Tag: waste

Hour of the Beasts

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When the most capable
believe they have risen above
the mucus, the shit, the afterbirth
of their origin

when in their reflection
they see perverse transcendence
towards entitlement
in which no allegiance
or kinship of nature
binds them to their center

nor founds them in the
fevered fumbling fury
of the frightened flesh parade
in which they lock step
flailing for survival

when their insanity of arrogance
so distorts their vision of time
of the ancient
of the sweating
bone-broken reality
of human swill and wallow
through which they likewise trudge

shiny shoes or no

when they blatantly begin
to eat their own
while copulating with false gods
on forsaken gilded altars
of perjured horrors

then the hour of the beasts
is certainly at hand
and the power of wild nature
will rise up to dominate

and we’ll all become
the hulking mass
of the apocalypse
deserving to be struck down

and our black hearts
torn out and severed
by the self-inflicted rapier
of raw wild justice
and our husks immolated
on the pyre of banished
abandoned truth

that moment is near

*
rob kistner © 2022

Poetry at: eartweal

 

Aeropachydermicide

Aeropachydermicide: recklessly causing the death of someone or something by actions that result from the foolish belief that one is so smart and powerful that one can make an elephant fly.

 

Aeropachydermicide

  • Debunking the ridiculous theory of human dominion.

    • ~

    somewhere between our petrochemical insanity
    and our reckless dance with fractured atoms
    we believed we were the miracle
    and it all went seriously awry

    we fantasized we had dominion
    that we understood the vast unknown
    could control the raw chaotic
    that we had figured out the why

    so we delved into dark science
    with no regard for frail nature
    flailed our way across the planet
    belched our leavings into our sky

    we so bought into our egos
    that we perceived ourselves as gods
    that we were capable of anything
    perhaps make the elephant to fly

    but we humans lost sight of balance
    did not comprehend our place
    as only one of precious many
    we let the tipping point slip by

    now we wonder what will happen
    to our misbegotten dream
    stare through disbelieving tears
    as we watch it slowly die

    ~ ~ ~

    rob kistner © 10/3/11
    revised © 2019


     

  • Click below to check out more poetry at dVerse:

    Poetic: Theories of Everything and Anything


     

  • Check out more poems on Toads

     

    35C6DAEF-40AA-452C-885C-C373E1DE84F6
    Hi! I’m Edgrrr, rob’s shih tzu.

    • For Naught

     

    For Naught

    •

    the virgin page taunts me

    untouched

    the bright white
    throbs like a migraine

    no burden of remorse
    no weight of mystery
    does it bear

    no sting of anger
    no wink of mirth
    does it proffer

    nothing sensual or sensitive to share

    no tale to spin
    no plot to thicken
    no coin of phrase to turn

    just vast blank space
    tormenting nothingness
    cruel emptiness
    to drain my brain

    dissonance spills through my open window
    the scatter of autumn showers
    stir of october wind
    rustle of moist leaves

    in the distance
    muffled keens
    bursts of barking
    far off yelps

    the edgy piercing din
    of dripping prowling night
    intrudes in damp insistence
    to fill my head
    fevered with frustration
    to leave not one small space for wit

    the search for insight all for naught

    no spark to light this dark
    no muse in sight

    nothing clever or profound
    in the air this night

    chilled
    slack

    uninspired

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2011

    • linked at Magpie Tales

    Images – a ten year vigil

    …lest we ever forget

     

     

     

    Images


    •

    images

    unreal
    unfathomable images

    the graceful glide
    engulfed by the spire
    in a roar of golden orange

    horribly beautiful

    perversely mesmerizing

    obscene
    devastating images

    torrents of humanity
    raining down

    desperation their only escape

    masses of humanity
    racing
    to outrun the unbelievable

    praying
    to be delivered from the inconceivable

    traumatic images

    shrines of free commerce
    consumed
    by the unbearable weight
    of their fragile significance
    plummeting to earth
    in a cloud of self-destruction

    heartbreaking images

    screaming
    dazed
    terrified souls
    consumed
    by the unbearable weight of the moment

    staggering onward
    to outdistance the surging roll
    of all-engulfing
    pulverized aftermath

    courageous images

    battered
    determined
    tireless heroes

    those who were called
    who served unselfishly

    some
    who gave the ultimate service

    haunting images

    color
    gender
    ethnicity
    wiped away
    from the ashen-grey faces
    of the traumatized throngs

    now just masks of calamity

    all made equal
    by horror and grief

    one nation
    under siege
    inconsolable
    with tragedy and sorrow
    for all

    unforgettable images
    burned into our hearts

    • • •

    rob kistner © 9/11/09

     

    Believe

    This piece is offered in response to prompt #19 at We Write Poems
    and in response to the visual prompt Mag 23 at Magpie Tales seen at bottom of post.



    • image entitled “Weary” – colorized, digitally rendered by: rob kistner 2010


    Believe

    •

    I’d like to make myself believe
    the dream I dreamt as a young man
    that we can change the world’s heart
    to embrace love for one another

    I’d like to make myself believe
    people are by nature good
    that we can live in peace
    and make the world a better place

    I’d like to make myself believe
    universal understanding
    is a common goal
    of the peoples of this planet

    I’d like to make myself believe
    we haven’t lost our faith
    in these sacrosanct ideals
    of an elevated life

    I’d like to make myself believe
    there still exists somewhere
    a shared and nurtured vision
    of a paradise on earth

    I’d like to make myself believe
    but empty runs the hourglass
    again I’ve heard the daily news
    and I’m so weary, and brokenhearted

    yes, I’d like to make myself believe
    I’d like to, really like to
    but sometimes now I even wonder
    if anyone ever truly did

    • • •

    • poem above borrowed key line from the song “Fireflies” by Owl City

    _________________

    Time Running Out

    •

    once demure discourse

    now rhetoric to offend

    volatile neighbors

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    • haiku above also offered for the visual prompt Mag 23 at Magpie Tales,
    and the September 15th prompt at Three Word Wednesday.


    Mag 23

    Final Sentinel

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    Final Sentinel

    ~

    I watched
    as generations
    moved forward
    as civilization
    painstakingly
    progressed
    set foothold
    knowledge
    unfolded
    slowly

    I observed
    the millenniums
    of human endeavor
    as they awakened
    to self-reliance
    less dependent
    on hive mentality
    mastering machines
    eliminating conflict
    striving for truth
    ever evolving

    I saw
    nature
    the world
    reshaped
    tempered
    resilient

    proud
    I stand tall
    thrust skyward
    closer to heaven
    than any living thing
    a perpetual presence
    the constant sentinel
    a witness to triumph

    would
    that all that
    were true

    I watched helplessly
    as generations receded
    as empires crumbled
    greed ran rampant
    wisdom ebbed
    civilization
    imploded

    I observed
    millenniums
    of human folly
    misguided logic
    flawed reasoning
    as they flailed
    stumbling
    to a cold
    isolated
    world

    disconnected

    from one another
    from the environment
    serving their machines
    serving their avarice
    perfecting violence
    racing to ruination
    becoming aliens
    in a mad eden
    disillusioned
    depraved
    diseased

    until
    they were
    no more

    I watched through tears
    as the natural world
    slowly declined
    diminished
    withered
    scarred
    died

    putrid
    toxic air
    permeates
    burnt terrain
    to far horizons
    and now I stand
    thrusting skyward
    in this decaying hell
    praying for a heaven
    the only living thing
    the pitiful survivor
    the final sentinel
    time’s witness
    to tragedy
    watching
    the end

    ~ ~ ~

    rob kistner © 2010
    (revision © 2018)

  • Author’s Note: let’s strive to see part two never happens…

    _____________

    • What Do You See

    Time Window

    This piece is offered in response to visual prompt Mag 24 at Magpie Tales.




    Time Window

    •

    In the solitude
    of my assisted exile
    the window above me
    frames a grey
    and barren sky

    but with eyes closed
    I see home
    of long ago
    alive with morning

    the scurry of creatures
    warmed by summer

    I hear nature
    in splendid voice

    the chuff
    of tree’d red squirrel

    the song
    chirp
    and trill of birds

    chickadee
    goldfinch
    western bluebird
    and others

    fly
    flutter
    and flit

    cracking black-oil sunflower seeds
    that spill from feeders

    a red-tailed hawk
    calls
    from atop a Sitka spruce
    swaying
    in the crisp blue sky

    the muffled belling of a deer
    wandering the safety of old-growth
    whispers
    through the foothills

    the distant bark
    of a neighbor’s dog
    echoing the basin
    up along our stream
    reminds me
    we have friends nearby

    my wife’s
    gentle laughter
    validates the friendship

    her tender smile
    validates our love

    the rustle of leaves
    stirred by the breeze
    wafts through the valley

    smartly punctuated
    by the staccato
    of conifer cones
    that fall
    from time to time
    wrested free by chickaree
    and chipmunk
    chattering high in Douglas fir
    busy with their forage

    wap wap wap

    they bounce off our roof
    striking the ground

    closely followed
    by the scamper
    of their liberators
    crunching their way
    to the heart-meat of the cone
    the delicacy
    that elicits this furious industry

    drifting in the window
    intoxicating fragrances

    cedar
    pine
    fir

    lily
    rose
    lilac

    grasses
    loam
    and more

    a rich
    earthy bouquet

    caught in my reverie
    I breathe in
    deeply
    to suddenly remember

    I am alone
    carefully banished
    to this forgotten cloister

    sobered
    I exhale
    and do not open my eyes

    a solitary tear
    escapes

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    The Quiet • The Strike

    …I’ve written two pieces in response to Three Word Wednesday July 21st prompt • the first is entitled “The Quiet” • the second is entitled “The Strike”…

    The Quiet

    •

    left like spent bait
    in the disapproving sun
    to rot from apathy

    the carcasses of constituents
    foolishly quiet
    curl brittle and crack

    victims of their trust
    they did not jump
    their chance for change

    and so they wither
    hollowed by ignorance
    and purposeful neglect

    while the dark beast
    slouches off with eden
    marrow dripping from a smile

    • • •

    The Strike

    •

    warm
    familiar
    comfortable in my palm
    my fingers wrap natural cork
    index raised
    gauging line tension

    precision brings the willow’d shaft
    high above my shoulder
    rod flexing expectantly

    a flick of my wrist
    and the line arcs forward
    increasing the pressure
    on my fingertip
    as it rolls ahead
    accelerating

    then
    a careful pluck
    like a string
    on a guitar

    it is released

    the golden lure
    at line’s end
    sails silent
    into the squinting summer sun

    with a subtle plick
    the barbed hunter disappears
    slipping ‘neath the sparkle
    of the undulating steam

    seductively
    with quickening pulse
    eagerly visualizing
    I retrieve the bait
    anticipating the strike

    patience draws the lure
    dancing ever nearer

    I long for the sharp
    powerful tug

    for the slender thread
    unreeled before me
    to rise
    and dart away
    in a sliver of silver spray

    for my heart to jump
    as a proud trout
    breaks water
    victim to my seduction

    in this moment
    mind focused
    breath steady
    senses heightened
    awaiting sudden contact

    I reflect

    there is a simple truth in fishing
    in life

    the thrill of possibility
    can be as rich
    as the reward

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Questions

    …I wrote this in response to the June 28th prompt at Big Tent Poetry
    and for prompt #59 at Carry On Tuesday…


     

    Questions

    •

    he lifts himself quietly
    from beneath the sheets
    soiled with neglect

    makes his way carefully
    past the shallow-breathed crumple
    that lay milky-eyed in a heap
    un-moving on the floor
    save a twitch of the sodden head

    this wreckage is his mother

    why do you just lie there mother
    my head is full of demons son

    the response only imagined
    she remains slack and death-like
    where nocturne angels of sweet release
    had laid down lush upon her
    in fevered embrace
    lustfully conjured
    by last night’s spoon and lance
    still skewered silver in the soured vein

    mother — why do you want to die
    the return is only silence

    he lingers but a moment
    verifying life
    then moves on
    head down

    he angles to the bathroom
    to the scum-brown bowl
    to wash his face
    a face lit sallow by the yellowed bulb
    that hangs bare and lonely

    eyes of knowing
    eyes of sadness
    stare into the mirror
    broken as his heart
    then close

    your eyes hold a story my son
    will you tell me your story

    yes mother
    if you really want to hear about it
    if you really could

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010


    Extinction’s Shadow

    …these are rewrites of prior drafts, edited fresh for the June 21st prompt at Big Tent Poetry
    and strongly influenced by prompt #7 at We Write Poems…


    Extinction’s Shadow

    •

    smothered by big oil
    our blue planet is dying
    greed’s shadow falls hard

    •

    future is mortgaged
    to petrochemical lust
    fatal addiction

    •

    mankind is drowning
    in a flood of fossil fuel
    black tide of folly

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    • 3D color rendering at top entitled: “Too Long in the Shadow”
    by: rob kistner © 2008

    Maneater

    • In response to prompt #6 of the newly opened We Write Poems, I find arrogant, manipulative divas to be difficult to tolerate, or to understand…



    Maneater

    •

    auburn mane with sable streaks
    frosted ermine — lush with pride
    a bounce and whip, and tiply snap
    with each stiletto’d wanton stride

    taught hips roll on slender stems
    that part in ripples then enmesh
    a brushing sigh of stirring heat
    toned thighs gliding flesh on flesh

    a stare of comely crystal blue
    floats above a ruby pout
    that takes you in devouring
    has its way, then casts you out

    tongue tip teases top lip’s edge
    like supple paintbrush flowing
    a smile to burn and hypnotize
    that wraps around you knowing

    luscious wench — worldly wise
    sleek as steel — tall and strong
    swift and cunning, motor running
    she might acquiesce, but not for long

    poor fool who tastes this lusciousness
    is hopelessly addicted
    there’s only one word for this life-force
    that word, my friend, is — wicked!

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2010

    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 #22 – The Gaia Suite

    This is my Twenty-second post for National Poetry Month 2010
    • an Earth Day message
    • two tankas
    • one prayer

    ____________________________________

    • • Happy Earth Day • •

    ____________________________________


    • Go and visit the Earth Day Action Center 2010, and please — be aware!




    An Earth Day message:

    These are some thoughts I would like to share on this Earth Day 2010. It is from my heart, and expresses my great concern for this planet earth, and all of us who are traveling aboard her. If you are not in the mood for heavier fare, you can skip down to the poetry below this message.

    For the rest of you, I see our global society becoming more and more desensitized to killing, suffering, the dignity of women, our failing stewardship of this planet, and the value of life in general.

    Popular art reflects culture; it has in all of history. The ongoing proliferation of movies, video games, music, comic books, our dress and personal trappings, TV, even the TV commercials; this all cast a disturbing reflection of the direction a core section of the people of the earth are moving. And the less than subtle movement to cast doubt, even ridicule, on those who believe that the care of this world needs our attention NOW! One might argue that any of these individually is perhaps moot, but taken as whole, it begs to be examined — I feel.

    Our children and adults alike, spend hours playing graphic video games in which the sole purpose is bloodletting — maiming and murdering, in the most violent and gruesome ways. There are many wonderful video games, but the breadth and depth of the “snuff” games is cause to pay attention.

    The gladiator-like fighting cultures that have arisen in recent years is something to look at. These are no longer the staged violence of pro wrestling, in itself a bit unsettling – these are real blood for the sake of blood. In Rome, the rise of gladiators was a sign of the accelerating decline of the Roman Empire. We may not be there yet, but what does this current, rampant thirst for blood have to tell us?

    Another litmus that has always reflected the culture, is the impact of man’s religious constructs. Too often, the role they play is the manipulation and repression of his freedoms. I have nothing against the numerous religious constructs man has created. For those so drawn, they are a place for the safety and certainty they require.

    However, when radical religious minorities begin to attempt to dictate and rule the masses, imposing their constructed values and fundamentalism, especially when they claim it is the will of god – we’ve got to take serious notice.

    These are the signs that point to the stripping of freedom of responsible individual thought and personal rights – and essentially, eradicating the essence of personal responsibility. Today, with the rise of the repressive extreme fundamentalism that we see around the globe, it is akin to the eve of the dark ages. I don’t think we will descend to those extreme depths, but what does it mean when we have so many who would lead us there – even if, in some cases, it is unwittingly?

    I so want to champion optimism — but I cannot and will not turn a blind eye to the signs I see. None of us had better do so. We all need to become proactive for balance. That is the key. Balance the extremes of this world; ecological, social, moral, financial, and the like.

    To be proactive I have started this creative blog, Image & Verse, to begin, in my small way, to penetrate the root sensitivity of our society. I firmly believe the embrace and expression of creativity is the key to elevating our human species.

    I write poetry, speaking in sparse focused voice at times, entertaining lofty and beautiful thoughts at others, also embracing our human sensitivity and sensuality, and holding a mirror to reflect what is beautiful, or to reflect what I see as troubling — because I believe poetry has the power to penetrate the human psyche to greater depths than any written form.

    Poetry actually has the ability to alter people on a level that strict written word often cannot. If I write an essay, I make you think; maybe even alter your opinion. I write a poem, I have the chance to make you feel something, in your core – that can alter your hardwired being. I believe this.

    I think we urgently need to probe to these depths of the human psyche now, to send out these altering sparks, because I think there is trouble brewing, on some fronts, that could have dire consequence for the long-range future – of the planet and humankind.

    I also write poetry to celebrate, to lift up my own spirit, to have hope, to see possibility – to protect my personal sanity.

    So let us dance, sing, embrace the beauty and the miracle of life and this magnificent world in which we live, and seek joy and truth – but let us not be a Nero. Our Rome is beginning to smolder.

    –and so it goes–
    …Rob

    ____________________________________

    …this art piece immediately below is entitled “Gaia Yields” by: rob kistner © 2007…


    The Gaia Suite

    Gaia Weeps

    •

    man seeks dominion

    frail balance has been disturbed

    gaia is weeping

    man clings to his arrogance

    denial does not absolve



    Gaia Yields

    •

    seeds push seeking sun

    sky is pulling with spring rain

    gaia yields new life

    if man is responsible

    the balance can be restored



    Prayer For Balance

    •

    mother gaia you embrace us
    carry us safely
    as we hurtle thousands of miles
    every hour of every day
    through infinite space

    you provide for us our every need
    sustain our bodies with your abundance
    nurture our spirits with your beauty
    your endless wonders

    your need is simple

    that we live in balance with your rhythms
    with our fellow travelers on this amazing journey

    that we know gratitude
    humble stewards of your countless gifts

    for millennium upon millennium
    we lived in harmony
    attentive
    reverent
    but we’ve grown arrogant

    foolishly
    we believe we have dominion over you
    over all in your realm

    in pursuit of intellect we lost our sense
    our equilibrium
    lost our way

    even as we watch you suffer
    we cling to our ego
    to our destructive delusion of supremacy

    we do not see
    do not understand

    please forgive us
    be patient
    do not forsake us
    we can learn
    we must learn

    love for you is still strong
    among your wayward children

    this voice of love cries out
    please listen
    it resonates more loudly with the passing of time

    precious mother gaia
    grant us time to again find our way
    our humility
    our center

    the balance

    • • •

    • tankas and prayer by: rob kistner © 2010

    ____________________________________
    …thanks to Catherine for her prompt, and check out the other offerings at readwritepoem…

    Morning in the Neighborhood

    NaPoMo poem #12

    This is the twelfth of the poems I will be writing each day here in April, in honor of National Poetry Month, as proclaimed by the Academy of American Poets.

    • NOTE: these poems will all essentially be early drafts, so edits may occur after their initial posting.

     

    Morning in the Neighborhood

    •

    he lifts himself quietly
    so quietly
    from beneath the sheets
    soiled with neglect

    he makes his way carefully
    past the shallow-breathed crumple
    that lay milky-eyed in a heap
    un-moving on the floor
    save a twitch of the head

    which head now harbors demons
    where nocturne angels
    of sweet release
    laid down lush upon her
    in fevered embrace
    lustfully conjured
    by last night’s spoon and lance
    still skewered silver
    in the soured vein

    this wreckage is his mother

    he stops but for a glance
    verifying life
    then moves on
    head down

    he angles to the bathroom
    to the scum-brown bowl
    to wash his face

    a face lit sallow
    by the yellowed bulb
    that hangs bare and lonely

    eyes of knowing
    eyes of sadness
    stare into the mirror
    broken as his heart

    in the dank foodless morning
    of this ruined single room
    he gathers up his books
    steps lightly through the door
    down the damaged stairs
    into the hostile streets

    heavy with a childhood
    of strangled dreams
    he ducks and dodges
    in and out of shadows

    his prayer
    to once again avoid the evil
    that lurks and slinks
    among the garbage and graffiti
    of these crumbled brickened canyons

    seductive as a smile
    deadly as a snake

    evil

    which if diligence should fail
    will consume his youthful soul

    deliberately he continues
    until at last he finds his way
    into the building
    into the classroom
    into his desk

    into the only hope
    to which this innocent
    dare cling

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2009

    ___________________________

    • you can find other NaPoMo offerings at read write poem

     

    Killer

     

    Killer

    •

    …put two bullets in his brain

    I shot him twice
    at close range

    to witness
    the power of life
    crossing over

    and

    to feel him die…

    cool precision
    in a quite rage

    sacred act
    of raw release

    purity of instinct

    • • •

    rob kistner © 2009

     

    •

    NOTE: The poem above was written in response to the prompt, “The Other Side” — posted by the Totally Optional Prompt writing prompt blog. We were asked to write a poem from the point of view of a bad person. It could be someone from history, legend, or fiction; it could be someone who’s alive and making headlines. Regardless, someone whose acts you consider criminal or reprehensible.

    *The man and his actions, as depicted in this poem, are totally fictional — and purely evil.