You smile so sweetly as you break my heart
then you kiss my lips, set my soul aglow
with a promise that we will never part
saying you’ll never leave — then off you go
can I trust you, love, I just do not know
you say “I’m back my love”, so sincere
but the evidence points the other way
your credibility is very weak my dear
and you lie with much of what you say
I’ve had it — I’m flyin’ the coop today
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
Photography by: T. J. Drysdale
She walks to the sea — to her home
on this bright but cloudy day
steps onto the sea alone
confused she wanders away
yes — she can walk on water
I’ve always known this was her way
she is neptune’s prodigal daughter
she is returning home today
on this bright but cloudy day
with my heart bursting with wishes
tearfully she must walk away
high above the colorful fishes
with her heart awash in wishes
a’walk on the sea’s blue sway
high over the colorful fishes
she’s pulled by two loves today
she slips into the sea’s blue sway
neptune’s beauty on bold display
she has mixed feelings of love today
so she lets her heart lead her way
alone with her dreams and wishes
now a’swim in the seabed’s sway
deep deep down with the fishes
she has made up her mind today
here among the beautiful fish
she’s resolved but still afraid
she’s embracing her father’s wish
she’s again become a mermaid
having shed her human skin
she descends with a quiet spin
a graceful whoosh of her tailfin
and her sea life begins again
now a’swim in the seabed’s sway
there’s nothing more really to say
she has left my world today
letting the sea carry her away
she’s off into the ocean’s blue
her time on dry land is through
she’s gone, nothing I can do
but bid her sweet love adieu
because sadly — I always knew
she can’t… can’t take me — it’s true
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
This castle is most ominous
since becoming Voivode of Wallachia
Vlad II has not followed his father’s example
no joy and celebration reverberates
through the greattooms, hallways, and towers
of this venerable old structure
it has become dark and foreboding
and rumored dangerous
even deadly
but I know they are not just rumors
there is a murderous evil dwells here
undead and otherworldly
bloodthirsty and cruel
a ruthless predator
whom I have come to slay
I must move quickly from this light
that pools incrementally
in this long
pungent
segmented hallway
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
listening
casting glances all ’round
this monster moves like a vapor
so what I can see
is far more important
than what I can hear
but still
I listen
this demon has servants
soul sworn to loyalty
that must move on foot
their approach I could hear
so fully alert
I employ all my senses
in my critical vigilence
stealthily I move
from archway to archway
until I reach the last
I halt
relaxing the tension
in my right hand
I carefuly open my fingers
very slightly
to close them tight again
feeling the smooth wooden shaft
of the stake I have carved
securely in my grasp
this is the weapon I’ll wield
to bring and end
to the ungodly bloodlust
of this ghastly creature
the good people here call
Dracula
as I stand here
back to the dampened wall
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 carved wood dagger
tightly in my sweating grip
that can bring an end
to my uncle’s unholy
reign of horror
I am the youngest male
of our cursed bloodline
so the brutal deed
falls to me
creeping ever 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 coffin’d
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
confirming the lethal dagger
quivering in my right hand
I reach
steadily as possible
into my pocket
and withdraw a strange key
I have secreted there
that allows me access
to his chamber
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 both prisoner
and executioner
in this horrible game
I swing the door open
ever so gradually
eyes rapidly scanning
this vampire lair
and step in
this fate
my destiny
Vlad the Impaler – Dracula
*
rob kistner © 2018
revised © 2019
republished © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
You do not see me
I am but an avatar
of your prurient fantasy
no shadow do I cast
that you perceive
just a hungry wish
a salacious craving
a cashmered pleasure
that drapes your wanton needs
bangled in exotic desire
dark and dangerous
enticingly evil
a black-magic woman
a seductive nightmare
twisted specter of your lust
drifting alluringly
‘cross the moonlit veranda
of your mind’s mad-keep
a sensual sorceress
a wet-dream enchantress
your conjured concupiscence
your frankenstein’d wild love doll
to you
I am invisible
as a person
instead
a goddess of the flesh
eyes dark and deep as nocturne
scorching as a primal ache
a secreted passion
captive in your heart’s
carnal bunglow
sultry as jungle heat
inscribed for you alone
in the book of ardor
fired in molten yearning
ablaze in the sensual dreams
of writhing midnight
I am smoke and flame
libido’s lush vision
longing’s mysterious visitor
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
Evidence of soup can be found as early as 20,000 BC, with the invention of waterproof clay containers for boiling, by the use of hot rocks — a method used to cook acorns and other plants. The earliest archaeological evidence for the consumption of soup dates back to 6000 BC, and it was hippopotamus soup.
The word soup is from both the French word “soupe”, meaning broth, and from the word “suppa”, a Germanic word — from which also comes the word “sop” (bread used to soak thick stew).
Interestingly, the word “restaurant” springs from a 16th French word “restaurer”, referring to a highly concentrated, inexpensive French soup, sold by street vendors. In 1765, a Parisian entrepreneur opened a shop specializing in such soups. This prompted the use of the modern word restaurant for the eating establishments.
In the US, the first colonial cookbook, published by William Parks in Williamsburg, Virginia, in 1742, included several recipes for soups and bisques. A 1772 cookbook, The Frugal Housewife, contained an entire chapter on the topic. German immigrants, living in Pennsylvania were famous for their potato soups. In 1794, Jean Baptiste Gilbert Payplat dis Julien opened an eating establishment in Boston called “The Restorator”. He became known as the “Prince of Soups”. The first American cooking pamphlet dedicated to soup recipes was written in 1882 by Emma Ewing: entitled “Soups and Soup Making”.
In 1869 fruit merchant Joseph Campbell, and commercial canner Abraham Anderson had a simple idea to make food that was good, trusted, affordable, and available to the masses. Campbell Soup Co was born. Americans eat more than 10 billion bowls of soup each year.
In 1962, Andy Warhol turned the Campbell soup can into an international icon of Pop Art, with an installation featuring thirty-two, synthetic polymer paint on canvas — every flavor of Campbell soup. The most popular soup variety in the U.S. is chicken noodle.
andy shoots his soup
lou and nico go velvet
quant makes it mini
lichtenstein makes the girls cry
all while 
goes the culture
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
Muted void
in soundless gape
through which
language stumbles
strangles
struggles
stutters
and fails
cruel fate
impales the heart of broca
thus
grasp-less meaning
darklinged
amorphous
ever-elusive
tongue-less exasperation
unsaid frustration
‘round and down
cerebral corridors
in search of words
unfound
unbound to sound
of worth
or clarity
dispossessed
of diction
of spoken function
of comprehension
and yet
to nearly know
but no
lost
just below comprehension
null understanding
it fogs and fades
flounders
unformed
falling to
stutter
and stammer
stilted
stifled
and lost
blind to the meaning
bound in confusion
wisdom of the ages
from temples of knowledge
pillared
in the ivory of suffering
but all locked within
trapped
in a soundless prison
gilded
yet mute
expressionless
lost
to deafened ears
unresponsive as stone
alone
in darkness
unspeaking
silenced
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
Here’s Paul & Art, the originators, with a perhaps more genteel version:
*To watch me read “To Fly”: CLICK HERE
To want to fly — the fantasy
that many likely dream
to swoop about
arms spread straight out
so giddy one would scream
soar off the ground — be light as air
zoom high above rooftops
to be weightless
to feel no stress
you’d pray it never stops
to ride the thermals when you’d want
right up there with the birds
you’d feel so free
so much you’d see
one could not find the words
excited — breathless — wonderful
so joyful you might cry
how to express
such happiness
see me world — I can fly
*
rob kistner © 2022
~ This is a version of the poem in nearly pure “Roundabout Form”. ~
To want to fly — the fantasy
caught up in freedom’s dream
arms spread straight out
you swoop about
caught up in freedom’s dream
pierce through the clouds — like a light beam
zoom high — above rooftops
to be weightless
to feel no stress
so high — above rooftops
riding the thermals — all fear stops
swept up in happiness
so much you’d see
you’d feel so free
swept up in happiness
excited — you’d be just breathless
flying so joyfully
ride the jet stream
lost in your dream
flying so joyfully
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers
Here
in this moonlit forest
midnight shimmers
through the misty boughs of old growth
as if star clusters dance the branches
from harvest to hunter
this moon strides the equinox
evolving sentinel
to watch over
above our high-mountain meadow
setting aglow the chill lake
like sterling satin
a light frost
blankets this crystalline wonderland
night holds deep and quiet
save a great white owl
echoing through the sparkling cedars
lover and beloved
we entwine
wrapped in a pre-dawn half-wake
a semi-lucid trance
enchanted by the spectacle
just outside our window
I hear myself whisper
how long have I been awake
is it morning
yet I do not want to know
I do not want to break this spell
but rather
to lie here in your arms
wrapped in swaddled warmth
to fall again
into tender slumber
gently lit by moonlight
traversing with moon and you
this time and space of dreams
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
Laced slim fast into skin tight midnight leathers
hearing the resonant call of the freedom bells
seduced by the beckon of the open road
she races two wheel’n into further
leaning tightly into curves
wind whipping her hair
her knees tucked
head down
flyin’
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
Sunrise bell is peeling
comes the morning feeling
as sunlight is revealing
what darkness was concealing
we rise
we fix our eyes
on the dawning
knowing miracles are possible
our heart spawns a melody
which the daybreak chorus swells
morning spreads its magic spells
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
You cannot stop
the hands of time
from spinning ever on
when the sand
is through the hourglass
those days are gone
you cannot bring summer back
when the leaves
are off the tree
there’s no magic spell
you cannot unring
the sunset bell
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
My first hand began with two red queens
lady hearts <~and~> madame diamonds
two powerful bitches as ever there was
neither’d be mistaken for the queen of oz
loved ‘em both — they sacred me
shared ‘em both — they loved me
the dealer dealt me three more cards
each one was a king
thought to myself
we gotta full house here
ain’t that a helluva thing
had this sly smile on my face
my pair’o ladies — leather’n lace
we were sure to do some damage
in this cold n’lonely poker place
saw my opponent comin’
stared straight into his ugly face
his was a handful’a heavy black clubs
a fierce flush from ten to ace
was this the time for my disgrace
knew I’d never beat his heavy crew
need’ta change m’plans — try sumthin’ new
but diamond lady wanted blood
that warrior woman is a stud
the story is true about the diamond queen
a crazy royal tempest — dirty, down, and mean
but m’lady of the hearts is a lady true
fightin’ ain’t what she do
compared with m’lady “D”‘s lit anger
as tough as any red queen could be
my lady “H” simply ain’t no “banger”
she wouldn’t be much help to me
the beauty of my queen of hearts
is revered by wealthy lords
finest poets of the realm
wax on in sweet accords
she gets the smitten “marks” to the table
from there my queen of ICE is able
my diamond lass is killer cunning
she’ll kick your ass if she sees you coming
n’there’s another thing ‘ya see
she happens also to be
the lethal red queen of swords
a warrior of very few words
yes, we lost the hand for sure
but then we won the war
we — got all the money
that gang’o clubs
just got the door
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers
Where The Sidewalk Ends — Shel Silverstein
From down there
down there
it’s coming from down there
from where?
down there?
yes sis
I swear
that horrible smell
that’s filling the air
the one that’s most certainly
impossible to bear
is coming from that women
with the massive blue hair
sitting right there
on the patio chair
on the deck of the house
that’s below us
right there
what a putrid aroma
you’d think that she’d care
there are simply some things
that one never should share
like the stink that is rising
from that vat by her chair
on the deck of the house
right below us
down there
maybe I’m wrong
at least I hope I am
please
but I think in that vat
she is fermenting a cheese
ah—thn…ah—thn…ah—thn…
ah—think I’m gonna !SNEEZE!
from the grody-gross loathsome
smell’a that cheeze
not sure what kind
hope it’s not what I think
but only one kind
makes such a horrible stink
oh no dear — I’m right
I’m gonna scream bloody murder
that nasty cheese she’s fermenting
is a vile limburger
if one’s going to create
such a noxious foul stench
at least have the manners
to be a neighborly mench
and not foul the ozone
rather exhibit some pride
ferment when you’re alone
and please — do it inside
and lady — the hideous color
of that mountain of hair
I can’t help it
can’t help it
I can’t help but stare
it’s a tangled and horrible
monument to…
a disgusting and eye-blinding
shade of bright blue
and causing me a feeling
of nausea too
I must look away lady
my heads starting to whirl
between the cheese
and the hair
you’ve made my toes curl
I fear over the edge here
I’m going to hurl
and I don’t want to do that
in front of a girl
perhaps you’re chromatically challenged my friend
but consider the others that you might offend
a monumentally grotesque rat’s nest of blue
is not something anyone wants to look at on you
oh look sis — look
look again down there
that woman’s takin’ that vat
n’walkin’way from her chair
oh joy — for joy
that’s all I can say
thank our lucky stars
sis — she is goin’ away
and I hope away
she will stay
for the rest of the day
at least as long as the wind
keeps on blowing our way
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
Ecstatic image “Wisdom of The Ages” by: Autumn Sky
*To watch me read “Awareness Dawns” CLICK HERE
We are infinite beings
ever reawaking slowly
from an eternal place
our ultimate coming to “be”
unknown to us as any mystery
as gradually we open to our identity
like the waxing of an eternal moon
evolving to its fullness
our essence forever an enigma
our awareness dawns
like the gradual rising
of a fresh-born sun
the ultimate unveiling
of yet another eternal path
of the infinite many
we feel the substance of our emergence
as it flows effortlessly
into timelessness
it courses through our beings
as our essential lifeblood
as we become
what we have always been
immortal
spiraling upward
to become further
as always
it is in this ever becoming
that we see
we are infinite beings
part of an infinite whole
conscious in this ever-moment
dreaming to sustain the moment
eternally
so move boldly through this plane
be not anchored by expectations
remain ever filled with wonder
always open to the unbelievable
as this thread of the continuum
unfurls
unfolding splendid miracles
may further be it so
Nam Myoho Renge Kyo
*
rob kistner © 2019
revised © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
~ RELAX ~ OPEN ~ LISTEN ~ FEEL ~ BE ~
When the most capable
believe they have risen above
the mucus, the shit, the afterbirth
of their origin
when in their reflection
they see perverse transcendence
towards entitlement
in which no allegiance
or kinship of nature
binds them to their center
nor founds them in the
fevered fumbling fury
of the frightened flesh parade
in which they lock step
flailing for survival
when their insanity of arrogance
so distorts their vision of time
of the ancient
of the sweating
bone-broken reality
of human swill and wallow
through which they likewise trudge
shiny shoes or no
when they blatantly begin
to eat their own
while copulating with false gods
on forsaken gilded altars
of perjured horrors
then the hour of the beasts
is certainly at hand
and the power of wild nature
will rise up to dominate
and we’ll all become
the hulking mass
of the apocalypse
deserving to be struck down
and our black hearts
torn out and severed
by the self-inflicted rapier
of raw wild justice
and our husks immolated
on the pyre of banished
abandoned truth
that moment is near
Poetry at: eartweal