Does life really have the purpose
Feeling like a slow turtle
The Floridian Fort Myers
The sandy silk the remedy
Seashell Rose thorned
  The happening day I was born
Robin- Joy tiny 5 pounds of gold
Joy to the world 4 ounces
Birth I was her world
to guide me the incubator
I was named after
"Grandma Rose'
The dictator attention newborn babies
Crying please Arnold the
terminator doesn't terminate
her completely just stop
her from crying

Spiritual bud those rare finds
Someone took my funds
How was it laid out like
a birth flowing
Without anyone seeing
the beauty of it showing

The purpose in life being
moved inside another mind
A samba walk like a girl from
Not always about someone's
  the treasure she passed
not to see
What is truly required
being sad to let it be
Or saying it's my pleasure

On your way to hope-land
or finding more time homeland
What a fine host heartland
Friendly sword-like
The love fever when
the hayfever got to
Raggedy Ann dandelions
and ragweed
Her hot fever planting her seed
It works two ways to be the believer
My temperature rising

Your head is buzzing next song
The Spin city laughing gitty
But God! why are we  really here
Like Tinman Olive oil good
for the heart
That Scarecrow if I only had
a brain I'm over
there and here
How I am scattered straw
Row your boat somewhere

Go gently computer streaming
Website world
That less induced stress
She lifts her smile that
black number dress was
A huge success

Her reduced waistline to cope
What is really the purpose of
Valentines Day Ray of hope
Every holiday gets you crazy
no matter if it is some purpose
Or that crucial number
coming to America has a purpose
Being Italian cannoli music
playing Pavarotti

All hell breaks loose he is high up
in the cabin whole lotta shaking
going on
  Rocky Bullwinkle Moose
Westchester eggs caboose
Wilted-wedding is not organized
Deeply touched to be personalized
Also the numbered seating, he left
his heart in your Ivory Starlite plate
What is really the purpose when
people invite you and show up late
You are writing again Amen
Velicity of higher force gravity
true vibe
The family of  my tribe
Another letdown, please
found me
Next season  firmly grounded
Someone will see you in the
magazine did they subscribe?

The foundation of Faith
Please describe
Nothing makes sense
You got a raise
He gave you kick in the pants
This life is a game of stunts
The purpose of life this is my translation I feel I never get a vacation too busy but life will bring me to salvation I always try to put humor in my writing that the only things to keep me going what do we see in our world what it's telling us
Inside to inner life, enticing lovers to come forward, a landscape richness of images and emotions. Marble statues, raised in her image, paying homage to god-like achievement.
Never to be loosened, folklore mixing in with reality. Weaved poems from casting romance roles, under moonlight and around candlelight. Green glow and owls.
Sleepless night, meeting one’s own dream, when those myths collide with reality to explode over earth, as every word in dogma is instantly forgotten. And it’s too late, she’s burnt in the memory of immortality. It’s a exorcism from humanities sins, hidden demons and no holy water.
History is dull.
As the romantic place in poetry, providing praise. Smile knowing there isn’t anything wrong of forever believing in spellbinding love. For living outside being so, not worth living. Stepping outside the paradox. The commitment to love, processed over a lifetime and built from scratch. No one ever has to wait, taking comfort in poetry, dipped in honey. Perhaps it’s glory, poetic exaggeration, though everyone wants to be saved, perhaps no one really does, though it’s always the other that saves, to be on a pedal steel with roses thrown to the feet is the only price to pay, is one some do turn away from. Cigarette smoke in jazz ballads. Fear not, fear never and the only regret is loss of life of one’s personal history in avoiding thee. Maybe we’re just molded from the same star and just wanted to discover ourselves first. Life happens now and it never waits. For now, in regal imagery, I see in, death is still definite.
A tyrant to one’s heart,
the foundation for humanities poetry,
and when I think of love, it’s your actions is what come
first to my mind’s eye.
As for poetry, will never truly understand or express
deep love that’s experienced.
And worry, I’ll never be able to fulfill musings ways of love.
Despite poetry’s attempt to teach.
A person, that Heaven can’t replace with any Angel.
Perhaps this only a dream.
But I learnt from poetry, it's good
to have feelings and just want to vibe.
It’s a delight to know the fear,
providing a loss of life. With
only the moon that wears
feathers from phoenix. Gold
drippings and arch of eternity.
Rebirth not from water, but of
soul selling to herself, in
innovation and originality. As
the others emulate. Starlight
allure, speaking languages
with humanities musings.
Waking the dead world, dropping
men to their knees as their
boyish behavior is pulled to the
front. Relinquishment of dogma,
as we all enter a new age.
As chanting songs in homage
to her. As no more tears to cry,
to what she avoided in the first
place, is attention from others,
pushing away romantic gestures,
conversing conversations, a
standard practice of life’s narrative.

memphis red
no longer is

gray now shines
from a balding head
filled with scarlet embers

memories still burn

a fired spirit
too deep
for coddled mortals
to fully fathom

red is real

red is legend

his tales of pain
of injustice
the lore of the big muddy

his eyes
earthy brown
turbulent as that river

his stare
a deep current
impossible to escape

swept away

his voice
a tempered edge
honed by blues

broadleaf husky
thick as sorghum
as beale street bourbon

the cf martin
swings from a leathered neck

on a tattered strap
stretched and shaped
by the heft of sorrow
poured into the soundhole

marked and scarred
by years of burden
of witness

its character and patina
bear testament
to a genuine soul

cracked and seasoned hands
reach with suffered care
to wrap the fingerboard
in love

callused digits
yellowed by habit
depress taut strands
no longer catgut

sculpting emotions

blood and bone

true life
ensnared in sitka spruce
and spiraled steel

knowing strains rise

chords of loss
rhythmic stomp
stinging verse
tinged in triumph

of broken promise
failed love

of dirt field
cruel street
back alley

of harsh wisdom
enduring hope

to fill this space

to break my heart
to steal my soul

swept away


rob kistner © 2007
This is a tribute to celebrate every genuine bluesman, whose life of hardship, spirit, suffering, joy, and sorrow, were honed and carved into their soul,
to craft masterworks of musical storytelling that will forever capture
a people, a time, and a way of life that are deep roots of America.
On your manic days,
when I can't get eye contact from you,
when your phone is your best friend,
and cleaning up your mess,
is the only thing on your mind.
I keep hearing your words
"I'm not a cuddling person,
you should be grateful
for what affection
you get from me."
You say you didn't mean it.
Yet I'm a ghost in my own home.
Unable to get my husbands touch.
I question my existence,
my purpose,
and why I sacrifice so much,
only to be scarified.
Modern times, mystery here and there. Lore and stories.
Spellbinding to my soul. Eyes wide open. Manifestations
over to my hands. One eye and everything that I’ve ever
wanted, within one arm’s reach.
(knowledge variable)
Could happiness be counted elsewhere, outside one’s own inner-world? Developing more. Secrets in the eyes. Writing poetry from flower petals and moths eating dreams.
Glory in nature.
Artists stepping outside normal living.
Living with one’s duality, insignificance and their attributes that contribute to reality.
Still rising, not to speak with violent words.
To be in pursuit with confliction and burdens pressed upon shoulders. Romance only wanted. Love in the final endgame. Touching existence.
Bleaching thoughts, dripping from the ears and mouth. Prepping to purge. Stars of the night.
Painting Van Gogh.
Careless words spoken in poetry.
Recklessness mastered. So goodbye for now. Exiled more. In volunteer terms. High art raged. Dropping off poems for suspecting confusion.  And if I shall die before my own meaning is found. Cry none. I’m not hard to find.
Manauwer Raza Jun 13
the sky overhead
turned red
as if, there was a sign
for a storm to come by
and may be
the early breeze
was just a comfort
to reach out to you
to make you realize
the things you are to endure
is better, if you kept the breeze
in your mind and soul...
Tyler Matthew Jun 12
I lost all my ambition
when I moved here with you.
Now I'm in no condition
to do what I have to do.

My mind's mixed up with worries
on track to coming true.
And now I'm in no hurry
to spend all my life with you.

I used to dream of writing
for some big magazine.
Now I dream of hiding
with a bottle of amphetamines.

Some days you say you love me
and want me in your bed.
Other times you loom above me
and drop your judgment on my head.

If you'll just come out and tell me
what it is you want from me,
then I'll lose the pills I'm taking
and put you in that magazine

And everyone can read about you,
with your name beside "forever."
Otherwise, just say adieu,
and I'll write it, "darling, never."
Grief is nothing until we reach it. Though we know, death is
always a definite, no matter what our inner world declares,
presents to us or it forms us. Dislocating us from the world
and providing less meaning, fading away, innocence loses
as the notion of expectations leaves us. Rendering to deal
with reality, alone.
(knowledge variable)
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