faith
to carry you
to wisdom’s shore
share those dreams
with an open mind
resonate truth
inspire others to be more
offer those dreams
in peace to all
in love to all
love is the door
the gateway
to the great mystery
love is all you need
in the end
the love you take
is the love you make
so share love
make love
love with great freedom
with great abandon
with gratitude
with the power of the spheres
just as the butterfly
lights upon the petal
so too
hold love
tenderly
love is the truth
love maintains the balance
rob kistner © 2020
~
In this moonlit forest, autumn shimmers bright and crisp, through the boughs of old growth, like a wisp of star clusters. Softly it sweeps our high-mountain meadow in a dazzling down.
This night falls brisk, quiet as a whisper, when a great white owl echoes through the frosted cedars. Lover and beloved, entwined ‘neath midnight’s window, we sigh, enchanted by this lullaby floating on the freshening breeze.
In warm embrace we muse, until with dreams, we drift into a gentle slumber, aloft in wonder, unmoored of time and place. We breathe deeply this lover’s nocturne, wrapped in the splendor of the ebb and flow of magic.
rob kistner © 2020
what is racism
you think that you understand
listen to pookie
then don’t just say, “I got it”
listen again — listen hard
rob kistner © 2020
His mom calls him Pookie.
My head was turned, and my mind and my heart was opened by this man, Brandon Leake, a spoken word artist — winner of this season’s AGT. He made this white man look a little more deeply at what I think I understand, and I thank him for it! Truth and revelation can be found in unexpected places.
To elucidate. The power I found in Brandon was his ability to make me better “feel” a bit clearer, the impact that racism has on a black parent — his mother. That woke me to realize that I have never “thought” I was racist, and still don’t, when I intellectualize it. But I had no genuine inkling of how it really feels, and still don’t at its full depth and measure.
But I now understand, and feel, at least the initial threshold of that particular black parent experience, in that I know well, in my gut, the fear and worry I have regarding the safety and well bring of my children and my grandchild — and I don’t have to include worrying about their very life, simply because of the color of their skin. I have “known” that such a situation existed in the black reality, but I never had to include that in my portfolio of parental fears and feelings.
My 18-year-old son Aaron was killed, so as a parent/grandparent, I always hope their lives are safe. But Aaron was not killed for the absurd reason of the color of his skin. Now, because of Brandon’s remarkable ability as a poet and spoken word artist, he has made me feel a bit of that unfortunate black terror.
My mind and heart have been expanded a little further because of Brandon “Pookie” Leak, a truly remarkable young man, whose words and voice I hope continue to ring out with the power and possibility that he embodies. Please stay safe young man! Peace!
descended from the loins of circe
she is a goddess of the wand
mistress of both love and mercy
she’ll take you to xanadu and beyond
fantastic is this spell she’s casting
magic of a splendorous kind
a world of wonder everlasting
in treasure troves of dreams entwined
in fantasy’s elaboration
through stars of splendor you’ll ascend
a journey through pure imagination
your blissful voyage will never end
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
the horror of that night
holds the seal tight
the memory riveted
grief’s blackened key
securely barring entry
none can pass
his bitter resolve
makes certain
none will try
this is a stark forbidden place
stoney
crypt-like
cold and barren
as the moon
unyielding
lifeless
a wasteland of the lost
inhabited by the dead
the gate grown over
by a tangle of despair
and anger
but see
a shadow falls across the threshold
someone approaches
a comely being
warm and alive
lays gentle siege
threatening to breach
his hardened fortress
but this lovely creature
fair and fragile
can not possibly gain entrance
must not
he will resist
this is wrong
this is trespass
this is cruel betrayal
of his lost beloved
he has no right
to leave this place of sorrow
no right
but his stronghold is succumbing
falling
to this delicate advance
he is vulnerable
confused
but it is useless to resist
searching with a patient heart
she has found the key
grasped in her loving hand
it has become golden
fingers tenderly enfold it
gently
she slides it into the lock
turning with great care
he is defenseless
he feels his heart slowly open
the long forgotten stir of love
begins to warm his soul
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
the horror of that night
holds the seal tight
the memory riveted
securely barring entry
none can pass
his bitter resolve
makes certain
none will try
this is a stark forbidden place
stoney
crypt-like
cold and barren
as the moon
unyielding
lifeless
a wasteland of the lost
inhabited by the dead
the gate grown over
by a tangle of grief
and anger
any memory
of a once vital presence
of a living breath
of warmth
of joy
forever gone
long ago
brutal night had fallen
on the void within
no sun can penetrate
the blackness soothes him
he retreats into its depths
embraces its lightless void
hiding
sulking
shielded from any possibility
of further pain
or remorse
he is unfeeling
safely lifeless
in that long ago
he gave his heart’s key
to dark despair
who
shrouded in mourning
atop the winged bird of misery
took flight
never to return
never to return
never
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
Immortal Heart
~
mysterious lady in blackened silk
a bewitching beauty as to mesmerize
sculpted by a darklord’s hand
so seductive as to scandalize
a wilding stare of icy blue
floats above a dangerous pout
spellbound by her magic eyes
she holds your soul with no way out
her tongue tip teases her top lip’s edge
like a supple paintbrush flowing
her smile will ignite and hypnotize
then wrap around you knowing
you are now her helpless captive
held hopelessly soul addicted
as her immortal heart combusts to flame
is she an angel — or truly wicked
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
the party promises to be a blast
cool people, drinks, and food of ev’ry kind
these soirees have been epic in the past
if we are late, we will be left behind
tomorrow it is breakfast on the beach
it’s there we meet our hostess for the week
she’ll have the masks she’s chosen, one for each
remember, after that we do not speak
then to the yacht, where wondrous games are played
magic – this high seas silent masquerade
exchanging today’s deadly disease for wildfire tomorrow
its not fair to be trapped on this dark trail of sorrow
gold and joy in 2020, it was to be my very best year yet
for my dreams were to flourish, I’d have all that I could get
brassy fire ‘n tears are what happened, oh, such burning regret
rob kistner © 2020
Goblins be Wan’drin
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2020
