Old man gazes out his window
uncertain just how long it’s rained
alone in the twilight he has questions
were his losses worth all that he gained
memories like a dying candle’s flicker
thoughts of his loved ones — sadly gone
entwined bittersweetly in his heartstrings
a thankfulness for those that still shine on
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
When I sense threat
I’ve been known to bellow
resolution comes more quickly
than approaching it mellow
if still no resolution
things may get rip-roaring
again — more effective
than simply imploring
I will never come calmly
when hedging my bet
never surrendering my fate
to tones that are dulcet
don’t tell me “relax”
or suggest that I breathe
if it’s gotten that far
I have started to seethe
pulse beatin’ — I’m screamin’
and gone out of my head
begun to coarsely embellish
with a face that’s beet red
if matters still aren’t settled
I don’t beseech — I fall quiet
then start starin’ daggers
before bringin’ the red riot
*
rob kistner © 2022
FOCUS WORDS: bellow, rip-roaring, dulcet, seethe, embellish, beseech
Poetry at: dVerse
Walk with me my love, ‘round the lake, into our favorite stand of old growth. Let us listen to our footfalls, as they drum the root chambers, each step cushioned by centuries of needledrop in this ancient forest. We will enjoy the rise and fall, twist and turn of the trail, serenaded by the breeze in the treetops. The steady rhythm of our footsteps will sooth our weary hearts.
We’ll trek deep into the woods, to that crest of the knoll overlooking our special log. There we’ll rest, under the towering woodland canopy, and bask in the filtered sunlight, that drifts down dreamlike, golden into our sacred clearing — while we breath the intoxicating natural bouquet of this timeless forest… of conifers, ferns, mosses, musks, and ionized mountain air. So come, and bring no book, for this one day we’ll give to idleness, and nature’s magic.
Poetry at: dVerse
These sea-spent soul serpents
captain their coffin galleons
afloat with their *newly dead
ferried rough’n’raw to the docks
then off to sweet-flesh wenches
in the sin-sullied gypsy taverns
to boast their blood-soaked tales
and spend death’s ill-gotten gold
burnt whiskey confessions
cradled scarred and strong
in the muscle-head crooks
of their murder-bent elbows
hoisting a flagon
of bahamian beach rum
temptation rich
and firestorm spiced
spreadin’ the forecast
of tonight’s fisted fury
knuckled wild and savage
n’hell-frenzied foul
not for the lazyants
or weak-gutted braggarts
these fierce-spirit lads
crush lameful foe brutally
ready to fight
at the instant is dropped
a three-pointed hat
these ain’t no scared pigeons
their creed’s raidin’ & ragin’
all stoned immaculate
wheellocks fully loaded
and trained on their prey
like fiery tomcats
on a cool moonlit night
roamin’ the side streets
to rumble & pillage
whistlin’ down the devil
prowlin’ angry and proud
hearts cold as winter
tempers hot as hell
*
rob kistner © 2022
*bodies / votes
Falling into a tangle
of vague thoughts
almost-remembering’s
and near answers
slipping my grasp
tumbling jumbled
it careens away
down blind alleys
bouncing off suppositions
dodging conjecture
tripping over tongue tips
until hitting the wall
damnit!
just why
did I
come in here?
well
while I’m here
I’ll close this window
wait
what the…
well I swear
look out there
in the trees
how the…
the cat!
now I remember
why I came
now just gotta
find my keys
…now for a deeper satirical perspective…
Oh those
OMG!
no
I no longer need those
I don’t see things
for myself
don’t read the small print
or between the lines
anymore
I mean
why?
I simply let others
look for me
then they tell me
what they think
they see
that way
I save time
and bother
I just let others
tell me
what they think
I just glance
at the bold print
then I know
what I should think
like I said
it saves time
time I don’t have to waste
looking
seeing
considering
researching
evaluating
then thinking
for myself
so
no
OMG!
I no longer need those
haven’t known
where they were
for years now
LOL!
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
Dark souls entered through an open door
stirred panic with twisted metaphor
left clarity bleeding on the floor
the mystery yet is ours to find
but deepening night’s not far behind
with their secrets and our fears entwined
madness calls us to its shore
wraps around us threatening more
tearing at our gilded core
our book of darkness is duly signed
our troubled souls by chaos confined
false dangerous hearts fiercely aligned
caustic secrets we must abhors
much saving grace still to restore
uncertainty sways our final score
frail honesty is stumbling blind
truth now by smoke and mirrors defined
l fear our prophets may have lost their mind
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers
Poetry at: earthweal
blackthorn rosebud, passion’s secret
mysteries dreamed, fantasies craved
earthen lustwitch, molten ardor
scarlet scorching, sultry vision
secrets forged in bronze fire midnight
wanton temptress, my dream desired
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers
painting entitled “Rain Man” by: Vane Kosturanov
One misty moistaly dampinmorn
the mist was most prevailington
and then it started to storminoff
on that misty moistaly dampinmorn
it came up without a warninton
with hailstones angrily hailinous
I missed the mornington weathertold
on that misty moistymous morn
I slept through that mornington’s alarmanoff
so didn’t know ‘bout no warningful storminoff
had I known I mighta stayed homelicated
my lazinations got me quite soaklinated
next time I’ll be more atentuated
so I can venture forth fully umbrellanated
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
W ith gentle nudges
dad’s hushed deep voice
urges me from the cocoon
of my toasty morning covers
wake up Bobby
my childhood moniker
I’m gonna make us breakfast
then those fish better beware
fishing
our passion
which I now share
lovingly with my son
and he and I
with his son
my grandson
…well, back to my story…
I hear muffled footsteps
the creak of an iron door
then a wooden — thunk thunk
fresh kindling being loaded
into the stove’s fire chamber
then the scuffing of forged ore
as a heavy iron poker
probes the iron fire chamber
coaxing a glowing ember bed
to ignite the fresh logs
this is gonna catch quickly
start gettin’ up son
sure hope you’re hungry
staggered, softly percusssive
phuft phuft — phufts
announce lengths of virgin fuel
bursting to crackling flame
I poke my eager head out
into the damp morning chill
of Ontario semi-darkness
as the big black stove
groans to full life
a welcomed burgeoning heat
begins permeating the cabin
the soft glow and muffled hiss
of dad’s Coleman lantern
clutches at the darkness
as dad clunks and shuffles
the bulky iron skillets
atop the rapidly heating stove
breakfast is coming son
dad proclaims
a smile in his voice
Canadian bacon, cakes ‘n eggs
his statement accompanied
by the sizzle and aroma
of strips crisping in the pan
hungry — I slide from bed
excited and shivering
imagining this day of fishing
that lies ahead
slipping on my robe
I go to the window
where the tin bowl
of kettle-warmed water
rests on a small table
waiting for me to soap
my morning face and hands
through the cabin window
I still see a myriad of stars
in the clear northern heavens
above our wilderness island
small waves lap at our stone shore
occasionally knocking our boat
laden with our fishing gear
against our weathered wooden dock
I see the Espanola sky
just beginning to lighten
and hear the pre-dawn loons
calling across the pristine lake
barely rippling in the AM breeze
as I stand washing up
I continue to reflect
how lucky I am to be here
fishing with my father
this amazing man
who adopted me
saved me
at that moment
I’m snapped from my reverie
by his kind voice…
breakfast is ready
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry OLN at: dVerse
Be it with your son or daughter, this is what fishing really is…
…unrelated, but a couple of great ‘sunrise’ tunes…
* ADULT FARE ~ menu may not be for all appetites.
“Intimate” by: Suzan Bushnaq
My mouth on you
soft
like a peach
you glisten
lush on my lips
I bite you
sweet
like an apple
your hushed breath
staccato crisp
you taste
tart
succulent as a strawberry
intoxicating
as love’s nectar
desires fired
I devour you
whole
your pleasure
flows hot and rich
quenching my thirsty soul
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: dVerse
Damaged in our special ways
we like the path unclear
fond of stumbling in
fumbling through
to find the way that’s ours
we seek grace and form
from brilliant imbalance
seduced by the muse
we’re drawn to the mystery
and the wonder
it conceals
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry at: dVerse
https://youtu.be/KIbb3UdCyRc
James Dean, NYC, 1955 photo by: Dennis Stock
No
I‘ll not listen
not be shackled
not be handled
not be ruled
I’ll not be managed
nor be played
manipulated
or be fooled
you sure as hell
will not tell
me
who
what
where
when
how
or why
what you offer
I’m not taking
your extended hand
I am not shaking
the world I walk
is of my making
I will not have it
any other way
I am a man
of my own mind
and I will live
as my own man
all I really want to be
movin’ fast
and movin’ free
James Dean’s wrecked ‘55 Porsche
*
rob kistner © 2022
Poetry at: The Sunday Muse
There you stand patient raven
liquid-black as molten coal
beside this woman besot and broken
her thoughts black and troubled
arms outstretched in anguish
as she stands ravin’ in the rain
tell me what is true here raven
why is it that you stand here
so rain soaked and deeply sullen
beside this broken woman so bereft
her soul so black and shattered
her heavy heart so full of pain
has her ravin’ called you forth
do you feel kinship in her darkness
is there a faint scent of death
carried on her plaintive breath
she~ so saddened and so downcast
her tangled life a mortal stain
are you here as fateful witness
stalking her dreadful final moments
to bear truth to how she suffers
to watch her wrap her fractured life
perhaps feast upon her forfeit body
this mournful soul so sad insane
she~ now but carrion for a crow?
her love is taken
by a mutant strain
her mind is broken
her life’s in vain
this sad girl cryin’
need not explain
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry at: dVerse
Poetry at: Poets & Storytellers
I want to celebrate that we can dream. That we can see what is not there, but should be, and make it so. I want to celebrate that we can create a thing of art, simply bring into the world something beautiful, that wasn’t there before — and in being there, enriches lives.
I want to celebrate that we can conceive and contrive something that makes some important thing possible — where possibility did not exist, and the making possible elevates the quality of life.
I want to celebrate the human mind, the human spirit, and the human ability to believe — not because we always go there by logic, but rather we frequently go there by belief alone, and once there, prove the logic of the belief. And the belief can uplift and cure.
I want to celebrate the human spirit that says all things are possible — and sooner, not later! I want to celebrate that art and science are the self same journey to creation — that which improves lives both practically and spiritually. This world must celebrate both from a place of profound gratitude and pinnacle pride.
And the writers and lyricists, those that can employ simple language or song, to proclaim the profound, and easily take us there, to experience the inconceivable, to move us, to fill our lives with worth, with courage, bold thinking, and joy, and laughter, and tears, and learning — to squash the tyranny of conformity, to make us more intelligent free thinkers, and more whole … this I celebrate!
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry at: dVerse
~ listen, and experience the miracle of spontaneous ecstatic human creation ~
I’d sought quiet in this wood
pursuing poetry to no good
in solitude with my thought
trepidation is — verse is not
the darkness of this night
shrouds choking close n’tight
cold as an old tundra witch
charred as slag-sooted pitch
this foreboding icy moon
stabs a sliver of chilling gloom
through the heart of the trees
where I tremble on my knees
trapped in unanchored dreams
my forsaken soul now screams
lost in loosed untethered fears
I am adrift upon my tears
unmoored from space and time
here my soul can find no rhyme
in confusion I’m immersed
no poem of worth can here be versed
the devil has finaly had his way
no lofty verse will rise this day
no poem to save my weary soul
no clever words to pay my toll
engulfed by this emptiness
rigored by my loneliness
this void smuggles away my breath
I pray for sleep — deep as death
*
rob kistner © 2021
Poetry at: earthweal