and by prompt #139 at One Single Impression.
•
go down in trial
endure the tribulation
emerge rapt in grace
steeled by the tempering fire
molten molded pure and strong
• • •
Emerge In Grace
and by prompt #139 at One Single Impression.
Category: Poetry
and by prompt #139 at One Single Impression.
Evening Grace
my stride holds steady
buoyed by the gentle embrace
of the downing golden sun
early shadows fall soft
vesper’s velvet blanket
drapes ’round my shoulders
envelops me in calm
there is still road to travel
eager to keep the journey
I’m drawn by the beauty
of the rising moon in sunset
coaxed by a soothing breeze
I venture on toward my love
rolling amber fires the lane
spreads warm ‘cross the horizon
mist begins to rise and waft
nestled in the valley
I see my hearth & home
guilded copper in this eventide
my heart quickens
stirred by this gorgeous vale
the ribbon of its brook
entwines my soul in wonder
my smile sweetens
my pace livens
I hum a quiet evensong
in the grace of this splendid day
Life Lessons
•
“Look, if there’s one thing I’ve learned, every day of life is a lesson”
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Emerald Eyes
also offered “off-topic” to the October 15th prompt at Big Tent Poetry.
Emerald Eyes
•
emerald eyes captivate
fix me in their gaze
lift me
carry me
to the realm of unfinished dreams
they strip me of fear
longing
of inhibition
to render me transparent
I rise weightless
unburdened of care
an untethered being of pure moment
soaring through universes within universes
a traveler in time and space
ever-expanding consciousness
aware of all
riding the strand continuum
drawing it forward
reeling it back
slipping all temporal bounds
a being of universal presence
adrift in the infinite now
lost in the mystery
veiled in those emerald eyes
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Champion
•
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
• • •
(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
Un-Lonely
This poem is offered in response to prompt #236 at Sunday Scribblings,
and in response to prompt #137 at One Single Impression.
Un-Lonely
•
the depth of a verse
the resonance of a chord
the warmth of breath
the softness of flesh
the effervescence of laughter
the brilliance of love
…complete me
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Baby Cakes
This poem is offered in response to prompt #22 at We Write Poems.
•
crave the taste
of my baby cakes
seven minutes
is all it takes
gotta whip ‘em up
nice and creamy
mouthwaterin’
moist and steamy
oh do not rush
you better not
gotta get that
little oven hot
spread ‘em thick
but not too quick
steady stirrin’
will do the trick
ease ’em in
slide ’em out
hot buttered lovin’
fresh from the oven
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
No First Ink
and in response to prompt #73 on Carry On Tuesday,
also in response to prompt #189 at Three Word Wednesday.
•
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
To Soar
This poem is offered in response to prompt #23 for 2010 at Writer’s Island,
the Ginsberg ‘american sentence’ is offered in response to prompt #136 at One Single Impression.
To Soar
•
to feel the warmth of early spring sun
to wander through old growth
to see the sunset into the pacific
to breath in the fragrance of summer
to see joy in another’s eyes
to hear my child’s laughter
to be breath-taken by art
to be dazzled by autumn’s palette
to taste the richness of chocolate
to immerse in the rhythms of music
to see the morning dew sparkle
to hear the sweet lilt of a thrush
to know the quiet of snowfall
to raise my voice in song
to drift on a clear mountain lake
to get lost in poetry
to feel your gentle touch
…is to soar
• • •
to just try to fly is to fall short, one must expect to soar, then leap
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Kisses Crimson-Gold
the stir of autumn
enwraps my heart
as summer slowly wanes
riding the early fallen leaves
on the current of october waters
whirling and bobbing on crystal ripples
round and past the river rocks
over rip rap in the stream bed
carried vividly away
into the setting sun
days shorten
shadows lengthen
a quiet melancholy
settles upon the valley
as nature prepares itself
for the slumber of renewal
but not before the crackling
joyous dance of harvest
and a crisp crimson-gold
kiss goodnight
~ ~ ~
rob kistner © 2010
__________________
Deep Azure
This poem is offered in response to prompt #21 at We Write Poems.
Deep Azure
•
on the boulevard below
last night’s rain puddles
midst the chaos of metro-clutter
as if abandoned by the waters of earth
it shoulders its way through the culverts
in search of mother sea
this day begins golden and crisp
bird songs echo empty sunrise streets
lover and beloved
we sit by the morning window
with tea and curiosity
we talk
for this moment
our souls spill one into the other
until I am distracted
your lips continue sculpting words
but I’ve fallen into your deep azure eyes
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Over The Edge
also prompt 22 at Writer’s Island,
and prompt #135 at One Single Impression.
•
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 alone 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 patio chair,
on the deck of the house
that’s below us down there.
And 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 it’s causing a feeling of nausea too!
I must look away my heads starting to whirl,
and I feel that my toes are beginning to 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.
Maybe I’m wrong
but I would assume,
if one’s going to bathe
in a noxious perfume,
they’d at least have the manners
to exhibit some pride,
and not foul the ozone,
instead — stay inside.
Not to be the forecaster
of gloom and of doom,
but keep the eco-disaster
contained to one room.
And if you’re chromatically challenged my friend,
consider the others that you might offend.
A monumentally grotesque rat’s nest of blue,
is not something I care to look at on you!
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Mag 33
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
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
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.
Ripples
and by prompt #134 at One Single Impression.
•
memories of you
ripples on a mirrored lake
rise and drift gently
into the golden sunlight
carrying me on their crest
• • •
Joie de Vivre
•
clear blue summer sky
deep azure crystalline lake
cool breeze on my face
fresh scent of water lilies
ripples gently lap the boat
• • •
rob kistner © 2010
Mute
•
there is no half-eaten answer
with which to embellish
or to skirt the evidence
the stench of truth
permeates the debris of proof
in a swarm of crusted guilt
the orphaned child of supposition
abandoned on the dock of iniquity
impaled by the chant of sterile innuendo
wearing a temporary backbone
fashioned of suffering
and the tears of innocence
to witness the violent clash
of malevolence and courage
and remain forever mute
• • •
rob kistner © 2010