Champion

Offered in response to prompt #138 at One Single Impression.




Champion

•

search not in the bright lights
that illuminate the field of glory
nor midst the din of exaltation
if you seek a hero’s story

look instead outside the glare
in the quiet place beyond
where no accolades are strewn
and no ivy laurels donned

where daily life is hard
and the living less than grand
where the strength to persevere
depends on the extended hand

where the poor struggle without
the weak endeavor day to day
it’s here by selfless sweat of brow
the brave endure to find a way

willing to give all they’ve got
to daily do what must be done
to share when even they have not
to face their fear not turn and run

to reach and help the one’s in need
to fight the fight that must be fought
more than the words — to do the deed
to stand and smile not shrink distraught

it’s among these who seldom win
yet rise each day and strive again
it’s here your search should begin
it’s here you’ll find your champion

• • •


Champion

(tanka)

•

kind words quell salt tears

strong hand steadies unsure step

warm smile calms heart’s fear

no praise sought or expected

quiet humble champion

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

No First Ink

Offered in response to prompt #136 at One Single Impression,
and in response to prompt #73 on Carry On Tuesday,
also in response to prompt #189 at Three Word Wednesday.




No First Ink

•

I lean upon my folded fist
cool against my temple
elbow solid on my cluttered desk

eyes droop and flicker
aflame with spoiled sleep

face slacked
head now dropped
held in my hands
heavy with confusion

skull upon the finger bones
in weighted indecision
procrastination presses down

where art thou muse
I seek weightless inspiration
to be lifted up by you

instead
the hum of cooling bytes
drones relentless in my ears
impossible to ignore
no matter how I try

thoughts like digits on a dollar slot
spin unsettled in my mind
they neither click nor lock in place
they tumble in a jumble
to roll and blur just out of focus
lost in mental fog

sunken in my writer’s chair
I remain immobile
paralyzed by perplexity
imprisoned by the chaos
awhirl in my mind

the freedom of decision
impossible to manage

I fear nothing will be writ
no first ink will be shed this day

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


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.

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

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

The Box

This piece is offered in response to prompt Mag 29 at Magpie Tales,
and the August 25th prompt at Three Word Wednesday,
and prompt #18 at Writer’s Island.




The Box

…a short story of intrigue…

•

“What do you mean Taylor,” Gwen inquired, the strain obvious in her weary voice. “Who exactly is going to confront Dylan… and why?”

Her voice trailed off to an exasperated whisper. The why was not so much a question, as an exhalation of confused frustration. She seemed to know the answer was much too complicated to address at this hour, and she was too spent, physically and emotionally, to want to hear it.

Gwen turned away from Taylor, head lowered. Her arms fell limp at her side, fingers splayed. She was trying her best to process what Taylor was saying, to understand him – to understand the recent events that had brought her to this place in time… trying to make sense of anything. Her head was spinning, and she could feel the fatigue deep in her bones.

She dropped back onto the sofa, half sitting, half lying down – an exhausted slouch. She felt paralyzed, thoughts racing through her mind – fragmented, disconnected thoughts. If only she could clear her head. She was in trouble.
Continue reading The Box

True Work

I offer this piece in response to prompt #18 at Writer’s Island.

______________

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I had this incomplete 3-year-old draft of my poem “True Work” (loosely inspired by Gary Snyder’s “Real Work”). I had wanted, for some time, to edit it into a piece, with which I would be more satisfied. The above listed prompt inspired me to create a suite of poetry, threaded together by the phrase: true work. My focus for this suite being humanity, which was the crux of the “True Work” draft I already had. The digital rendering I created of the hand holding the world helped me finish my vision of this poetry suite.

______________

“empty your love into the world”
“the true work is never done”

 

True Work

____
I bend my back and squat
then straighten at the waist
hunkered ‘neath the weight
I lift clean the load
the warehouseman’s refrain
always on my mind
“back straight
lift with the legs”

the first test – no result
I try a second
then a third
on and on
day after day
long hours in the lab
the formula must be perfect
only perfect will save lives

drywall must be flush
and plumb
also square and seamless
meticulously
I set each sheet
with the level and the bob
then pause
to wipe my sweating brow

I curse the clay
do battle with fatigue
I coax my muse
to commit to form
the first draft of my vision
to then modify
and remold
until the ultimate creation

these are elements of the work I do
or did
or may yet do
and I am you
and you are me
and we are all together
in this endeavor of our daily life

but this is not our true work

to bend to lift someone in need
to help carry their burden
until they again stand steady

to seek the components of peace
to formulate the dialog
that fosters understanding

to measure well tolerance
to stand squarely flush
with truth and level justice

to visualize universal love
to create the enduring model
for a free and vital world

this — is our true work

so little done
so much to do

* * *

 

If Only
____

stressed beyond limits

earth’s fragile balance falters

but this can be changed

her future is in our hands

if only we do true work

* * *

 

Endeavor
____

abstain from false pride

prayer does not a halo make

that requires true work

____

rob kistner © 2010

 

* photorendering above entitled “In Our Hands”
by: rob kistner © 2010

Old Man’s Prayer

…this piece is in response to the 16th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island,
and visual prompt Mag 27 at Magpie Tales (see image at bottom),
also offered for prompt 129 at One Single Impression,
and for prompt 228 at Sunday Scribblings….




Old Man’s Prayer

•

successful as a younger man
the grind became my home
and I a conduit of worry
could I keep the crazy pace

years spun wild as a top
around faster ever faster
life layering its patina
etched deeply in my face

suddenly no longer young
now looking back from 63
I’ve known triumph I’ve known tragedy
they’ve marked me both the same

I’ve borrowed bought and sold
strayed through several shades of grey
but have I leveraged my soul
just to play the fleeting game

I pray I will not be an old man
gazing lonely out my window
trying to remember
exactly how long it has rained

not sitting silent by the fire
lost in contemplation
wondering if all I lost
was worth what it was I gained

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photo of top from the movie Inception

_________________



Mag 27

Too Still

This piece is offered in response to prompt Mag 26 at Magpie Tales




Still

•

it sits
still
atop the corner
of our garden wall
just where she left it

how many lilies
did it nourish
how many fuscia
lilac
rose
and morning glory
did it quench

it dispensed its
life giving waters
so gracefully
in her hand

such a delicate hand
gentle in its task
of planting new growth
but rugged on the weeds
that threatened her beloved garden

she was the giver of life
and the guardian
of her realm

but she could not
stop all that threatened
and I had not
her gift of life giving

and so it rests
atop the wall
no longer is it lifted
by her tender
hand of nurture

that hand now
is still

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Mirrored

I’ve written this pieces in response to the July 28th prompt at Three Word Wednesday




Mirrored

•

you cannot abuse my trust
you will not cramp my love
with hatred

never shall you
defile my dream

I am your mirror
the light
that fills your dark void

the found for your lost
the hope for your despair
the grace for your sin

I am your neutral
blanking your negative

expelling it
from the realm of joy

it cannot sustain
I watch
as it withers

and fades
away

• • •

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

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 •