•
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
• • •
________________________________
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
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
•
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
• In response to prompt #6 of the newly opened We Write Poems, I find arrogant, manipulative divas to be difficult to tolerate, or to understand…
•
auburn mane with sable streaks
frosted ermine — lush with pride
a bounce and whip, and tiply snap
with each stiletto’d wanton stride
taught hips roll on slender stems
that part in ripples then enmesh
a brushing sigh of stirring heat
toned thighs gliding flesh on flesh
a stare of comely crystal blue
floats above a ruby pout
that takes you in devouring
has its way, then casts you out
tongue tip teases top lip’s edge
like supple paintbrush flowing
a smile to burn and hypnotize
that wraps around you knowing
luscious wench — worldly wise
sleek as steel — tall and strong
swift and cunning, motor running
she might acquiesce, but not for long
poor fool who tastes this lusciousness
is hopelessly addicted
there’s only one word for this life-force
that word, my friend, is — wicked!
• • •
• In response to prompt #5 of the newly opened We Write Poems, this is a surrealistic poem I created using a technique of creative omission called erasure. I am generally not a fan of fashioning a poem to or from a form or device — but this was interesting. The original poem I “mined” was entitled “Pointed Roofs”, by Dorothy Miller Richardson. You might find it interesting to compare Dorothy’s piece with my finished piece…
•
plentiful
the long faces
the girls
numerous
brought the sense of misery
the girls
nervous
were part of the remuneration
the very first
eve
playing a melody
swollen
her fingers weak
unexpectedly stiffened
her trembling hands
dreadful
she stood
angry
stupid people
had made her play
her discomfiture forgotten
she simply poked the piano
almost unrecognizable
she played with burning eyes
thumping
and thumping again
she played afresh
laughed into the air
back to the wall
behind the piano
• • •
…the painting above is entitled “HOMAGE for GILLES CARLE”, by: Estelle St-Pierre…
~
wolf moon hangs heavy
in the damp night sky
I feel its powerful tug
bulbous moist pearl
rolling in a cold chromium fog
forging my steely urges
hardening my unspeakable needs
wet slivers of cloud
smear themselves across its face
irregular
dappling my perverse metamorphosis
translucent sacks of moonbeams
glide the blue black sky
breathing
the hoarse breath of the beast
festers a howl
rumbling deep in my throat
in the heavens
glassine billowing pillows
oozing
soaked with midnight
stars float and spark
glinting
dripping
shivering
as I shudder
in dread of this witching hour
engorged with unearthly power
frozen splintered crystal tips
diamond chips
pinprick rips in blackened space
piercing
white hot
my ungodly eyes
seared with bloodlust
probing
hunting
stars wink and wane
and glisten
shattered bits of silvered light
snapping here then not
behind the ghostly white vapor
that slithers through the firmament
I slink the midnight mists
eternally cursed
driven by a horrible hunger
the world
devoid of color
aglow in sterling grey
a negative of day
thick and chilled
filled with the sound
of stalking
after-dark things
abominations of nocturne
in this sorrowing hour
to lay bare your soul
in periled introspection
in grief of secrets
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2010
•
the velvet nape
of your slender neck
swept with wisps
of your silken hair
the tender swells
of your pouted lips
blossomed full
and glistening
your quiet sighs
of throaty passion
breathy hushed
in twilight deep
autumn sunrise
crisp and fresh
blushed coral
on your waking smile
sterling moonlight
that fondles you
in naked slumber
‘neath midnight’s window
sunlight’s gold
that falls dreamlike
filtered soft
in old growth forest
unspoiled nature
to far horizons
from where I watch
on mountain’s crest
a 6 series beamer
cool and cruisin’
down 101
on a perfect day
splendid jazz
inspired verse
christmas eve
a soul-felt tear
my child’s joy
a quiet snow
an evening breeze
spiced with cedar
pristine beaches
pacific sunsets
a waterfall
laughing with you
what fires my heart
what stirs my soul
what turns me on
these are a few
• • •
…from my archives, here is a bit more of what turns me on…
•
you were my truest friend
my steady rock of safety
my captain of escape
you were always there
the amazing man of magic
the hero of the weak
defender of the helpless
my always gentle friend
when the footsteps in the hall
woke me in the night
I would feel you tug my hand
and under we would go
through the secret passage
you kept beneath my bed
to the waiting viking ships
and off to fight the dragons
in the land of snow and castles
carved from clear blue ice
in our robes of fur
we struck with swords of gold
you were very brave
in the face of fear
I knew you would appear
never laughing at my tears
when the grating metal rasp
of door latch in the dark
would bolt me from my sleep
you would have the horses ready
we would thunder off to dry gulch
to wrangle up our posse
save the townfolk from the bad guys
and return when all was calm
you were very swift
in a snap you would arrive
in time to get me out alive
helping me survive
below the ocean we would dive
in your crystal submarine
down to the coral world
marveling at the creatures
we would leave the sub
to swim among the wonders
to dart and spin and float
far from pain and worry
you were very smart
my midnight flight arranger
to rocket us from danger
far from the evil stranger
we would soar to venus
in your silver ship
or to some distant star
and do battle with space monsters
and when they all were slain
we would fly the milky way
circle all the planets
thankful to be weightless
no matter how afraid
I knew that you would find me
knew you’d never judge me
I knew how much you loved me
knew you’d have me back by day break
with the dark night far behind us
and the warmth of welcomed sun
would once again embrace us
the midnight footsteps now are quiet
the ships and rockets sailed away
no more trouble comes to dry gulch
the crystal sub now long in dry dock
I’m not sure I ever thanked you
perhaps took your love for granted
without you I’d never have made it
I never will forget you
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
• In response to the 2nd prompt on the newly opened We Write Poems, this piece was inspired by my listening to the 1974 vinyl record album entitled “Mysterious Traveler”, by Weather Report.
Book of 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
there is some safety in the shadows
that linger tight
to the arch walls
so I bolt
through the full moon’s glow
that seeps silvered through the windows
I press myself
against the damp irregular surfaces
that are the stacked-stone
boundary breaks
of this eerie chiseled passage
I pause at each
until I reach the last
I halt
sliding two fingers
of my right hand
into the small pocket of my waistcoat
to confirm that it is still there
I feel the cool brass
of the oddly carved key
relief seasons my trepidation
nothing in my being
wants this dire mission
to which I am shackled
but it is only my hand
on the inscripted dagger
gripped tightly in my left
that can bring an end
to my uncle’s unholy
reign of horror
I am the last surviving member
of our cursed bloodline
so the brutal deed
falls to me
creeping stealthily forward
like a shade on the dank wall
I move cautiously closer
to the iron-laden
dense wood door
of his sleeping chamber
my heart pounding
my diaphram starved for breath
I feel I may pass out
but still I pursue
the evil incarnate
that lies
locked away
in undead repose
suddenly
a noise
immediately behind me
it echoes through these catacombs
pierces my taut raw nerves
and instantly paralyzes me
trembling
I turn
no one there
hushed
I listen intently
no other sounds
save the blood
pulsing as a roar
in my ears
I begin to move
but again
I hear it
panicked
I jerk my head around
and see
in this frozen moment
my stressed mind deduces
the source of the noise
moisture
collecting on the stone ceiling
gathers overhead
into sagging condensation
it released
as a weighty droplet
splattering on the floor
just behind me
with a sharp startling slap
I relax a bit
enough to again draw
tensioned breath
several more labored
careful steps
and I place my hand
gently on the wrought handle
of the immense door
transferring the lethal dagger
to my quivering right hand
I reach
steadily as possible
into my pocket
and withdraw the strange key
it is unnaturally heavy
and seems to emanate
an unearthly energy
I clutch it firmly
fearing if I lose my grip
I will lose my nerve
I guide the key
into the slot
of the ornate handle plate
seating it fully
slowly I begin to turn it
I feel the resistance
as the key’s teeth
engage with the bolt
and begin to grudgingly
draw it from its secure well
just before I have fully retracted it
I pause
my mind racing
blood pressure soaring
overcome by the magnitude
of what I am about to do
no turning back now
this must be done
and I must do it
but I am terrified
still I hesitate
attempting to gain
my much needed composure
I slow my heartbeat
steady my breathing
steel my resolve
and turn the key
its final quarter inch
the lock clicks
the handle releases
and the door unseats inwardly
this is it
fate has dealt the deck
I am prisoner
in this horrible game
I swing the door open
ever so gradually
and step in
toward my destiny…
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
The image of this plate above, this week’s prompt at Magpie Tales, immediately put me in mind of serenity. Also, while the plate may be Chinese in origin, it also made me think of the ancient Japanese poetic form called tanka.
Tanka are 31-syllable poems that have been the most popular form of poetry in Japan for at least 1300 years. As a form of poetry, tanka is older than haiku, and tanka poems are evocative.
During Japan’s Heian period (794-1185 A.D.) it was considered essential for a woman or man of culture to be able to both compose beautiful poetry and to choose the most aesthetically pleasing and appropriate paper, ink, and symbolic attachment—such as a branch, a flower—to go with it.
Tanka have changed and evolved over the centuries beyond the traditional expressions of passion and heartache, and styles have changed to include modern language — but the form of five syllabic units containing a total of 31 syllables has remained the same.
Each line of a tanka consists of one image or idea. One does not seek to “wrap” lines in tanka, though in the best tanka, the five lines flow seamlessly into one thought or feeling.
This particular visual prompt also sparked my recall of a simple, but wonderful piece of art I discovered a few years back, entitled “Blue Temple†by Vorffy.
So here I present my tanka entitled “Blue Templeâ€, including for your pleasure, the Vorfffy art piece of the same name.
•
birds in the blue sky
sampans on the blue waters
blue temple gateways
serenity is sacred
approach with your heart open
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
bones against the cruel clay
of an arid barren mind
bones spilled from soul boxes
in which I’d desperately collected
the scarred and damaged pieces
of my broken dreams
dreams now parched and withered
dried brittle in the coarse winds
of my dire confusion
their promises scratched and raspy
slowly slipping unintelligible
into the chaos and cacophony
of the crows in fallow fields
• • •
• • •
• • •
to sidle in uncertainty
into the chafing
cutting light
head bowed
spirit crushed
tensed for flight
emerging
visible again
though barely
poised to recoil
from any sudden emotion
long now in hiding
stowed away in sorrow
fragile as a newborn bird
unsteady as a fawn
just as frightened
as unsure
my wounded soul
took refuge in aloneness
dug in
resolved to disappear
become invisible
perhaps to die
the weight of life too great
simple breaths
a considered labor
but still I drew them
hesitantly
long I lay
shallow breathing
unwashed
unfed
resigned to simply vanish
from this hopeless realm
despaired I would never find
a reason to go on
yet slowly I emerge
but please
no impulsive expectations
permit me slow and careful evolution
from my chrysalis of anguish
let me find my way
back into the light
from my place of hiding
offer only patience
and safe distance
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
the shuffle of feet
with their different sounds
according to their shoes
I see wan faces of unsmiling lips
their void curves denounce this night
yet unseen
is the gossamer curtain’s fall
that defines their soul’s duality
the divergent reality
through which truth stumbles blind
to move in the world rough as a rope
taut as every promise made
frayed as wisdom
leaned in whispered from behind
grab at time like dropped money
I might learn something tonight
if someone will release the light
so I can shine like a child
who likes ice cream most of all
this child reads old mens’ minds
and notices the shoes
the belts all made of leather
I feel a shiver of sad imbalance
a confliction in my soul
so I will watch the shoes
and practice non-attachment
because I can
but pieces of me
stick to whoever gets too close
you may have seen me
silhouetted against the sky
the coldest night in January
howling with the frozen moon
then moon and I
sneak through fate’s construct
among cages of studs & trusses we run
from room to imaginary room
the whole world close enough to touch
we eat a midnight lunch of damaged bread
seasoned by caution and foreign lands
with onion’d thoughts layered deep
show mercy
peel back the layers
peel me away thin by thin
skin by skin
to my quivering soul
I hope I am not ugly in your sight
these thoughts become too heavy to hold
to tough to chew or swallow
my thoughts
bone-white lies of morality plays
open for you to peek
hope they are not ugly in your sight
hope they do not make you weep
as you peel back all the layers
onion’d thought layers
held fast and firm
like a carapace
to which I’m stitched and welded
and can no more leave than you can truly enter
they tie me down sometimes
but sometimes barely so
inescapable optimism in my bare-bones grin
flashes in the brittle moonlight
a stranger comes to where I sit
to see
his stare blinds the stars from my eyes
behind his fey smile
his radar dreams scan the forgotten creases
the clandestine getaways in my mind
standing over
he peers down with probing gaze
one of us
will learn a thing or two this night
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
____________________________________________
…an edited re-write of an earlier draft…