A Toy Gun, with Real Bullets
new music
a catatonic scale
for the poet’s requiem
we are but clouds
of cosmic dust
collapsing in a dream
apples sweeten
in the shadows
hungry birds
dark secrets
from a broken heart
arctic waters warm
water
into wine
resource wars
the courthouse
in the pawnshop window
antique scales
haves
and halve nots
taking the last peace
vacuum sealed
the totalitarian minds
of mixed nuts
fanning himself
with a meat cleaver
the butcher sighs
a thin rat
over broken glass
moonlight in a slum
rain
a gravedigger’s fingers
flipping a coin
gravestones
huddle in spring grass
a church bell
without a tongue
waves leapfrog
the ripping tide
empty pews
dream songs
in night’s chamber
pot
our eyes
glazed donuts
sweetening the whole
Addled Stop
No, I can’t quite recollect the name –
Some lair along the way from Fair to Middling.
I had to meet a bird (pardon my way)
And that was where she thought we ought to be.
The slow train lurched to a stop, a clerk smirked
At me. I smiled and gathered up my things,
Such as they were: a camera and two gold rings,
Baubles for the beauty I desired.
No one came and no one went
On the bare platform. I know.
I waited there until the sun went down,
And when the world grew dark I knew
The time had come to go, unloved again.
But then, distant at first yet unmistakable,
I heard a crow, as dark, I think, as night,
In which it grew, louder and louder,
Until I sensed its song was meant for me,
A coarse calling home a broken nest.
Yes, the world closed for me that night.
Fair birds were fast asleep in Oxfordshire.
So near a little grog shop by the tracks
I went to swill my fill of vile jelly.
Blind drunk was I to be while life went on
And on and on – mistier, farther, unwontedly.
A Few Words Worth
I wandered lonely from the crowd
When all at once I gazed
An older lady, slippered feet,
Two turtles on the green.
She cooed, then held each carapace
High above the ground,
Their heads stretched forth, but not in glee
Their lethargy it seemed to be
A vacant, pensive mood.
What had been done or would become
Of them I could not say.
Yet though my rhyme would strain to see
A gay and jocund company
These words with bitter tears are glazed,
My blissful solitude is dazed.
For last I knew the world were lost
While dancing like a daffy doll.
The Curse of the Colonel
so much depends
on the old man
with white hair
beside the red wheelbarrow
eating fried chicken
The Curse of the Colonel is a Japanese urban legend
regarding a curse placed on the Hanshin Tigers baseball team by the ghost of
KFC founder and mascot Colonel Sanders. The curse was said to be placed on the
team because of the Colonel's anger that one of his store-front statues was
thrown into a river by fans celebrating their team's 1985 pennant. The curse
was eventually broken this year when the Tigers won the 2023 Japan Series for
their first championship since 1985, a victory that led to wild celebrations in
Osaka.
Spacetime
I talked to God
about repossessing
the children of fools
He said it couldn’t be done
not yet
not before the next Big Bang
so all of that is true I asked
that stuff about black holes
and parallel universes
kind of He said
but don’t get bent
out of shape
by the gravity
of the situation
Robert Witmer has lived in Japan for the past 45 years. Now an emeritus professor, he has had the opportunity to teach courses in poetry and creative writing not only at his home university in Tokyo but also in India. His poems and prose poetry have appeared in many print and online journals and books. His first book of poetry, a collection of haiku titled Finding a Way, was published in 2016. A second book of poetry, titled Serendipity, was published earlier this year (2023).
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