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

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• 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


Oh Brother!

Presented in response to the May 10th prompt from Big Tent Poetry, which suggested “be playful! Let the sound of the words carry the weight (of the poem)” — so here is my playful poem of sounds…

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Oh Brother!

•

ACHOO!
exploded in the quiet room
followed by a couple loud sniffs

cover your mouth
I blurted in a whisper
before I bonk you on the noggin

he crackled with disdain
clicked the snap on his backpack open
and with a clunk and a clatter
surprisingly retrieved a tissue pack
from the cluttered contents
looking at me like I was cuckoo

he flicked one out
as a second fluttered to the floor

I growled my disapproval

he just giggled
honked his hooter
and hissed defiantly
jangling the keys
he had also pulled out

I knocked them from his hand
back into his backpack
and mumbled at him to hush up
and settle down

he murmured something unintelligible
rattling his pack shut
and plopping it back on the floor

I shushed him again
and started to slowly sizzle

suddenly I hear slurping
as he is sucking a soda
through a straw
splashing the liquid
over the ice
as he swirls and shakes his paper cup

I snap
and shout
shut up
thumping my fists on my knees

suddenly
everyone is eyeing me

I hear the lady next to me
going tsk tsk
like I’m the problem

it was all I could do
not to whip around in my seat
and whack her

yikes I thought
enough is enough

so I hopped to my feet
zipped my coat
grabbed him by the hand
and zoomed us out of there
into the car
slamming the driver’s door
and vrooooom

sped us home

never again I snorted
never again will I take you
little brother
to the movies

he just whipped on his iPod
began humming to his tunes
and ZAP…

flipped me off

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

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photo from: Getty Images

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


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

Stowaway

In response to the 2nd prompt on the newly re-opened Writer’s Island, I step from my place of hiding




Stowaway

•

slowly
with great caution
in halting measured step
I creep from sanctuary dark
to leave this place of safety

to sidle in uncertainty
into the chafing
cutting light

head bowed
spirit crushed
tensed for flight

emerging
visible again
though barely

poised to recoil
from any sudden emotion

long now in hiding
stowed away in sorrow
fragile as a newborn bird
unsteady as a fawn
just as frightened
as unsure

my wounded soul
took refuge in aloneness
dug in
resolved to disappear
become invisible
perhaps to die
the weight of life too great

simple breaths
a considered labor
but still I drew them
hesitantly

long I lay
shallow breathing
unwashed
unfed

resigned to simply vanish
from this hopeless realm

despaired I would never find
a reason to go on

yet slowly I emerge

but please
no impulsive expectations

permit me slow and careful evolution
from my chrysalis of anguish

let me find my way
back into the light
from my place of hiding

offer only patience
and safe distance

• • •

rob kistner © 2010


Mind’s Eye

…response to prompt #13 from Magpie Tales




Mind’s Eye

•

I sit
with my mind’s eye
I watch the flow of people

the shuffle of feet
with their different sounds
according to their shoes

I see wan faces of unsmiling lips
their void curves denounce this night

yet unseen
is the gossamer curtain’s fall
that defines their soul’s duality

the divergent reality
through which truth stumbles blind
to move in the world rough as a rope
taut as every promise made
frayed as wisdom
leaned in whispered from behind

grab at time like dropped money

I might learn something tonight
if someone will release the light
so I can shine like a child
who likes ice cream most of all

this child reads old mens’ minds
and notices the shoes
the belts all made of leather

I feel a shiver of sad imbalance
a confliction in my soul

so I will watch the shoes
and practice non-attachment
because I can

but pieces of me
stick to whoever gets too close

you may have seen me
silhouetted against the sky
the coldest night in January
howling with the frozen moon

then moon and I
sneak through fate’s construct
among cages of studs & trusses we run

from room to imaginary room
the whole world close enough to touch

we eat a midnight lunch of damaged bread
seasoned by caution and foreign lands
with onion’d thoughts layered deep

show mercy
peel back the layers
peel me away thin by thin
skin by skin
to my quivering soul

I hope I am not ugly in your sight

these thoughts become too heavy to hold
to tough to chew or swallow
my thoughts
bone-white lies of morality plays
open for you to peek

hope they are not ugly in your sight
hope they do not make you weep
as you peel back all the layers

onion’d thought layers
held fast and firm
like a carapace
to which I’m stitched and welded
and can no more leave than you can truly enter

they tie me down sometimes
but sometimes barely so

inescapable optimism in my bare-bones grin
flashes in the brittle moonlight

a stranger comes to where I sit
to see
his stare blinds the stars from my eyes

behind his fey smile
his radar dreams scan the forgotten creases
the clandestine getaways in my mind

standing over
he peers down with probing gaze

one of us
will learn a thing or two this night

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

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…an edited re-write of an earlier draft…

Hands of Neptune

…response to prompt #12 from Magpie Tales

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Hands of Neptune

•

like the disembodied
hands of Neptune
reaching from a rocky confine

breaking surface
into the watery realm

seeking
grasping
needing

but entombed
in a glassened globe
a crystal cage

cruelly shut away
from that which is most desired

contact
connection

prisoner
in brutal isolation
banished
even from the lesser gods

condemned eternally
to never know
the redemption of touch

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

Sad Little Clown

…presented as a second gracious salute to the first prompt from Big Tent Poetry

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Sad Little Clown

•

I am the sad little clown
with the frowning face
the round red nose
and the great big tear

this meek facade
and silly sham
belie the horror
that I engineer

life’s dealt me cold
my hand is slack
not a queen
no king nor ace

the violence
that dwells within
is masked behind
my woeful face

no one suspects
the evil soul
that festers deep
in this funny fool

they know not
the monster in me
the gentle sheen
conceals the cruel

they don’t realize
a broken heart
a ruined life
makes one quite mad

they simply see
the pitiful
and painted face
that looks so sad

the shaggy coat
the baggy pants
the red suspenders
the big white glove

they do not know
it hides the hand
that choked the life
and killed their love

town after town
state after state
bodies mount
in the circus’ wake

in the dead of night
at the dark of moon
in frenzied fever
each life I take

each beautiful
each innocent
each unaware
that they would die

there will be more
on the road ahead
one for every tear
you made me cry

when the circus comes
and the tents go up
the people cheer
in each sleepy town

‘cause in their ignorance
what they don’t know
who’s really come
is the killer clown

• • •

rob kistner © 2010

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photo from: Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus

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 #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…

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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

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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…

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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

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

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…see what offerings are this day at readwritepoem

NaPoWriMo #28 – part 2:

This is part 2 of my twenty-eighth post for National Poetry Month 2010
• one free verse poem
• one ecstatic poem


____________________________________

…this first poem was inspired by Julie Jordan Scott’s day 28 at readwritepoem
the second is an edited rewrite of a poem I wrote a couple of years ago that I wanted to share…

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In following Julie’s suggestion that we let intuition guide us to a theme, a subject, essentially to the “prompt” for this poem for day 28 of NaPoWriMo 2010 — what presented itself to me several times was a question. Why do I write poetry? The answer that surfaced — for my personal solace, my peace of mind, for my sanity. Thus came forth the prompt for this day.

 

Sanity

•

in the sorrowing hours
at full depth of night

alone with my thoughts
my terrors
my dreams

sculpting words into wedges
that pry open my psyche

expose raw emotion

lay bare my soul

that I might glimpse who really I am
and be certain still that I feel

here is my sanity

• • •

 

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∞

•

step gently through the dream-gate

take hold the strand continuum

ride the light that carries you

to the is, was, the will be

transcendence moment

when the all is one

in the perfection

of pure being

here now

alive

∞

•


• poem and ecstatic by: rob kistner © 2010

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…see what else was intuited this day at readwritepoem