Poetry – Page 38 – Image & Verse

Think Boy

Hey son, come here a minute please
where are the keys
they’re sure not here…
they disapper?

you recently drove to the store
I heard the door
when you came back
but the key rack

is bare as a baby’s bottom
where you got ‘em
I’ve asked you nice
won’t ask you twice

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: dVerse

~ sometimes they go so very much too soon ~

Grief of Secrets

“Yes, in the predawn black the slim slip of the waning moon”
…from: Remote Friends, by: Jim Harrison.

Wolf moon hung heavy
once more
in its passing

its bulbous orb
rolled
through cold chromium fog

wet clouds
smeared themselves
across its face

like translucent billows
of glistening moonbeams
shivering midnight

that sorrowing hour
again laid bare my soul
in grief of secrets

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: dVerse

Drenched

Angry
at the wind
at moonlight
at sunlight
at life

in the storms
of my tears
your footprints
rut my dreams

I shiver
drenched in memories
of love’s vain promise
to be constant
as a breeze
as stars
as the sunrise

now
constant rain

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: dVerse

Flickers

Old man gazes out his window
uncertain just how long it’s rained
alone in the twilight he has questions
were his losses worth all that he gained

memories like a dying candle’s flicker
thoughts of his loved ones — sadly gone
entwined bittersweetly in his heartstrings
a thankfulness for those that still shine on

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*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Relax

When I sense threat
I’ve been known to bellow
resolution comes more quickly
than approaching it mellow

if still no resolution
things may get rip-roaring
again — more effective
than simply imploring

I will never come calmly
when hedging my bet
never surrendering my fate
to tones that are dulcet

don’t tell me “relax”
or suggest that I breathe
if it’s gotten that far
I have started to seethe

pulse beatin’ — I’m screamin’
and gone out of my head
begun to coarsely embellish
with a face that’s beet red

if matters still aren’t settled
I don’t beseech — I fall quiet
then start starin’ daggers
before bringin’ the red riot

*
rob kistner © 2022

FOCUS WORDS: bellow, rip-roaring, dulcet, seethe, embellish, beseech

Poetry at: dVerse

Walk with me my love, ‘round the lake, into our favorite stand of old growth. Let us listen to our footfalls, as they drum the root chambers, each step cushioned by centuries of needledrop in this ancient forest. We will enjoy the rise and fall, twist and turn of the trail, serenaded by the breeze in the treetops. The steady rhythm of our footsteps will sooth our weary hearts.

We’ll trek deep into the woods, to that crest of the knoll overlooking our special log. There we’ll rest, under the towering woodland canopy, and bask in the filtered sunlight, that drifts down dreamlike, golden into our sacred clearing — while we breath the intoxicating natural bouquet of this timeless forest… of conifers, ferns, mosses, musks, and ionized mountain air. So come, and bring no book, for this one day we’ll give to idleness, and nature’s magic.

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: dVerse

Soul Serpents

A pirate’s tale! And a gerrymanderer’s saga!

These sea-spent soul serpents
captain their coffin galleons
afloat with their *newly dead
ferried rough’n’raw to the docks

then off to sweet-flesh wenches
in the sin-sullied gypsy taverns
to boast their blood-soaked tales
and spend death’s ill-gotten gold

burnt whiskey confessions
cradled scarred and strong
in the muscle-head crooks
of their murder-bent elbows

hoisting a flagon
of bahamian beach rum
temptation rich
and firestorm spiced

spreadin’ the forecast
of tonight’s fisted fury
knuckled wild and savage
n’hell-frenzied foul

not for the lazyants
or weak-gutted braggarts
these fierce-spirit lads
crush lameful foe brutally

ready to fight
at the instant is dropped
a three-pointed hat
these ain’t no scared pigeons

their creed’s raidin’ & ragin’
all stoned immaculate
wheellocks fully loaded
and trained on their prey

like fiery tomcats
on a cool moonlit night
roamin’ the side streets
to rumble & pillage

whistlin’ down the devil
prowlin’ angry and proud
hearts cold as winter
tempers hot as hell

*
rob kistner © 2022

*bodies / votes

Why

Falling into a tangle
of vague thoughts
almost-remembering’s
and near answers

slipping my grasp
tumbling jumbled
it careens away

down blind alleys
bouncing off suppositions
dodging conjecture
tripping over tongue tips

until hitting the wall

damnit!

just why
did I
come in here?

well
while I’m here
I’ll close this window

wait
what the…

well I swear
look out there
in the trees

how the…
the cat!

now I remember
why I came

now just gotta
find my keys

…now for a deeper satirical perspective…

Oh those
OMG!
no
I no longer need those

I don’t see things
for myself
don’t read the small print
or between the lines
anymore

I mean
why?

I simply let others
look for me
then they tell me
what they think
they see

that way
I save time
and bother

I just let others
tell me
what they think

I just glance
at the bold print
then I know
what I should think

like I said
it saves time

time I don’t have to waste
looking
seeing
considering
researching
evaluating
then thinking
for myself

so
no
OMG!

I no longer need those

haven’t known
where they were
for years now

LOL!

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: The Sunday Muse

Caustic Secrets

“Reflection on the current troubling and volatile state of the world,
as brought on by the erosion of truth, and the secrets concealed in dangerous hearts.”

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Dark souls entered through an open door
stirred panic with twisted metaphor
left clarity bleeding on the floor

the mystery yet is ours to find
but deepening night’s not far behind
with their secrets and our fears entwined

madness calls us to its shore
wraps around us threatening more
tearing at our gilded core

our book of darkness is duly signed
our troubled souls by chaos confined
false dangerous hearts fiercely aligned

caustic secrets we must abhors
much saving grace still to restore
uncertainty sways our final score

frail honesty is stumbling blind
truth now by smoke and mirrors defined
l fear our prophets may have lost their mind

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers

Poetry at: earthweal

Bronzed Secrets

Nubian queen, magic goddess
eyes dark and deep, as nile nocturne

blackthorn rosebud, passion’s secret
mysteries dreamed, fantasies craved

earthen lustwitch, molten ardor
scarlet scorching, sultry vision

secrets forged in bronze fire midnight
wanton temptress, my dream desired

*
rob kistner © 2021

Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers

Soaklinated

~ jabberwockian forecast ~

painting entitled “Rain Man” by: Vane Kosturanov

One misty moistaly dampinmorn
the mist was most prevailington
and then it started to storminoff
on that misty moistaly dampinmorn

it came up without a warninton
with hailstones angrily hailinous
I missed the mornington weathertold
on that misty moistymous morn

I slept through that mornington’s alarmanoff
so didn’t know ‘bout no warningful storminoff
had I known I mighta stayed homelicated
my lazinations got me quite soaklinated
next time I’ll be more atentuated
so I can venture forth fully umbrellanated
*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: dVerse

Ontario Breakfast

Dad was an avid fisherman. He taught me well.
He passed in’83. I often think of him as I ready my fishing gear each year.

W ith gentle nudges
dad’s hushed deep voice
urges me from the cocoon
of my toasty morning covers

wake up Bobby
my childhood moniker
I’m gonna make us breakfast
then those fish better beware

fishing
our passion
which I now share
lovingly with my son
and he and I
with his son
my grandson

…well, back to my story…

I hear muffled footsteps
the creak of an iron door
then a wooden — thunk thunk
fresh kindling being loaded
into the stove’s fire chamber

then the scuffing of forged ore
as a heavy iron poker
probes the iron fire chamber
coaxing a glowing ember bed
to ignite the fresh logs

this is gonna catch quickly
start gettin’ up son
sure hope you’re hungry

staggered, softly percusssive
phuft phuft — phufts
announce lengths of virgin fuel
bursting to crackling flame

I poke my eager head out
into the damp morning chill
of Ontario semi-darkness
as the big black stove
groans to full life

a welcomed burgeoning heat
begins permeating the cabin

the soft glow and muffled hiss
of dad’s Coleman lantern
clutches at the darkness
as dad clunks and shuffles
the bulky iron skillets
atop the rapidly heating stove

breakfast is coming son
dad proclaims
a smile in his voice
Canadian bacon, cakes ‘n eggs
his statement accompanied
by the sizzle and aroma
of strips crisping in the pan

hungry — I slide from bed
excited and shivering
imagining this day of fishing
that lies ahead

slipping on my robe
I go to the window
where the tin bowl
of kettle-warmed water
rests on a small table
waiting for me to soap
my morning face and hands

through the cabin window
I still see a myriad of stars
in the clear northern heavens
above our wilderness island

small waves lap at our stone shore
occasionally knocking our boat
laden with our fishing gear
against our weathered wooden dock

I see the Espanola sky
just beginning to lighten
and hear the pre-dawn loons
calling across the pristine lake
barely rippling in the AM breeze

as I stand washing up
I continue to reflect

how lucky I am to be here
fishing with my father
this amazing man
who adopted me
saved me

at that moment
I’m snapped from my reverie
by his kind voice…

breakfast is ready

Poetry OLN at: dVerse

Be it with your son or daughter, this is what fishing really is…