Lupus Luna

 

Lupus Luna

~

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

  • collage above entitled “Lupus Luna” by: rob kistner © 2010
  • Book of Ardor

    • 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.


    Weather Report was one of the earliest and most influential Jazz-Rock groups. Keyboardist Joe Zawinul and saxophone player Wayne Shorter formed the group in 1971. Both originally members of the Miles Davis’ group, they were joined by the legendary bassist, ,Jaco Pastorius, making Weather Report a milestone group of modern music…

    _____________________________
    …here is my poem inspired by their music…

    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

    The Key

    • In response to the 3rd prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I offer a gothic tale…
    • I also offer this in response to prompt #116 at One Single Impression




    The Key

    •

    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
    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


    Why I Write

    In response to prompt #87 at Poetic Asides




    Why I Write

    •

    I write as proof that I exist
    so as not to lose my mind

    to prevent my sorrow
    from choking the life
    from my soul

    to know what I really think
    to ride the currents of my joy
    and laughter

    to track my growth
    share what I have experienced
    shed light on my ignorance
    to leave my trace

    expose my vulnerability
    in hopes others won’t rebuke
    banish
    or hurt me
    but rather see me worthy of mercy
    of love
    to see me not so unlike themselves
    and have pity

    because there is an urge
    to break the mental silence
    to make a din
    create a literate clatter
    to be certain I am not ignored
    forgotten
    or misunderstood

    because I am sad
    I am crazy
    I am odd
    I am insecure
    I am lonely
    frightened
    cursed
    clever

    because I am thrilled
    full of life
    nearing death
    desperate to know
    confident in my knowledge

    because I am entangled
    and strangled
    by the why of it all

    because I can
    and so that I might

    for all of this
    I write

    and to survive
    I have no choice

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    In A Heartbeat

    In response to prompt #52 at Carry On Tuesday, and prompt #115 at One Single Impression




    In A Heartbeat

    •

    the trip to visit you
    is filled with memories
    sweet anticipation
    knowing the warmth of your hello
    the strength of your handshake
    your fond embrace

    the stretch down I-5
    we’re laughing and singing
    miles zipping by
    till we spy your exit

    then west toward the coast
    a quiet buzz of excitement
    fills the car

    at last we catch sight of your vineyards
    as we crest big rock ridge

    then the left turn
    down your valley road
    so beautiful
    so familiar

    hands on the wheel
    I anticipate every bend and rise
    every dip
    exhilarating
    as I navigate the gorgeous vistas

    the sound of our tires
    as they trundle ‘cross
    the narrow wooden bridge
    that fords your stream
    boulder’d and crystal clear
    as it tumbles and falls
    brisk from mountain snow-pack

    coming round
    we see the corridor
    of faithful old-growth firs
    stepping back for us
    inviting our return

    the regal mountains reign
    high above
    granting us safe passage

    boughs bend
    branches sway
    celebrating that we are back
    when your gate comes into view
    swung open in welcome

    it’s left up your gravel drive
    the pebble and crushed rock
    crunch and clatter in stony rustle
    as we traverse your hill
    to see you and Michelle
    cuddled on your porch swing
    your family pouring down the steps
    into the yard
    beaming bright eyed
    arms open for embrace

    six hours and 300 miles
    separate us
    but the journey always goes by
    in a heartbeat

    the road to a friend’s house is never long

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Boxes – Contemplation in 3 Parts

    In response to the Ist prompt on the newly opened We Write Poems, I contemplate boxes




    Boxes

    Contemplation #1

    •

    my memories gather and squabble
    like crows in fallow fields
    they pick clean
    the bones of my recall

    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

    • • •



    Contemplation #2

    •

    tanka

    wonder’s trapped within
    a box within more boxes
    so deeply buried
    by the years of failed dreams
    you must not lose your wonder

    • • •



    Contemplation #3

    •

    tanka

    love is sealed within
    a box locked inside your heart
    lost in the rubble
    of years of broken promise
    you can find it if you look

    • • •



    rob kistner © 2010

    Message in a Bottle

    In the spirit of the 1st prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I retrieved this message from my imaginary bottle, unrolled, then read it — this is what it said:

    ___________________________

    Seamen brave and strong as we

    There’s a truth that we all learn

    When brave and strong men go to sea

    Tis not certain they’ll return
    ___________________________

    October 23rd, 1997

    This may be the last few hours of my life. I feel compelled to take this paper and pen and chronicle my end – to feel I did not die in vain… in faith that someone may find this.

    I penned the brief sea chant you see at the top, because it continues to turn over and over in my head.

    I have no radio or communications devices. They were all destroyed. I have no way of getting a message out — save this crude method.

    How I hope that someone will find this. The address of my family and their phone number is on the back. Please, whoever may discover this – see that it gets to my family. Thank you so very much!

    I’m the only one left. Carey was killed in the crash, and Gill succumbed to his mortal wounds last night. I rolled his body into the ocean to satisfy the sharks, and keep them at bay for a bit longer.

    They’ve circled through the night — it’s the third night they returned. They get bolder each time – the largest has lost all fear. He’s bumped me several times in the last couple of hours. He’s taunting, he knows I’m nearing my end.

    When the attack comes, and come it will very soon — it will be vicious and final. I’m certain I will not survive it, but I’m reasonably confident it will be over quickly. At least three of the most aggressive circling are great whites – large enough to finish a man in a few quick rips.

    I’m so very weary; I almost wish it would just happen. The uncertainty of waiting is getting to be too much… I’m exhausted… I’m ready.

    This was to be our last run up from Cuba. So many uneventful trips… I think we grew careless. We’d broken out a couple bottles of the contraband Varadero and lit up a couple of the Cohibas to celebrate this last trip. I never ceased to be amazed how much money we were making smuggling in illegal Cuban Rum and Cigars… just unbelievable.

    We were literally flying over the wave tops in our custom 32′ Donzi race-hull speeder. We weren’t full open, but we were doing 70 knots on the calm seas — the 1,000 horses purrin’ like a kitten.

    We were too caught up in the booze and stogies to notice the sleeper cross-wave until it caught us sideways at mid-hull and snapped this cigarette boat like a twig – it just exploded out from under us.

    One minute I am in a speeding boat with my two best friends skimmin’ the waves – the next minute we’re in the water, with just a piece of the aft hull in tact. The rest was splintered flotsam and jetsam. Our cargo, what wasn’t destroyed, or on the bottom of the deep blue — floated and bobbed in their wooden cases like square corks.

    Carey was dead, Gill critically wounded, and I – just dazed. I dragged Gill and I up onto the small fragment of the Donzi that was still afloat, where Gill eventually died. Carey had floated away. The sharks found him in less than an hour. They finished him in a turbulent frenzy.

    Before the end comes I want to say my farewells to my family. Ironically, I’m going to seal this message in one of the Varadero Rum bottles. It was smuggling this shit that got Carey and Gill killed – and soon I as well.

    Kathy, my sweet wife, you’ve been the love of my life – patient, understanding… you make me so happy, though I don’t show it all the time. I get caught up in the fog of life’s distractions — buried in my pride and insecurity.

    But alone out here, under the warm Atlantic sun, a calm has settled over me. I’m filled with peace, and a joy that is my love for you! I see with great clarity how much you mean to me as my wife. My emotions are overwhelming me. I see how remarkable our relationship is.

    So, my love, when I’m gone, please see these words as a place you can visit and be nurtured. A private, wonderful place you can go, to know these treasures that have always been in my heart. I will be there – close your eyes and you will feel me there, and my love.

    And my darling daughter Jennifer — after all these years, you have never lost your magic. Like a brilliant sorceress, with one word, you can cast your spell, and put me in a wonderful dream. Your magic word is, “Daddy!” You say this as you smile deeply into my eyes — “Daddy!” I melt.

    I will always be your daddy and you will forever be my little girl, my firstborn, my beautiful daughter! Thinking of you here, now, tears fill my eyes.

    You make certain you don’t settle in life for anyone who doesn’t love, respect, and appreciate you as much as I do, as your family does.

    You make sure you introduce any guy you may fall for to mom, and to your brother. If they don’t approve, you listen closely to their reasons why. Do not compromise your integrity — ever!

    Your father loves you Jen… I love you dearly.

    And Justin, my son — my baby… ours is a tough relationship, tough love, no room for timid. It is so easy for me to see your faults, and poke at them — for there in you go I. We are so very much alike it scares me.

    Your imperfections glare at me because I possess them all, every one of them within me — and more. Photos of me from my past, uncanny, they might as well be you.

    But it’s where we are not alike that your miracle begins.

    You are smarter than I ever was. You care for people, honestly. You face life with strength and courage. I just marvel at you – I really do! You have accomplished so much already in your life – and you’ve just begun.

    We argue at times, but my love for you is deep son… my pride is lasting. It’s impossible with these words, to tell you what you mean to me. But every word for love and pride – I feel in my heart for you!

    I know you will miss me, and probably feel lost and angry at first – but you will recover quickly, I know you will. I know how intelligent and strong willed you are.

    Please take care of your mother, and Jenny. They will need your strength, just as you will need their nurturing.

    I love you Jus, and I know you love me — I always have known. We are father and son. inseparable forever — remember that!

    And Aaron, I find myself thinking so much about you. I’m looking at your picture in my wallet. It’s my favorite picture of you, son — the one I cherish most since your passing.

    It is the simple snapshot, taken at the airport, upon your return from having run the New York City Marathon.

    You have a gentle, triumphant smile. Your eyes are beaming behind the “cool” shades you have on. Your jacket sleeves rolled in casual hip-ness, bag thrown carefree over your shoulder, and your medal hangs proudly around your strong neck.

    You are fiercely handsome!

    How profound this captured moment proved to be, taken just before the finish line of your 18 years — it said it all. Your race was run, your bag was packed, and your reward was in your hand. You now fly my sweet angel – fly!

    Dad will be there soon. I can’t wait to throw my arms around you. I have missed you so very much, my gentle giant – but I’m coming.

    Kathy, Jenny, Justin – I don’t want you to cry for this old man too long. I am not afraid out here right now. I feel Aaron with me, so very close – and soon he and I will see each other again.

    We will both wait for each of you guys to finish your business down here on earth – then we will all be together. But take your time and enjoy all there is in life.

    Don’t be too upset with wayward old me. I might have been a smuggler, but I never hurt anyone – and I loved you all from the bottom of my heart.

    I only have two pieces of paper, so this message must come quickly to an end. I really am not frightened. With my last breaths and energy I will be hugging you all, squeezing you tightly – and kissing you all good-bye.

    I love you; please know that – I love you all so much!

    Kathy, go see Warren. He has a key for you. Then go see Grace, she has an address for you. Finally see Barry, he has a box number for you. They don’t know about each other.

    Use these things together and you will be comfortable for the rest of your life.

    When you trim the Christmas tree each year, think of me as you hang the Father Christmas ornament. You know it is my favorite.

    Good-bye… until we are all together again!

    poem & flash fiction by: rob kistner © 2010

    NaPoWriMo #29

    This is my Twenty-ninth, and penultimate post for National Poetry Month 2010

    ____________________________________

    …this poem was inspired by D.S. Apfelbaum’s day 29 post at readwritepoem…

    ____________________________________

     

    Space Is

    •

    a lightless void of soundless vacuum
    spinning masses of revolving orbs
    hurtling fragments in crystalline vapors

    molten cores
    mingled gasses
    dead husks
    black holes

    magnetic icefalls
    plasma rain
    liquid lightening
    solid clouds

    attractions and repulsions
    of precarious fragility

    a frozen dance of chaos
    on the tentative edge of balance

    unfounded fear
    unquenchable wonder
    unrealized dreams
    ultimate frontier

    relativity’s fabric
    tangled in the cloth of time

    reality’s illusion
    set in fantasy’s foundation

    ceaseless hope
    endless adventure
    unexpected catastrophe
    boundless courage

    humankind’s triumph and sad folly
    the seductive promise of the future

    our salvation
    infinity’s threshold
    the eternal question
    the elusive answer

    the everlasting bastion
    of never-ending truth

    a longing call
    a constant listening
    a driving force
    a reason why

    fountainhead of myths
    spark of religions
    and other superstitions
    home of the gods

    magnificent obscurity
    a source of mystery
    font of knowledge
    cause of fiction

    the unknown of the unknowable
    nothingness absolute

    the billions and the billions
    ever expanding everything

    …space is

    • • •



    rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    artwork entitled “Infinity’s Door” by: rob kistner © 1998

    ____________________________________

    …see what offerings are this day at readwritepoem

    NaPoWriMo #27

    This is my twenty-seventh post for National Poetry Month 2010
    • one acrostic
    • one tanka


    ____________________________________

    • inspired by Carolee Sherwood ‘s day 27 prompt at read write poem to write an acrostic

    ____________________________________


     

    Evolution

    •

    Even in chaos nature finds balance.

    Violent floods beget fertile fields.

    One thing ends, another begins.

    Life is a cycle of birth and death.

    Untamed wildfire creates forest ash.

    The ashen remains nurture growth again.

    In the caterpillar lives the butterfly.

    One thing ends, another begins.

    Now and forever, the mandella spins.

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


     

    Stone Fox First

    •

    garage sound check great

    groupies at the ludlow door

    allmans soon to start

    damned duane is still m-i-a

    we stone fox boys are ready

    • • •


    • acrostic and tanka by: rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    …check out who’s gettin’ acrostic at readwritepoem

    NaPoWriMo #26 – Power / Alternatives

    This is my twenty-sixth post for National Poetry Month 2010
    • one free verse poem
    • one tanka


    ____________________________________

    • inspired by Jill Crammond Wickham’s day 26 prompt at read write poem

    ____________________________________


     

    Power

    •

    let us speak of power

    the writer’s words
    the artist’s eye
    the craftsman’s hands
    the singer’s voice
    the player’s soul
    the actor’s courage

    all who rise up in creativity
    to share their gift

    who elevate our humanness
    shun our negative self

    who share their spirit to inspire

    who see great possibility
    in the face of great challenge

    who will not succumb
    but prevail
    as a kindled flame
    to light our darkness

    theirs is the power
    they are the powerful
    for they empower

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


     

    Alternatives

    •

    three hundred miles gone

    we’re just above dream canyon

    big storm front building

    cycles won’t make the snow pass

    guess we point our two wheels south

    • • •


    • poem and tanka by: rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    …check out the other offerings at readwritepoem

    NaPoWriMo #25 – part 2: Fissures

    This is part 2 of my twenty fifth post for National Poetry Month 2010

    …this piece that follows was inspired by prompt #113 at One Single Impression

    ____________________________________


     

    Fissures

    •

    life is generous
    with the good and bad
    countless experiences
    joyous and sad

    it would appear
    you’ve had your share
    you’ve garnered wisdom
    learned how to care

    you have known joy
    you’ve tasted pain
    stricken with sorrow
    but smiled again

    there have been hardships
    and there’s been blessings
    helpless frustrations
    moments of guessing

    tears cried for others
    fears of your own
    you’ve not always reaped
    what it is you’ve sown

    you’ve been envied
    but you’ve been loved
    you’ve helped pull through
    been rudely shoved

    rightly praised
    and wrongly treated
    momentarily dazed
    but not defeated

    you’ve been criticized
    words harshly spoken
    you’ve been knocked
    but never broken

    through it all
    you have persisted
    you have endured
    and you’ve resisted

    the easy temptation
    to harbor hate
    never blaming others
    for what is your fate

    you’ve steered clear fissures
    not fallen in cracks
    kept moving forward
    not looking back

    now your facial fissures
    those knowledge tracks
    display those proudly
    when you smile back

    you’ve been a good man
    since your youth
    time is witness
    to this truth

    the testimony
    shines with grace
    it’s etched indelibly
    in your face

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    …photograph by: Mehmet Akin

    NaPoWriMo #24 – In Vain / Daddy’s Girl

    This is my twenty-fourth post for National Poetry Month 2010
    • one free verse poem
    • one tanka


    ____________________________________

    • This poem that follows is inspired by Marie Gauthier’s NaPoWriMo day 23 prompt at readwritepoem to find and use a colloquial phrase — and by the current frustration I am feeling trying to deliver on my promise of at least 1 poem a day for 30 days. This day I am blank – my muse is being quite difficult. So for inspiration I looked to a poem I’d written 3 years back about just such a situation of writer’s block. I wrote this new poem from those 3-year-old bones, sparked additionally by Robert Lee Brewer’s NaPoWriMo day 23 prompt at Poetic Asides: exhaustion.

    ____________________________________


     

    In Vain

    •

    the virginal glare
    of the backlit void
    taunts me

    the tiny pulsing cursor
    throbs like a migraine
    in the blank white field

    untouched
    ignored
    impatient

    no burden of remorse
    no weight of mystery
    does it bear

    no sting of anger
    no wink of mirth
    to reflect

    nothing sensual
    or sensitive
    to share

    no coin of phrase to save

    just empty screen
    tormenting nothingness
    30 in 30
    pressing down

    dissonance spills through my open window

    the scatter of rain
    stir of wind
    rustle of wet leaves

    muffled keens
    bursts of barks
    distant yelps

    the edgy din
    of dripping
    prowling
    april night
    intrudes in damp insistence
    to fill my head
    and leave not one small space
    for wit
    or insight

    all in vain

    there is no spark

    in this soggy midnight
    left high and dry
    no muse in sight
    only exhaustion

    nothing clever
    or profound
    in the air this night

    chilled
    slack

    uninspired

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


     

    Daddy’s Girl

    •

    shy knock at front door

    lovely daughter descends stairs

    who is this brash boy

    shake his hand or run him off

    daddy’s decision is tough

    • • •


    • poem and tanka by: rob kistner © 2010


    ____________________________________


    …see what other coin of phrase you might find at readwritepoem

    NaPoWriMo #23 – Skyward Suite / Midnight Gliding

    This is my twenty-third post for National Poetry Month 2010
    • one free verse poem
    • one three-poem suite

    • one tanka

    ____________________________________

    • the first poem is inspired by Sage Cohen’s day 23 prompt at read write poem

    ____________________________________




    Spread Offense

    •

    …making PB&J, as a wrestling match…


    it appears everything is ready
    for a great competition today

    this has been the moment
    we’ve anticipated
    since the TV was paused
    some 5 to 6 minutes ago

    the first jar has made its appearance
    I see the knife on the sideline
    and the napkins indicate
    they are ready
    standing by
    in case of accident

    hands baxter signals
    he’s ready

    looks like tonight it will be wood
    yes
    it is
    the wood cutting board for this one
    and it seems to be
    it is
    recycled material
    well done

    hands is reaching across the table now
    grabbing hold of the plastic flap
    he’s got a solid grip on the bread
    with a swift and practiced maneuver
    he wrestles two pieces to their backs
    firmly on the board

    he now grabs the jar by the lid
    raises it to his chest
    and
    and
    he’s struggling
    can’t seem to…
    no wait
    hands has done it
    the lid is free of the jar

    he now has the knife in his right hand
    and with deep probing jabs
    he’s bringing blade full
    after blade full
    with deft swirling motions
    from the jar
    and spreading it layer after layer
    on the helpless bread
    unable to budge from the board

    we just got a report
    that the bread is indeed
    honey oat nut
    these are all first string players in this one

    well
    it appears hands has won the first
    of what will be three contests
    he has successfully achieved P and B tonight
    and with great flair

    no drops
    goops
    no tears

    masterfully done

    there was that incident
    with the tongue on the flat of the blade
    but it was apparently a clean move
    so no penalty assessed

    we’re out of time for now
    we will have to wait until next time
    to see if grape
    the big jar
    makes it into the match
    as hands baxter will be going for J
    in the next round

    if he can make it that far
    then the big finale will be milk
    so don’t miss that one

    this is voice gruffly signing off
    inviting you to stay with us
    through this PB&J regional series
    to see if baxter builds a big one

    that’s all from here

    • • •


    ____________________________________


    Skyward Suite




    I Am Balloon

    •

    I will see the earth today
    as the heated air
    fills my billows
    I am aloft
    in free floating flight
    to abandon all control

    I will resound to the earthbound
    listen to their voices rise

    tune to the animals
    their symphony of sounds

    I will drift as far and as long
    as fuel and time permits
    feel the wind take me

    I will soar so high
    leave the treetops
    far below
    until all I hear
    is the voice of the breeze

    see the world
    bend away
    over the horizons

    see all it’s wonders
    all of nature
    the random
    and the regimented
    the wild
    and geometric

    I will see it all
    from a different perspective

    swept up in ever-climbing
    silent ascent



    • • •




    I Am Bird

    •

    I will glide
    in buoyed flight

    I will soar skyward
    in sweeping circles

    lift high on mighty thermals
    never again to be earthbound

    not a prisoner of this stone and clay
    no longer captive of gravity today

    this day will be soaring
    and swooping
    and diving

    giving thanks for feathers
    and hollow bones



    • • •




    I Am Kite

    •

    the breeze of promise begins to freshen
    waft and build
    it gathers strength

    belief awakens
    I quicken
    anticipation spirals anew

    the building currents draw taut my line
    with an urgent tug the moment arrives

    I billow
    stand and dance
    my sail-skin fills

    my leading edge
    aerodynamic
    sculpted tight against my frame

    caught full by the mounting breeze
    I lift with grace
    rise with purpose

    deft hands
    and a most careful eye
    guide me safely airborne

    further faster I ascend
    carried skyward on friendly drafts

    empowered by winds of fortune
    this day I have taken flight

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


     

    Midnight Gliding

    •

    high meadow sparkles

    crisp snow crunches under skis

    midnight cross country

    the landscape glows alien

    like gliding across the moon

    • • •


    • poems and tanka by: rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    …check out the other odd couples at readwritepoem

    NaPoWriMo #21

    This is my twenty-first post for National Poetry Month 2010
    • one free verse poem
    • one short prose

    • one tanka

    ____________________________________

    • inspired by Kristen McHenry’s prompt at read write poem

    ____________________________________




    As I age, my imperfections begin to manifest themselves more and more. I once was young, and handsome, and strong – but that all is waning, and I sometimes feel despair. But the irony here is that, in seeing and feeling more and more acutely, my imperfections, it also eventually shines a light on how fortunate I have been in my life – and the despair often shifts to tearful gratitude… even joy! That is what this poem is about.

     

    Chill Winds

    •

    chill winds of time
    rise in dissonance
    seasons of cold rain
    hiss and tick
    my weathered panes

    life’s essence
    slowly slips my being’s grip
    it’s warmth
    ever-fading

    the pall and ache
    wrap firm my bones
    suppress my spirit
    slowly steal my living core

    I despair of rigid form
    drained of vital sap
    drawn and withered
    robbed of flex and grace

    my light of memory dims
    my pool of knowledge clouds

    dear and beloved go
    one by one
    beyond my call
    beyond the joy and chaos
    of this temporal plane

    what remains is sorrowed pain
    and sinking will

    then you call my name
    beckon me to your embrace
    to sooth and comfort my discontent
    to draw me into your love

    I see again that life’s been good
    that we are blessed to have known all this
    and in that moment

    joy

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


     

    Above It All

    •

    I want to live in a treehouse
    way up high in the branches
    of a big redwood

    several observation platforms
    at different levels
    as you hand-wench yourself
    into the forest canopy

    * optional motorized system

    a three-story treehouse
    huge wrap around porches
    at each level

    the top level
    one big open room

    a place I could write
    work on my art

    where my wife kathy
    could have her fiberart studio
    her big toika loom
    several navajo hand looms
    assembly tables
    all her “found” stuff
    so key to her abstract soft-sculptures

    the roof
    one big deck

    being able to see
    far as the eye could see
    so very liberating
    exhilarating

    riding out big storms
    like flying
    but anchored
    secure

    our treehouse
    would be made of
    anodized aluminum
    stone
    leathers
    and wood
    many woods
    teak, cedar, oak, maple, and walnut
    lots of tempered crystal-clear acrylic

    I’d hand feed the eagles
    the hawks, the osprey
    certainly in my mind

    I’d run guywires
    slide lines
    between tree tops

    we could soar
    through the sun-dappled canopy

    a place high up
    where I could work, live, dance, laugh
    in the nude
    if I wanted

    and make love to my wife
    windows wide open
    the sun and breeze
    free to come and go

    no comments from
    or concerns of
    neighbors

    where I could crank up my jazz

    I want to live in a treehouse
    in our treehouse
    and truly be
    what I’m often accused of being

    removed
    above it all

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


     

    Jumping

    •

    hunched down leaned forward

    rising with knees soundly gripped

    jumping big horses

    clearing hurdles one by one

    keep him reined but let him run

    • • •


    • poem and tanka by: rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    …check out the other splendid imperfections at readwritepoem

    NaPoWriMo #20 – Heroes

    This is my twentieth post for National Poetry Month 2010
    • two free verse poem
    • one tanka


    ____________________________________

    • inspired by Jessica GC’s prompt at read write poem

    ____________________________________


     

    Reality At 30,000

    •

    (a hero returns)

    distant
    slurred
    reverberant

    like a voice in a canyon
    I hear her calling in my mind
    my name
    rolling sweet as nectar
    from lips soft as orchid petals
    full as a bursting peach
    glistening deep coral
    as they wrapped softly
    ‘round each pouted syllable
    when she bid me tender farewell
    so long ago

    our fingertips had strained to grasp
    until the final sensation of warmth
    of touch
    had faded
    and they had drifted apart

    I had struggled to tear my eyes
    from her tears
    that glistened on her lashes
    and around her swollen crystal blue eyes
    to slip softly over the crests
    of her velvet cheeks
    then down the contour of her face
    flushed as sunset
    to lightly salt her quivering lips

    and as I passed
    numb and dazed
    through the tunnel of the loading gate
    toward the jet
    that took me to hell
    I had at that moment
    locked the image
    of that sorrowed face of love
    deep in my heart

    It had proved my salvation
    my only grasp on sanity
    in those horrific years
    over there

    my lips too had quivered on that day
    with the sting of separation
    and the chilling knowledge
    I would soon taste the bitter blood of war
    foul with the stench of death

    having not yet departed
    I had already longed to gaze again
    into her brilliant blue eyes
    and taste her sweetness

    yet

    as I return this day
    trying to face reality
    from 30,000 feet
    I taste the salt of sadness

    for I fear
    a kiss from me
    with my killer’s mouth
    will forever defile the fragile innocence
    of those luscious lips
    soft as orchid petals
    full as a bursting peach
    that glistened
    and quivered
    when last we parted

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


     

    Eternal

    •

    tears on flushed pale cheeks

    warm held hand grows cool and still

    she has left this earth

    my love is now eternal

    how do I face tomorrow

    • • •

     

    ____________________________________


    …here is a bonus “whimsical” poem written in response to the day 19 prompt at poetic aside


     

    Phineas & Phlo

    •

    phineas morton is not a happy guy
    that’s not to say he’s sad
    he just decided long ago
    not to live life on the extremes
    so he would describe himself as
    well
    as centered
    yes
    phineas morton is a centered guy

    he lives in the abandoned hull
    of a short
    yellow
    school bus
    left there by his parents
    when he was 12
    as they went off to find
    well
    to find happiness

    this situation may also account
    for his less than enthusiastic embrace
    of the whole concept of
    well
    of happiness

    phineas dreams of
    someday
    doing something
    something
    well
    something interesting
    shunning the extreme nature
    of
    of great
    he is not really interested
    in doing something
    great
    interesting will do just fine

    he has a girlfriend
    well
    sort of a girlfriend
    more like a
    well
    like a girl acquaintance
    that sounds less “on the edge”
    which suits his centeredness
    just fine

    her name is flo
    though she has come to spell it
    phlo
    as an expression
    of her affinity for phineas
    you know
    phineas and phlo
    the whole ph
    sounds like f
    thing
    you know f
    fuh f fuh

    well
    anyway
    phineas wants everyone to know
    that while he waits for his
    interesting life to begin
    he can be found
    out by ole’ doc patterson’s pond
    in his shell of a bus

    you’re more than welcome to come by
    just
    if you do
    don’t be too happy
    if you know what I mean
    doesn’t sit well with the lad

    so if you come by
    bring some jelly beans
    red jelly beans
    because
    well
    just because

    and a tip from me
    if you do drop in on phineas
    don’t be clever
    you know
    don’t make any wisecracks about
    well
    no “short bus” remarks
    ok

    ok

    • • •



    • poems and tanka by: rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________

    …check out the other heroes at readwritepoem