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

Time Window

This piece is offered in response to visual prompt Mag 24 at Magpie Tales.




Time Window

•

In the solitude
of my assisted exile
the window above me
frames a grey
and barren sky

but with eyes closed
I see home
of long ago
alive with morning

the scurry of creatures
warmed by summer

I hear nature
in splendid voice

the chuff
of tree’d red squirrel

the song
chirp
and trill of birds

chickadee
goldfinch
western bluebird
and others

fly
flutter
and flit

cracking black-oil sunflower seeds
that spill from feeders

a red-tailed hawk
calls
from atop a Sitka spruce
swaying
in the crisp blue sky

the muffled belling of a deer
wandering the safety of old-growth
whispers
through the foothills

the distant bark
of a neighbor’s dog
echoing the basin
up along our stream
reminds me
we have friends nearby

my wife’s
gentle laughter
validates the friendship

her tender smile
validates our love

the rustle of leaves
stirred by the breeze
wafts through the valley

smartly punctuated
by the staccato
of conifer cones
that fall
from time to time
wrested free by chickaree
and chipmunk
chattering high in Douglas fir
busy with their forage

wap wap wap

they bounce off our roof
striking the ground

closely followed
by the scamper
of their liberators
crunching their way
to the heart-meat of the cone
the delicacy
that elicits this furious industry

drifting in the window
intoxicating fragrances

cedar
pine
fir

lily
rose
lilac

grasses
loam
and more

a rich
earthy bouquet

caught in my reverie
I breathe in
deeply
to suddenly remember

I am alone
carefully banished
to this forgotten cloister

sobered
I exhale
and do not open my eyes

a solitary tear
escapes

• • •

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 •

Gravity

…in response to the 12th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island, I offer a perspective on regret…




Gravity

•

if I could
but glide
like a bird in flight

I would soar skyward
in sweeping circles
lifted on mighty thermals
I would not be earthbound
not a captive of gravity

if I could
but break the gravity
of time
I would not be a prisoner
of regret

I would return to you

this day would be soaring
and swooping
and giving thanks
for feathers and hollow bones

and forgiveness

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Breakfast Lovers Fanatsy

…I wrote this in response to the July 5th prompt at Big Tent Poetry


 

Breakfast Lovers Fantasy

•

whether panning for poached
fishing for fried
or sifting for softly scrambled

maybe bobbing for boiled
or sunny side up
angling for over easy

perhaps baiting a hook
for benedict
or dangling a lure for deviled

be they baked in cakes
or dropped in soup
it’s a whites & yolks wet dream

it’s a breakfast lovers fantasy
going to the eggs stream

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• manipulated photo entitled: “PanFish” — created by: rob kistner

July Midnight

July Midnight

•

relentless din
of crawling
prowling
night
pours steaming
through my window

midnight intrudes
damp and searing

insistent

scalded air
too hot and thick to breathe
a heat to suffocate

coarse whirr drones overhead
promising relief

in vain

sweltered darkness
lays heavy upon me

unbearable

I toss in labored half-sleep
gasping for cool relief

haltingly
I deep inhale to fill my lunges
only to bake them
in cruel sustaining breath
this oven to endure

salted droplets trace my spine
baste my neck
pool in the hollow of my fevered chest
bloom and seep
from beneath the smother
of matted soak atop my head
to weep their way ‘cross smoldered brow
into my eyes
and sting

no respite
in this nocturne furnace

night clings
and stifles

even dreams are scorched
simmering in July

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


You Are Here


It was 15 years ago today
you were taken from this earth

I could not sleep last night
the tears come at times today

tears because I miss you
tears because I love you
tears because the memories
bitter and sweet
bring forth these true emotions

you abide within my heart these days
in a place of warmth and peace
I am so thankful you are here
and will always be

______________________________

in loving memory of my son
Aaron Robert Kistner
November 4, 1976 – July 3, 1995

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 •

Flash Dance

…response to prompt #21 from Magpie Tales




Flash Dance

(version 1)

•

like a tiny universe
of noisy
newborn stars

exploding
with sizzle
and fire
in a plethora
of vivid color

a flash dance
of vibrant sparks
showering our dewy
midnight lawn

this cacophony
of celebration
and pyrotechnical
wonders

passes in
then out of existence
in but a moment
this magical night

_____________

(version 2)

•

a tiny universe
of noisy
newborn stars

explodes
with sizzle and fire
a spectacle bizarre

a flash dance
of dazzling sparks
shower the heavens
in wondrous light

this cacophony
of celebration
and pyrotechnical
delight

passes in
then out of existence
in but a thrilling moment
this magical night

_____________

(version 3)

•

a tiny universe
of newborn stars
explodes above us
bold and bright

they swoosh and sizzle
spin and tumble
in mesmerizing
fiery flight

a flash dance
of dazzling sparks
shower the heavens
in wondrous light

this cacophony
of celebration
this pyrotechnical
delight

passes in
then out of existence
in but a moment
this magical night

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

_____________

• photo of aerial fireworks by: Astro Spectacular

Questions

…I wrote this in response to the June 28th prompt at Big Tent Poetry
and for prompt #59 at Carry On Tuesday


 

Questions

•

he lifts himself quietly
from beneath the sheets
soiled with neglect

makes his way carefully
past the shallow-breathed crumple
that lay milky-eyed in a heap
un-moving on the floor
save a twitch of the sodden head

this wreckage is his mother

why do you just lie there mother
my head is full of demons son

the response only imagined
she remains slack and death-like
where nocturne angels of sweet release
had laid down lush upon her
in fevered embrace
lustfully conjured
by last night’s spoon and lance
still skewered silver in the soured vein

mother — why do you want to die
the return is only silence

he lingers but a moment
verifying life
then moves on
head down

he angles to the bathroom
to the scum-brown bowl
to wash his face
a face lit sallow by the yellowed bulb
that hangs bare and lonely

eyes of knowing
eyes of sadness
stare into the mirror
broken as his heart
then close

your eyes hold a story my son
will you tell me your story

yes mother
if you really want to hear about it
if you really could

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


No Longer Imagine

…in response to the 9th prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I offer a perspective on love…
…but first a short verse I wrote inspired by prompt #8 at We Write Poems

•
see feel hear touch breath live
life is a sensual garden
no longer imagine

•



No Longer Imagine

•

I can no longer imagine
the heat of the red rock desert
soothing my weary bones
nor the vivid red

I can no longer imagine
the power of the blue pacific
thumping the huge stack rocks
on the coast at sunset

I can no longer imagine
the sweet face of my first-born son
held in loving embrace
passed on now 15 years

I can no longer imagine
the soft spring rain
misting the morning light
bringing life to winter earth

I can no longer imagine
the stir of a summer breeze
shimmering across the surface
of a high mountain lake

I can no longer imagine
the filtered autumn sun
falling gentle golden
through a red wood canopy

for I have experienced
these wonders
known these treasures
they enrich me

I need no longer imagine
the fire in a woman’s eyes
the magic of a woman’s smile
the tenderness of a woman’s touch
the passion of a woman’s kiss
nor what it is to love you

• • •

rob kistner © 2010



• photo of Oregon coast at top entitled “Neverending” by: Marc Adamus, an incredible wilderness landscape photographer based in Corvallis, Oregon

Extinction’s Shadow

…these are rewrites of prior drafts, edited fresh for the June 21st prompt at Big Tent Poetry
and strongly influenced by prompt #7 at We Write Poems


Extinction’s Shadow

•

smothered by big oil
our blue planet is dying
greed’s shadow falls hard

•

future is mortgaged
to petrochemical lust
fatal addiction

•

mankind is drowning
in a flood of fossil fuel
black tide of folly

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• 3D color rendering at top entitled: “Too Long in the Shadow”
by: rob kistner © 2008