It’s Vast by Peter A. Witt

Francisco Huerta

It’s Vast

Driving from Houston to Amarillo
leaving the traffic of I10, the cities
and the suburbs, to enter
the Hill Country, with its rolling
landscape, gullies created
by the runoff from a torrential
downpour, a few cattle per acre,
searching for something green
to chew, and the black vultures,
mile after mile of black vultures,
circling overhead for something
dead.

Then it's the open landscape
with the occasional city or town,
some still alive, one just a post office,
others, a gas station, a barely surviving
store, and houses left to the forces
of wind and rain before they
fall in upon themselves.

Somewhere along the way, I stop
to use the bathroom at a country store,
one toilet, in need of cleaning,
a man sitting behind the counter,
as if he hasn't moved for years,
but up for a friendly how's your day.

Purchase a stale coffee and chips
and I'm on my way, as the sun blinds
the windshield and I get ready
for three hours of headlights,
dodging jack rabbits,
and the sound of the road
rubbing against my tires,
as Willie sings about country
roads and going home.

© Peter A. Witt

Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

Peter A. Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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The Garden Beyond by Peter A. Witt

 

Suzy Hazelwood

The Garden Beyond

The gate creaks open like an old violin bowing
a song only morning dew remembers.
Wrought iron vines curl like sleeping serpents
guarding the hush of hidden bloom.

Beyond, the path spills like silk unraveling in a breeze
across grass trimmed with scissors of silence.
Roses unfold like whispered prayers
shared between shy lovers in the shade.

A willow sways like a dreaming maiden,
her arms trailing perfume on the breeze.
The air is honeyed, thick as cathedral light
through stained glass petals.

Lilies rise like prayers from moss-damp earth,
and bees hum like monks in soft devotion.
Every step is a breath held,
every turn a painted pause.

And the gate behind me,
shuts with the breath of a story
that’s just begun.

© Peter A. Witt

Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

Peter A.Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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Before the World Wakes by Peter A. Witt

 

Dhanush K

Before the World Wakes

Morning lies quiet as an unwritten page.
The sky, a watercolor wash
of lavender and reluctant gold,
stretches over rooftops
like a shawl draped on a tired shoulder.

Leaves hang motionless,
thin green flags in a windless world,
while dew clings to grass
like a memory that refuses to fade.

A dog yawns by the fence,
his jaw cracking wide like a book
left open too long. The twitter of song birds
breaks the hush with a flurry of flutes,
notes rising like mist from a still pond.

The street is a hush of silence,
save for the soft swish of a broom
on a neighbor’s porch,
that slow, sacred act
of sweeping away stars.

My coffee steams in the mug,
bitter as regret, warm as yesterday.
A moth flutters near the screen,

wings catching light like tiny sails
on a sun-drenched sea.

Sprinkled with the dust of sleep
morning takes one long breath,
then opens its eyes.

© Peter A. Witt

Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

Peter A.Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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Inheritance of Silence by Peter A. Witt

 

Mihman Duğanlı

Inheritance of Silence

In the attic of almosts
a porcelain hush leans sideways,
smile chipped like a fractured lullaby,
skin lined with the thirst of old rivers.

Once was precious, now prone to gather dust,
curled beside a box that glints like doubt,
its corners soft with silence.

The air forgets its shape,
a hush stitched by trembling filaments;
each floorboard speaks in riddles of return.

A gown slouches in its coffin of cedar,
lace brittle as memory’s aftertaste.
Inked pages curl like scorched moth wings—
words fermented, not read.

Cedar clings like a second skin.
A music box limps through its lament,
the dancer spinning like a lie almost believed.

Books flake like shedding bark,
a rusted clasp kisses nothing,
while dust waltzes in filtered gold,
carrying the weight of what never quite was.

© Peter A. Witt

Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

Peter A.Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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Today It’s Supposed to Rain by Peter A. Witt

Erik Karits 

Today It’s Supposed to Rain

Today it's supposed to rain, but my plans are as empty as an abandoned carnival.

 

A swallow-tail butterfly flits in our garden, I do not have my camera with me so I'll have to capture image with my eye, will have hot dogs with mustard for lunch.

 

Garden needs watering, maybe the rain will cure its thirst, dog hides under the bed when it thunders, like a child seeking refuge from monsters.

 

Yesterday was hot and sunny, the sky was dotted with clouds as fluffy as spun sugar. Which reminds me of circuses and clowns, but the only clowns I know are on TV talking about the how to take down the government.

 

TV is off most of the time, too many talking heads spouting venomous hate and misinformation. I talk back to them but would rather be listening to the mockingbird who steals songs from other birds and the sound of traffic on our street.

 

Our house is on a busy boulevard, with the sound of trucks crashing through our living room windows like a stampede of wild horses. In my youth I wanted to be a truck driver but went to college instead to become a tax attorney. Now others do my taxes, and I am a window installer.

 

Today for lunch we had hot dogs and beans, no mustard, just ketchup. I never wear red clothing, too harsh a color, but like blues and grays, which some people spell with an "e", "grey".

 

Afternoon naps, puppy dog kisses, and tangerines. Random thoughts on a Monday morning, especially the tangerines, since my fingers have a hard time peeling them, but petting puppies is easy, especially if they give kisses on the nose as a reward. Puppies are also interested in afternoon naps and chasing the cat who hisses and smacks my puppy on the nose.

 

Today started with a walk along the trail that runs behind our backyard. Saw a black vulture tearing apart a dead squirrel, I chased him away and buried the squirrel. My best friend had a funeral last week, sorrow filled the room. some people cried. Wonder if anybody but me mourns the squirrel.

 

Life is short and so am I. Can't dunk a basketball but can dunk shrimp in green-goddess dressing with the precision of a seasoned chef. My wife is a goddess, radiant like the morning sun, but I would never dunk her, and she hates wearing green clothes, despises them like an unwelcome guest.

 

After lunch I'm getting a haircut, I can make an appointment online. Yesterday a neighbor said he wanted to talk to me, I didn't ask him to make an online appointment. We drank coffee, watched the butterfly flitting in my garden. Neighbor said he was getting a divorce, seemed sad. Perhaps he'll come with me to get a haircut, a fresh start like turning the page in an unread book.

 

It's finally started to rain, buckets and buckets of rain. I filled a few to water my indoor plants, they wanted to go outside, but I was afraid they'd drown or be hit by one of the buckets.

 

Next week we are leaving for Iceland, maybe we'll see Penguins, which is silly since they only hang out in the southern hemisphere and zoos. Maybe I'll cancel my trip and go to the zoo, eat hot dogs, this time with mustard, and ponder whether penguins ever dreamed of being tax attorneys or window installers.

© Peter A. Witt

Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

Peter A.Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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More Thoughts on a Cabin – with Thanks to Robert Bly by Peter A. Witt

 

CHANNNSY

More Thoughts on a Cabin –
 

with Thanks to Robert Bly

 

I spent last weekend hunkered down

in a trapper's cabin cocooned in snow,

 

bright sun and winter cold accompanied

my snowshoed walk from where I left my car,

some three miles away.

 

Cabin has bunk beds, a table

with two well-worn chairs, and

a pot-belly stove that demands fealty

throughout the night if one wants to strip

away heavy winter garments and still keep warm.

 

Brought along my poetry journal, pencils,

and a smattering of rations,

hoping that the crisp air, pastoral views,

and a resident squirrel, who expects his share

of whatever it was I'd brought to eat,

would prompt my inspiration.

 

Last winter I completed a bevy of poems,

hoping this year will be the same,

though I may be too distracted by views

of snow clinging to the naked tree branches

and antics of the ever demanding squirrel

to get much writing done.

 

But first it's time to get the fire going,

think about warming some soup, and perhaps

heed the lulling whisper of the bunk bed

enticing me for an afternoon nap.

© Peter A. Witt

Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

Peter A.Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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And I Sighed by Peter A. Witt

Pok Rie

And I Sighed

The wind moved through the trees,

a murmur like a gentle sleeper's exhale,

slow, steady, endless.

 

The sky stretched wide above me,

a palette of muted colors

fading into darkness.

 

I stood on the edge of thought,

letting the weight settle,

letting the silence answer.

 

There was no conclusion,

no revelation—

only the quiet press of time.

 

And I sighed,

exhaling the vacuum,

inhaling the stillness.

© Peter A. Witt

Enjoy more posts by Peter A. Witt HERE.

Peter A.Witt

Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet and a recovering academic who lost his adjectives in the doldrums of academic writing. Poetry has helped him recover his ability to see and describe the inner and outer world he inhabits. His work has been twice nominated for Best of the Net. He also writes family history and is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.

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