The Sync

 

The Sync

•

connection
to make contact
searching for the sync
the heart of the matter
in this solitary journey
from womb to tomb

a stranger
on the bus of days
seeking distraction
chatting them up
to suppress
the voice of isolation

immersed in the small talk
of love
and accomplishment
to drown
the incessant murmur
of alienation

the chant of abandonment
ever there to remind
that we board alone
to make our way
toward an enigmatic destination

clinging
to a vague vision
of home

to disembark
as we began

• • •

rob kistner © 2011

• collage entitled “The Sync” – by: rob kistner © 2011

__________________

• linked at Carry On Tuesday and Magpie Tales

Scorched

 

Scorched

•

the landscape
losing its gild
mottles
in gunmetal grays

fractured storm clouds
churn
in huddling menace

brightened breezes
that sizzled in the aspens
build
buffeted by the angry front
thrashing
into brittling winds

the world
tumbles towards darkness

my heart
shudders in deep shadow
mourning love’s devastation

scorching words
bite and sting
where they sizzle still
blistering my careless tongue

would that it rain
drown the lands
that I might
turn my face to the sky
flood my foolish mouth
charred by regret
with drenching waters
of contrition

to douse the cruel fire
of that
which should never have been said

• • •

rob kistner © 2011

• collage entitled “Sorrow” – by: rob kistner © 2011

________________

inked at Writer’s Island

Ship of Dreams

…I have always loved the fantasy art of Dean Morrissey and James C. Christensen, and this week’s prompt at Writer’s Island put me in mind of their highly imaginative and captivating work, which in turn inspired the poem below, with its “tongue-in-cheek” ending…

 

Ship of Dreams

•

fantastic is this spell I’m under
magic of a splendorous kind
a world of cornucopic wonder
treasure troves of dreams to plunder
in this kingdom of my mind

here I live a life enchanted
here no fear of any threat
sorrow is by joy supplanted
no limit to desires granted
what I want is what I get

fantasy’s elaboration
a god of pleasure I ascend
soar in sweet hallucination
in ships of my imagination
oh, would this dream but never end

Epilogue

well now, oh dear, that was a bit much
somewhat carried away it seems
euphoria finds me out of touch
with reality, good sense, and such
perhaps I’ll temper my daydreams

throttle back my vision quest
bring fascinations down to size
moderation will serve me best
but dreams are so hard to repress
no limits when you fantasize

• • •

rob kistner © 3/26/11

• written for Writer’s Island

• art piece at top by Dean Morrissey

________________________

…below is a sample of the fantasy art of James C. Christensen

Limitless

…limitless talent, unfathomable spirit…

Limitless

•

• written for Writer’s Island

Equinox

 

Equinox

•

winter’s journey ends
lengthening light bears witness
spring crests and breaks
here at the equinox

life bursts forth
poking through pliant soil
unfurling on barren branch
here at the equinox

nature stirs in song and call
celebrating new birth
sustaining the cycle
here at the equinox

my heart leaps
my spirit dances
to this rhythm of renewal
here at the equinox

• • •

rob kistner © 3/20/11

Over The Edge

This piece is offered in response to visual prompt Mag 33 at Magpie Tales seen at bottom of post,
also prompt 22 at Writer’s Island,
and prompt #135 at One Single Impression.

Over The Edge

•

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

Ripples

Tankas inspired by this wonderful painting offered as prompt #21 at Writer’s Island,
and by prompt #134 at One Single Impression.



Reflections

•

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

• painting entitled “Fisherman” by: Vane Kosturanov

Bit ‘O Whimsy

This piece is offered in response to prompt #70 at Carry On Tuesday.



Bit ‘O Whimsy

•

One misty moisty morning
The mist was most prevailing
And then it started storming
On that misty moisty morning

It came up without a warning
hailstones began to hailing
And I missed the morning mailing
On that misty moisty morn

Though I mostly miss the morning mail
That morn I felt mostly forlorn
I had to catch the mail that morn
But by 10 minutes I was trailing

So I began to flailing
Down the lane my feet were sailing
But the mailman was ailing
And hadn’t made his morning mail

So on that misty moisty morning
In a storm that had no warning
When I should have been emailing
My mail and me got mostly soaked

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• painting entitled “Rain Man” by: Vane Kosturanov

Elton The Elf

I wrote this in response to the spirit of the July 26th prompt at Big Tent Poetry


Elton The Elf

•

an angel-eyed velvet-clad curious elf
was sitting alone on a leaf by himself
quite lost and he didn’t see anyone else
he was scared and he hid and he tried to be stealth

“I wish I was home like a good little elf
‘cause I left my big glasses on my bedroom shelf
and this is no a place for a song-writing elf
these damp woods are not very good for my health”

his mother warned “Elton, you’re a wee little elf,
don’t go wandering off in the woods by yourself
take Bernie along, and your cell phone as well,
dear son please consider your fame and your wealth!”

but wee little Elton was a quite stubborn elf
tired of playing piano in his room by himself
bored with being a world famous rock ‘n roll elf
with gold records – Don’t Go Breaking My Heart was his 12th

you know it really is hard being a curious elf
curiosity is why he’d snuck off by himself
now he’s lost and can’t find his way home without help
sometimes its dangerous being sneaky and stealth

could this be the end for sweet Elton the elf

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

The Sudden Doe

I wrote this in response to the July 19th prompt at Big Tent Poetry

______________________

This is a response, not so much to the letter of Carolee’s prompt, but to it’s essence. Instead of picking a fovorite poem, I have focused on my favorite poet, Gary Snyder. Given I am deeply moved by most of Gary’s work, choosing a “favorite” seems unrealistic.

Gary Snyder (born May 8, 1930) is an American poet (often associated with the Beat Generation and the San Francisco Renaissance), as well as an essayist, lecturer, and environmental activist — frequently described as the “poet laureate of Deep Ecology”. Snyder is a winner of a Pulitzer Prize for Poetry. His work, in his various roles, reflects an immersion in both Buddhist spirituality and nature.

He grew up here, where I live, in Portland Oregon and attended Reed College here. He was friends with Allan Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, and most of the beat writers, the majority of whom had urban backgrounds. Gary spent much of his youth, including his college years, hiking and working in the Northwest backcountry. This experience and his interest in things rural, made him appear exotic to his Beat Generation peers — who often referred to Snyder as ‘the Thoreau of the Beat Generation’.

Gary uses mainly common speech-patterns as the basis for his poetry, and does not typically use conventional meters nor intentional rhyme. His personal sensibility arose from his interest in Native Americans, their involvement with nature, their knowledge of it and balance with it. He argues that poets, and humans in general, need to adjust to very long timescales, especially when judging the consequences of their actions. His poetry examines the gap between nature and culture so as to point to ways in which the two can be more closely integrated.

A world traveler, with a fondness for the Far East; Gary has spent many years of his life exploring, and living in the wilderness of the western United States, especially the Pacific Northwest. He loves this region, as I do, and his work is strongly influenced by this love. I offer this poem I’ve written in the spirit of Gary Snyder. I pulled it together from a notebook I keep of my wilderness sojourns into this part of the U.S. as well as bits and pieces of drafts I’ve written, all influenced by Gary — not so much by how he writes, but who he is.


Gary Snyder

The Sudden Doe

•

my footfalls
drum the root chambers
of the cascade mountain old growth

each step cushioned
by centuries of needle-drop
in this ancient forest

rounding a bend in the trail
brushing through waist-high fern
I crest a knoll
and stop

mesmerized

light drifts down dreamlike
filtered by the woodland canopy
settling soft around me

suddenly
I’m startled

a young doe bounds onto the path
standing proud
golden in the glow

she considers me briefly
then disappears
quick as a stolen glance
quiet as passing time

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

• photo by Giuseppe Moretti, for Beat Scene Online

Always Options

…in response to the 10th prompt of 2010 on Writer’s Island, I offer a perspective on perspective…




Always Options

•

he came upon divergent ways
that stretched beyond the road he’d trod

he would go forth this was his mind
but had no notion which way that was

the pathway left was sparse with step
the roadway right was traveled plenty

leaning low to great extreme
he examined close the evidence

it came clear that those who journeyed left
were light of weight with timid step

while those who traveled onward right
wore finest boot of heavy heel

he thought on this for quite some time
until at last he knew for sure

he started neither left nor right
but instead went straight ahead

he hacked and carved and blazed a trail
into the new for those who’d follow

wise in life possessed of logic
he realized to where he’d come

the threshold of a new frontier
too raw for the sated too brute for the weak

those that would survive and prosper
would be among the enlightened bold

it would be those who’d choose this trail
full of promise made by his hand

with spirit full and muscled zest
he whacked and chopped and cleared the way

for those who’d come who were empowered
to seize possibility — a bright new world

• • •

(haiku)

•

trail forked this spring morne
white-tails chose the woods instead
always more options

• • •

rob kistner © 2010



• dedicated to the visionaries who see beyond •

Blue Temple

…response to prompt #14 from Magpie Tales



The image of this plate above, this week’s prompt at Magpie Tales, immediately put me in mind of serenity. Also, while the plate may be Chinese in origin, it also made me think of the ancient Japanese poetic form called tanka.

Tanka are 31-syllable poems that have been the most popular form of poetry in Japan for at least 1300 years. As a form of poetry, tanka is older than haiku, and tanka poems are evocative.

During Japan’s Heian period (794-1185 A.D.) it was considered essential for a woman or man of culture to be able to both compose beautiful poetry and to choose the most aesthetically pleasing and appropriate paper, ink, and symbolic attachment—such as a branch, a flower—to go with it.

Tanka have changed and evolved over the centuries beyond the traditional expressions of passion and heartache, and styles have changed to include modern language — but the form of five syllabic units containing a total of 31 syllables has remained the same.

Each line of a tanka consists of one image or idea. One does not seek to “wrap” lines in tanka, though in the best tanka, the five lines flow seamlessly into one thought or feeling.

This particular visual prompt also sparked my recall of a simple, but wonderful piece of art I discovered a few years back, entitled “Blue Temple” by Vorffy.

So here I present my tanka entitled “Blue Temple”, including for your pleasure, the Vorfffy art piece of the same name.

_____________________________




Blue Temple

•

birds in the blue sky

sampans on the blue waters

blue temple gateways

serenity is sacred

approach with your heart open

• • •

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

NaPoWriMo #30

This is my Thirtieth, and final post for National Poetry Month 2010

…presented as a warm farewell to readwritepoem, a brief creative oasis in a soul-starved time…

____________________________________

 

The Poets

•

damaged in their special ways
they like the path unclear
the route unmarked

fond of stumbling in
fumbling through
finding the way that’s theirs

engaged by the obtuse
the uneven
the asymmetric chord
they see grace and form
in brilliant imbalance

seduced by the clue
drawn to the fog
they seek the wonder
it withholds

where they long to go
is always round the bend
over the hill
behind the door

their ears prick
to the distant sound
that calls
just beyond clarity

to all these things
their souls are pulled

because

down the trail
in the mist
around the curve
over the crest
shut away

the clarion awaits

• • •

Till

•

to all things an end

time wears dull the perfect edge

rendered frail and soft

so too memories of when

till that time may come again

• • •


poem by: rob kistner © 2007 — tanka by: rob kistner © 2010

____________________________________

artwork entitled “Temenos #8 • The Poet” – by: Gregory Eanes

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