Category: Poetry
Open window (reprise)
Two perspectives on an open window
Adieu
Indecision
Here’s a light take on procrastination…
Night Breeze
If summer heat is getting to you, here’s a respite.
August
then stop
nostrils singed
by scalded air
too hot and thick
to breathe
a heat to suffocate
haltingly
I fill my lunges
yet again
to bake them
in sustaining breath
this oven to endure
skin weeps
emblazened
salted droplets
baste my neck
trace my spine
to irritate
to saturate
to gather in the hollow
of my labored chest
hesitant in its struggle
brackish beads
bloom and seep
from beneath the smother
of matted soak
atop my head
to ooze their way
down fevered slope
into my eyes
and sting
bittering my lips
glaring sphere
in steaming sky
smirks
crackles
bears down
imposing
tasks at hand
plans to make
all will wait
energy expired
exhaustion’s odor
permeates
thoughts sticky
synapses coated
in humid midday
where are the rains
of quenching april
questions evaporate
desires are vaporized
even dreams are scorched
life roils slowly
simmering in august
rob kistner © 2007
Wicked!
A curvaceous wanton devil-woman…
Wicked
•
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
a 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!
…
rob kistner © 2007
How I evoke my writing muse
I have dedicated myself to being a creative writer — endeavoring to perform consistently, and at the best of my evolving ability. I currently write poems, essays, and short stories — in that order of quantity output, enjoying each equally.
A recent comment on this blog got me to thinking about how I find my inspiration — how I evoke my ‘muse’. I’d like to share my ‘process’ with you here.
Dangerous Hair
———————<~>——————-
Ridiculed, even attacked, because of hair. 1966 revisited.
This is me with my band “Stone Fox” in the 1960’s
This week’s prompt, “Hair” is extremely well timed. On my 60th birthday, my wife and son successfully orchestrated a surprise party for me. As part of the surprise, they dug up a lot of stuff from my many years in DooWop, R&B, and Rock bands.
One of the things they dug up was a small handful of surviving lyrics I’d written back in the 60’s; among them, these lyrics I’m including as part of my July 15th response, to the Sunday Scribblings’ prompt. They also dug up a few old photos (see one above).
These were written when I was still in high school. They are rock lyrics, and not terribly polished, but they are earnest. These words came from the bottom of my heart, at the time.
What’s important to realize is, in the Midwest United States, there were very few long-haired bands. We were called freaks and hippies — taunted, accosted, sometimes even beaten for our hair. Our hair was a very powerful and dangerous statement for us to make at the time. It threatened conservative America.
There were a great many places our band would play were we did not dare walk the streets, unless as a group, including with our roadies — a couple of pretty tough dudes. I also played football, so I was reasonably able in a fight, but we still adhered to “safety in numbers”.
We were expressing our right to be free, and we were expressing our opposition to the war in Viet Nam, and the general intolerance and prejudice that was prevalent in those times. Our hair was not only us speaking out as free individuals, it was also a political and social statement.
Those were very “strange days”! Our hair made us targets for considerable verbal and physical abuse, but we were committed to our statement of freedom.
Anyway, following here is a photo of me from the 60’s, which I attempted to restore digitally. The hair is tame by later day standards, but in the mid 1960’s, in Middle America, I was threateningly radical.
Below are the lyrics to “Flowin’ Free” which I penned at age 18. They are not here because they are great verse, they’re rather shallow and naive. Rather, they are here for their nostalgic interest, and their relevance to the Sunday Scribblings’ prompt for today.
(lyrics by: Rob Kistner)
My hair — I grow and grow it
Though the fearful tell me stow it
But instead, I’m proud to show it
I’m young and free, and you should know it
Frightened anger, I rise above it
Aren’t you getting tired of it
Despite your taunts, I’ll never shove it
Becsuse my hair, I really love it
______________________
(chorus:)
My hair means freedom
To you it’s strange
My hair’s my anthem
It sings out change
______________________
You’re screamin’ at me cut it
Instead I’m gonna strut it
Your hateful mouth, why don’t you shut it
Cause my hair — I’ll never cut it
______________________
(chorus:)
My hair means freedom
To you it’s strange
My hair’s my anthem
It sings out change
______________________
My long hair is flowin’ free
I’m being all that I can be
But when you look, you don’t see me
You see some kind of enemy
It’s time you understand
We all must lend a hand
Join with our peaceful long-hair band
And we’ll build a better land
______________________
(chorus:)
It’s time for freedom
That’s not so strange
Let’s raise our voices
And sing out change
______________________
So everybody grow your hair
I want to see it everywhere
Time to be brave if you dare
Show your fellow man you care
______________________
(chorus:)
It’s time for freedom
That’s not so strange
Let’s raise our voices
And sing out change
(refrain:)
It’s time for freedom
That’s not so strange
Let’s join our voices
And there’ll be change
______________________
rob kistner © 1966
Sensations
A touching bit of poetry… 😉
Sensations
•
slow
satisfying
shower
serenely steamy
soft supple skin
salaciously slathered
shorn smooth
satin-silky
seductive scent
subtly spread
sensuous strokes
sliding
stimulating
stirring sighs
shivers
savoring
so
so
so slippery
• • •
rob kistner © 2007
Sacred
A hike into the Cascade Mountains, in image and verse.
Author’s note: It was a beautiful day for hiking here in Oregon, so I made a trek into the Mt. Hood wilderness — camera in hand, notebook and pen in my shirt pocket. This is my day, shared with you here, in image and verse. The photo is a shot of Lost Lake, through the trees, with Mt. Hood in reflection.
•
my footfalls
drum the root chambers of the old growth
each step cushioned
by centuries of needle-drop
in this ancient forest
enjoying the rise and fall
twist and turn of the trail
I amble
feeling the smoothness of my walking stick
clutched comfortably in my right hand
an audible stir in the treetops
wind
wafting down the western Cascade slopes
invigorating
the steady rhythm of my footsteps
hypnotic
rounding a bend
brushing through waist-high fern
I crest a knoll
and stop
mesmerized
light drifts down dreamlike
filtered by the woodland canopy
settling golden around me
a power
a presence
is tangible
a breeze enfolds me
intoxicating
the scent of living earth
an addictive bouquet
cedar
Douglas fir
Ponderosa pine
moss
bark
loam
and ionized mountain air
my spirit rises
my being – weightless
I float away
lifted into oneness
wholeness
epiphonal
suddenly
I’m startled
a young doe bounds onto the trail
standing proud
golden in the light
she considers me briefly
then disappears
quick as a stolen glance
quiet as passing time
my eyes dart to find her
here then there
in vain
I catch a glimpse
silver-blue
shimmering
where massive trees part
wind-blown mountain water
crisp
clear
it sparkles
Lost Lake
the namesake of this trail
my reason for this trek into wilderness
climbing a boulder at trail’s edge
I sit
pull my legs under me
lean forward
elbows on knees
I face lake-ward
basking in the energy
of this natural cathedral
I become very still
listening
gazing
just being
in rapt wonderment
at the magnificence that surrounds me
this place is my church
this moment is my prayer
I am in touch with my soul
with the eternal
• • •
rob kistner © 2007
Elders
A poetic reflection on wisdom.
I am pleased to be featured on “Poets Who Blog”
The Poets
An ode to those who flirt with the muses Calliope, Erato, Euterpe, and Thalia.