Five Poems by Robert Witmer

 

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).

Five Poems by John Tustin

 

ARMCHAIR

 

He sat there in his powder-blue armchair and he waited for the phone to ring

And then it did.

It was her. She called like she said she would. 11 P.M.

He hadn’t heard her voice in months

And when she spoke to him now, she sounded different.

All the syrup was gone. The affection also gone. Like she turned it off.

 

He talked in the calm measured tones he had practiced

And realized he sounded like a crazy man who was trying not to sound crazy

But he couldn’t help it.

He was laser focused on getting the truth.

In those months he went from loving her to hating her

To just wanting to know everything that was hidden from him.

 

She was defensive and she was evasive.

She was clearly telling him only what she thought he already found out

When he did all that post-breakup internet detective work.

He began to feel sorry for her

While still hating her and wishing her unhappiness henceforth.

Then her voice became how he remembered it and she started to be honest.

 

The truth, as she told it, was jarring

Even though it was about what he expected.

The syrup and affection were poured back into her voice as if she had turned a knob

And as she spoke of infidelity and apology he felt a stirring,

Realizing he still loved her.

He thought to himself about how he surely always would and how stupid that was.

 

When they finished their conversation and wished each other well

He put the phone down and went to check on his kids who were sleeping in their bedroom.

She had gotten along so well with his kids

And they were genuinely happy their daddy found someone to love.

He got a bottle of soda from the refrigerator, went back to his powder-blue armchair

And tried to think about anything other than her but he couldn’t do it.

 

HEROES AND VILLAINS

 

I like when the villain becomes a hero

but when that happens

it means a new villain must emerge,

otherwise the hero can’t exist.

 

Not many enjoy the role of villain –

at least not those who are aware

that is their role.

As I said,

villains must exist

if we want our heroes.

 

I think often of Judas Iscariot

and his role in the collective conscious

through the centuries,

that his motives were nothing but greed.

I’ve struggled with the fact he betrayed Jesus

for a small sum of money

then decided to kill himself in shame and grief –

all this after abandoning his previous life

to follow the man.

It doesn’t make sense.

 

Is it possible Judas did what he did

in order to fulfil the prophecy?

Could his grief have been not about his conscience

but in carrying out the act

he knew someone had to carry out?

A hero needs a villain,

sometimes many of them.

He stepped up?

Could that be it?

 

I’ve turned Judas from a villain to a hero in my mind

but, as I’ve told you,

I love when that happens,

so

you must make your own conclusion.

 

HE’S YOUR LOVER NOW

 

He’s your lover now

But he doesn’t love you.

I was your lover

And I loved you then

But I’m not your lover now

And I don’t love you now,

I can’t love you now.

 

I don’t know what will happen

When you realize he doesn’t love you

And that I really did love you then

But now to love you would be impossible

For me to do.

 

I believe when this realization hits you

Things will move along

Just as they did

Before you knew

Your lover doesn’t love you

And the lover who loved you

Doesn’t love you anymore

And can’t ever love you again.

 

You’ll slide into his bed

Itchy and unsatisfied

And you’ll think about it for a while

And then things will remain as they are.

 

THAT SAD AND BROKEN-HEARTED GIRL

That sad and broken-hearted girl stood in the corner

With her back to the wall

Looking down at her shoes

And at her heart that had fallen to pieces

And was scattered like confetti all around her.

 

That silly good-hearted boy actually faced the wall,

Afraid to even look around, his heart blackened

By the unmerciful years and by those he had

Encountered in those years. He felt something

In the cold of that room

And he turned around and looked beyond

The faces of those that had castigated him

And those that did not know him

 

And the broken-hearted girl looked up

And beyond the ones that had used her

And lied to her and disappointed her.

 

The eyes of that sad and broken-hearted girl

And the eyes of that silly good-hearted boy met

Across the light and the dark and those superfluous faces

In-between and they came toward each other

And their hands met and they spoke

And they left the dance floor together,

Her wishing with her eyes shut tight

And him singing some song from before they were born.

 

They were both happy and more than satisfied with this

New arrangement and as the good-hearted boy fumbled

In his pocket for his car keys and the broken-hearted girl

Waited on the other side of the car

They both wondered why it had taken so long

To stop feeling so sad and stop feeling

So silly, respectively.

 

Then they got in the car

And were gone.

WAITING FOR LI CH’ING-CHAO

 

Lying in bed listening to The Ronettes and The Shirelles,

Waiting for Li Ch’ing-Chao with my eyes closed.

Naked and dreaming about her in a paper boat

Solemnly cutting through the water of a stilled river

And moving toward me

Who waits for her on the riverbank.

 

She will lead me by the hand to her small courtyard

Where we will watch the moon and the shadows cast

By the moon upon the leaves that dance on her lonely plum tree.

Her husband has died and you are gone from me

And we think about that before we go to her bedchamber

Where we kiss and write a dozen poems together

Until we fall asleep with her windows all open before us, our bodies pleasant,

A slight breeze blowing out the candles of last night, giving the sun a chance

To sneak his light inside.

 

The rain waits to visit on another day,

A day not so bright

When her hairpins are not in my pocket

And her hair not spilled in a wild arrangement

All around my unburdened shoulder and beating chest

In her room where the candles are out

And we doze.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals since 2009. His first poetry collection from Cajun Mutt Press is now available at

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0C6W2YZDP . 

fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

 

 

 

One Poem by Antonia Alexandra Klimenko

 

The Gaza Stripped 

 

Goodbye my husband   Goodbye my lover 

father mother sister brother 

Palestine   all that was mine 

Goodbye my other 

 

Goodbye pretense   goodbye innocence 

Goodbye anything   that ever made any sense  

Goodbye earth    sky   sun and moon 

Don’t ask why   death comes too soon 

 

Goodbye ticking bombs   clocks with no hands  

a world that buries its head in the sand 

That scrolls and stares   into thin air 

while they take what they want 

How much do you care?!  

 

So   watch me strip   down to the quick 

Next year’s pic on your Netflix  

Tune in   zoom in   feel no shame  

(no cover charge) 

Let   me    entertain      you 

 

Watch    as I bare my soul   

                              my arms   my legs   

Enter me here   Hear me beg 

See them tear off half my face   

as they remove their veil   

            erase our race 

 

You buyers   sellers    traders of breath 

what will you give me   for a pound of flesh? 

Our open wounds   the mouth of our red sea    

screaming to the sound of rockets   What’s left of me? 

 

A river of blood   a flood of tears   out of every pore   

while you count your money   line your pockets 

What am I bid   for these blind empty sockets? 

What more do you want    what more! 

 

You’ve tortured   you’ve lied   you’ve occupied 

Our home   once free and green   is dying   

And you with your vengeful genocide   

your plutocracy    your hypocrisy  

have reduced rubble   to the obscene 

 

Branches burning   felled olive limbs  

our names engraved   upon our skin 

Skin stretched across your drums of war 

Hear us roar   Hear us roar    

 

Beat your chest   roll your eyes 

scroll past death   like dust we rise 

You think there’s nothing left?  Surprise! 

You haven’t seen anything yet! 

 

The cries of our children   

echo through the terrain   Their pain 

their empty hands   their dear crushed fingers  

spring forth like roots from the earth    

All that remains of worth   will linger   

Every year   a rebirth 

 

So stroll past   scroll past   

But not so fast   

We are all just passing through 

In another life   you could be me    

I pray    I'll never be you 

 

I try to forgive   with my last breath 

You take that too   lest I forget 

all that I love 

all that's unspoken  

 

Goodbye my heart 

                my broken heart 

                my aching heart 

                my breaking heart 

 

Goodbye   my bro  ken

 

 

 

Antonia Alexandra Klimenko was first introduced on the BBC and to the literary world by the legendary James Meary Tambimuttu of Poetry London–-publisher of T.S. Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Henry Miller and Bob Dylan, to name a few.  his death, it was his friend, the late great Kathleen Raine, who took an interest in her writing and encouraged her to publish.  A nominee for the Pushcart Prize, The Best of the Net, and a former San Francisco Poetry Slam Champion, she is widely published. Her work has appeared in (among others) XXI Century World Literature (which she represents France) and Maintenant : Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art archived at the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, D.C. and New York’s Museum of Modern Art. She is the recipient of two grants: one from Poets in Need, of which Michael (100 Thousand Poets for Change) Rothenberg is a co-founder; the second—the 2018 Generosity Award bestowed on her by Kathleen Spivack and Joseph Murray for her outstanding service to international writers through SpokenWord Paris where she is Writer/ Poet in Residence.  Her collected poems On the Way to Invisible is forthcoming in 2024.

Five Poems by Simon MacCulloch

 

Dreamer

 

The castle’s ghosts are all aglow

A haunting brighter than before

A fevered corpse-light lit to show

We few who venture through its door

How once a bloody warrior strode

Through halls bedecked with battle gear

And here a servant bore his load

While there a prisoner watched in fear

And heard in every clink of key

Each echoed step, each muttered phrase

The dreaded end to misery

The closure of his lightless days.

 

The castle’s ghosts are in a trance

In stately waltz spin slowly round

Condemned to dance their endless dance

Since ancient time on ancient ground.

What puppeteer could hope to match

This theatre of unquiet sleep?

What portrait painter dared to catch

Such trembling souls from out the deep?

The murdered child, the tortured priest

The dungeon masters and their slaves

A world of Darkness here released

To Light more cruel than their graves.

 

The castle’s walls and lawns have known

Since long dead masons raised its towers

That colder things than clay have grown

Beneath its crypts, below its bowers.

When moat was lake and barrow hill

They troubled not the ones who lie

In timeless slumber, dreaming still

Of moon when freshly cast in sky.

But humankind in grief and rage

With sprinkled blood and echoed screams

Has brutally closed that silent age

And now our pain infects their dreams.

 

The castle’s ghosts are parts we glimpse

Of drama in a nightmared mind

A mind so vast its night-time imps

Are shared with all, by light defined.

And with that knowledge we bold few

In whom mere spectres struck no fear

Make haste to see the stars anew

From somewhere safely far from here.

For as the moon grows pale with dawn

And glassless windows watch day break

We wonder with what hungry yawn

That long-vexed dreamer will awake.

 

 

Garden of Remembrance

 

A dim green garden walled around with shade

Deep-carpeted with moss

With only muted birdsong to invade

The silence draped across

Its ivied trees.

Part-roofed by these

I make the room in which to hoard my loss.

 

No carven stone to catch, no urn to hold

The eye for relics questing

And leaves, not statues, serve here to unfold

Wings mournful, never resting.

That ruffling breeze

Through ivied trees

The only hint of where the ghosts are nesting.

 

What loss, what ghosts give sense to such a setting?

The ghosts of might-have-been!

A life not for remembering, nor forgetting

Which haunts the in-between

A blurry frieze

Like ivied trees

Whose true shapes are suggested, never seen.

 

I used to hope to find a slim young sapling

To make that garden grow

But longer shadows on the moss are dappling

And I prepare to go.

Goodbye, old trees

You hid the keys

To more of life than I shall ever know.

 

 

Joy

 

The place beside the stream where you and I once went to play

Is overgrown with weeds. The weeds and earth cannot recall

The sun and sand and smiles that made a certain summer day

A time in which contentment found its apex and its all.

We too are overgrown, and age has silted up the mind

Our blood runs slow and childhood’s bliss is buried far behind.

 

The morning with the book in which you taught me how to read

Is overlaid with years. The years and cares have pressed it flat

Its magic of discovery, a talent nurtured, freed

To make the world its oyster - but I never managed that.

We too are overladen, worries weight us till we crawl

Our heads hang low and childhood’s leaps collapse in lifetime’s sprawl.

 

And so the shining moments dim and dwindle in the dark

An evanescent fountaining of brightness fading fast

A glimpse of reading in a room or walking in a park

Recalled and cherished, then let go, to die away at last.

But you, your smile, your voice, your love of fun are with me still

And that is what made joy of all we did, and always will.

 

 

Assumption

Inspired by J K Potter’s photo-composition “Dark Angel” (1991)

 

Extruded from the dark rich earth of old Versailles

A satin-garbed enchantress pierces lowering sky

With hands at breast and shoulders back and head tipped high

A black Madonna, yearning yet serenely proud

Whose flexing feathers blur amidst the seething cloud.

 

And in the garden sculpted bushes steal her form

Awaiting only wings to let them lift and swarm

To merge their cloddish bodies with the coming storm

All matter mutely crying here for spirit’s flight

Suspended in the hush between the dark and light.

 

And that is all there is, a bleak but splendid all

A twilight rapture, incomplete, a demon call

Which summons creatures rooted fast yet reaching tall

Delighting and tormenting with the hope and fear

Of some transcendent state forever far yet near.

 

So this the very cusp of our aspiring art

Expressing what we can of that enchanted part:

The soul that springs from reaching mind and rooted heart

To print a doomed ambition on a doubtful sky

And make a dusky heaven out of old Versailles.

 

 

Bird Song

 

What do birds know of the silence that speckles their song?

Is there a meaning for them in the sunlight through leaves?

Instant by instant the glittering tapestry weaves

Where is the soul who can say where his stitches belong?

 

Order and chaos emerge from alternative views

Self into world is the magic we try to arrange

World into self is the counter-spell, making us strange

Who knows the dream-melted shape in which self and world fuse?

 

Phlegm in the blood forms a shell that the noon heat leaves cold

Hyperaesthesia may open the heart to the night

Which best to judge between foolish and wise, wrong and right?

Damned if we do as we please, if we do as we’re told.

 

Life is too short and the ways of the world are too long

Truth is an eye-blink and doubt is a long, troubled sleep

What did God see in the darkness that covered the deep?

What do birds know of the silence that speckles their song?

Simon MacCulloch lives in London and is a regular contributor to Reach Poetry, The Dawntreader and Aphelion.