Patrick Pfister
Stories and poems by Patrick Pfister have appeared or are
forthcoming in the following literary magazines and websites:
Pearl, "flashquake", International Quarterly, Stylus Poetry
Journal, Juked, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Poem Niederngasse,
Snowy Egret, Pilgrimage, Slow Trains, The Iowa Source, Blue
Fifth Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly and Jerseyworks.
His travel essays have been selected for Travelers' Tales
anthologies, including Greece, Southwest USA, Food, and Best
Travel Writing 2007.
His prize-winning poem, Nevada, was nominated for Best of
the Web 2007.
forthcoming in the following literary magazines and websites:
Pearl, "flashquake", International Quarterly, Stylus Poetry
Journal, Juked, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Poem Niederngasse,
Snowy Egret, Pilgrimage, Slow Trains, The Iowa Source, Blue
Fifth Review, The Pittsburgh Quarterly and Jerseyworks.
His travel essays have been selected for Travelers' Tales
anthologies, including Greece, Southwest USA, Food, and Best
Travel Writing 2007.
His prize-winning poem, Nevada, was nominated for Best of
the Web 2007.
| Selected Poetry |
Road Lover
Into my lungs
flows your breath
lure me, let me
seduce you
asphalt mistress
caress my desire
leave you
yearn me lonesome
the gentle waiter's all
knowing smile,
the Korean barbecue sizzle-
our acetylene ache
I remember your heart
and kisses so deep
legs entangled wild
roaming frenzy
that flame night
your yielding, my longing
thrashing sheets
like wanton sails
I glimpsed your eyes
flung open like the sky
your pant on my neck
like a burn.
At dawn a whispered bye
and call again please,
then slipped out
the garden gate.
-first published in Jerseyworks
Into my lungs
flows your breath
lure me, let me
seduce you
asphalt mistress
caress my desire
leave you
yearn me lonesome
the gentle waiter's all
knowing smile,
the Korean barbecue sizzle-
our acetylene ache
I remember your heart
and kisses so deep
legs entangled wild
roaming frenzy
that flame night
your yielding, my longing
thrashing sheets
like wanton sails
I glimpsed your eyes
flung open like the sky
your pant on my neck
like a burn.
At dawn a whispered bye
and call again please,
then slipped out
the garden gate.
-first published in Jerseyworks
Storm
Trapped mile high in October snow
a motorcycle Michigan-bound.
Dew crystals glint on brake cables
while blizzards swirl heaven.
A magnet, the glacial earth
pulls ice needles from sagging eaves;
trees rise upright, proud
yet branches droop.
A dream run out of gas --
no money, scant hope
nowhere to roll
except down.
Frostbite fingers clamp the throttle
and rear wheel fishtails slush;
eyes squeeze
ice-pellet tears
down off the Rockies into Kansas
long flat straight rolling
all the way back
to autumn.
-first published in Slow Trains
Trapped mile high in October snow
a motorcycle Michigan-bound.
Dew crystals glint on brake cables
while blizzards swirl heaven.
A magnet, the glacial earth
pulls ice needles from sagging eaves;
trees rise upright, proud
yet branches droop.
A dream run out of gas --
no money, scant hope
nowhere to roll
except down.
Frostbite fingers clamp the throttle
and rear wheel fishtails slush;
eyes squeeze
ice-pellet tears
down off the Rockies into Kansas
long flat straight rolling
all the way back
to autumn.
-first published in Slow Trains
Pool of Nectar
Forty water buffaloes escort me
through a chaos of broken hills,
chickens, goats and greenery
to the end of Pakistan
where I pay a bribe of two Bic pens
and enter Mother India.
As devotees tramp past
heading east, seeking gold
in the Pool of Nectar
a rickshaw wallah's grin
beckons my business
and we trundle into Amritsar.
At the threshold of the Golden Temple,
I leave my Gore-Tex boots with
a thousand plastic sandals, aware
that crows entering the Pool of Nectar
lose their blackness
and shining swans emerge.
Lepers and amputees,
cripples and crocodile Sikhs
undress fear and disrobe doubt
then dip their faith
in the rippled blessing
near the trouble-healing berry tree.
Pilgrim wallflower, I stand
to the side
unable or unwilling to join
the cool immersion
the slow sinking, then dispersal
in the Pool of Nectar.
-first published in Juked
Forty water buffaloes escort me
through a chaos of broken hills,
chickens, goats and greenery
to the end of Pakistan
where I pay a bribe of two Bic pens
and enter Mother India.
As devotees tramp past
heading east, seeking gold
in the Pool of Nectar
a rickshaw wallah's grin
beckons my business
and we trundle into Amritsar.
At the threshold of the Golden Temple,
I leave my Gore-Tex boots with
a thousand plastic sandals, aware
that crows entering the Pool of Nectar
lose their blackness
and shining swans emerge.
Lepers and amputees,
cripples and crocodile Sikhs
undress fear and disrobe doubt
then dip their faith
in the rippled blessing
near the trouble-healing berry tree.
Pilgrim wallflower, I stand
to the side
unable or unwilling to join
the cool immersion
the slow sinking, then dispersal
in the Pool of Nectar.
-first published in Juked
Stories and Poetry
Nevada
Some fuel pump air filter
high altitude clogged carb
float problem keeps this
old Toyota engine choking
down off the Sierra Nevadas
onto desert tracks of buckshot
road signs and dust rising like
200 yard-long rooster tails.
As the tied-down hood bounces
I struggle to stay alert,
but without worry
relaxed but not inert.
Only thing stress does,
blackjack dealer said,
is put you whole lot faster
into that pine box.
At the Ruby Hill Motel
a six-foot redhead in
leopard skin pants
rents me the "president's suite."
Outside a darkness
of barking dogs,
trailer parks, tract homes
and Cowboy Karl who invites me
into the Break-a-Heart Saloon
where we shoot the breeze
over stand up shots
of no-name bourbon.
Tells me last night his fiancé-
ex-fiancé that is-
emptied an eight round clip
into his old Ford pick up.
Two semi-wadcutter Magnum bullets
pierced the well-waxed hood,
shattering the carb
and a four month engagement.
Tears glisten in gray eyes and
Karl shakes his Stetson,
lifts his bourbon, drawls,
"Best damn pick-up I never had."
-first published in Jerseyworks
Some fuel pump air filter
high altitude clogged carb
float problem keeps this
old Toyota engine choking
down off the Sierra Nevadas
onto desert tracks of buckshot
road signs and dust rising like
200 yard-long rooster tails.
As the tied-down hood bounces
I struggle to stay alert,
but without worry
relaxed but not inert.
Only thing stress does,
blackjack dealer said,
is put you whole lot faster
into that pine box.
At the Ruby Hill Motel
a six-foot redhead in
leopard skin pants
rents me the "president's suite."
Outside a darkness
of barking dogs,
trailer parks, tract homes
and Cowboy Karl who invites me
into the Break-a-Heart Saloon
where we shoot the breeze
over stand up shots
of no-name bourbon.
Tells me last night his fiancé-
ex-fiancé that is-
emptied an eight round clip
into his old Ford pick up.
Two semi-wadcutter Magnum bullets
pierced the well-waxed hood,
shattering the carb
and a four month engagement.
Tears glisten in gray eyes and
Karl shakes his Stetson,
lifts his bourbon, drawls,
"Best damn pick-up I never had."
-first published in Jerseyworks
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