Remembering

 

Peter Witt

—Poetry by Peter Witt, College Station, TX

—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain

 

 

 

I REMEMBER

I.
I remember when I played
in the sand at the beach,
each seashell a fascination,
each airhole left by a crab
something to be oohed
and aahed at as I explained,
daddy, come see, come see...
and he'd magically appear,
getting down on his knees
to help me extract whatever
it was that caught my attention
on that particular day.

II.
I remember wind blowing
the kite this way and that
as daddy helped me hold
the string ball, as the kite
played tag amongst
the cotton candy clouds,
and my dog, pringles, ran
barking after the sandpipers who
scattered with the unfolding
of each incoming wave.

III.
I remember giggling as
the cold water tickled
my toes as each new
wave unfolded, daddy
holding me with an arm
around my waist so
I wouldn't fall down
and get washed out
to sea.

IV.
I remember a sailboat
healed over in the wind,
me saying, daddy take
me for a ride, daddy saying,
someday, someday,
as we ate peanut butter
sandwiches, with
thick slathers of
strawberry jam sitting
on a blanket in
the noonday sun. 

 

 

 

 

 

PUPPY LOVE

He arrived in a box that barked with excitement
while I sat giggly and smiling until mom said
it was okay to find out what was inside,
out he came all squiggly and wiggly
licking my face while I laughed and cried.

A puppy, I screamed, forgetting
in my excitement to use my inside voice,
we rolled on the floor, me not minding
an occasional nip, he growing tired,
splatting on the floor with all four feet
pointing in a different direction,
little eyes struggling to stay open,
as I lay splat beside him,
whispering his new-found name,
Pluto, as he contentedly sighed,
his search for a lifelong friend complete. 

 

 

 

 

 

DEVIL WINDS OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

The Santa Ana's sleep
through winter, then through
the warming days of summer,
waiting, waiting to lift the curtain
on their early fall drama, when
they'd bring their down-slope winds
from the high sierras all the way
to the blue pacific shores,
lowering humidity to almost zero,
raising the risk of fire to extreme.

As a child I'd wake in the middle
of the night, headache rising
with the falling barometer, hear
the windchime tinkling then
clanging in our backyard;

our dog would bark, then
issue a low guttural growl,
as the harbinger
of eerie winds
began to howl. 

 

 

 

 

 

MELODY FOR UKRAINE

I.


I play a song of prayer


for a country, now tattered


by the heavy footprint of an enemy


without scruples or regret.



 

II.


Over the mass graves of comrades


murdered in youth and old age,


my song reverberates with bereft sorrow


for lives cut short by the hollowness


of an vagrant invading tyrant.



 

III.


My song weeps for the shrill sound of missiles


denuding infrastructure, spreading chaos,


throwing minds into PTSD in a sad refrain


in a dirge and chorus sung in minor key.



 

IV.


Someday my song will sing of peace,


a vanquished enemy, doves returning


to their roosts, villagers and townspeople


rebuilding their proud country and freedoms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN THE BLUES HIT THE HIGHWAY

Midnight highways
bathed in blue light
from a moon just a sliver
of its former self.

Sometimes I am like the moon,
once colored in rich orange hues,
now faded and dull,
just a shadow of what I used to be.

Yet there is hope for me and the moon,
tomorrow the sun may bless us
with renewed vigor and color,
moon a varnished white, me bold turquoise. 

 

 

 

 

NEAR THE END, I’LL REMEMBER

I picture myself in my final hours


reviewing scenes from my life,


glad to have had the experiences


and memories, wishing there


was time for more.



 

I'll think about wriggling my toes


in the cold Pacific ocean, as a host


of pelicans skim the off-shore waves,


the sun setting in a ball of orange


into the evening sea.



 

There'll be memories of a squirming


puppy, with sharp nails, licking my


face, as we roll on the soft spring grass,


before momma calls me to come


in for lunch, where the puppy


splays his paws on the tile floor


as eyes close in an exhausted nap.



 

Perhaps they'll be time to smile


at the thought of Becky's kiss,


wet and shyly welcome on my cheek,


as her seven-year-old girl friends cheered,


my third-grade boy friends jeered.

 

 

 

 

 

GRAVEYARD SHIFT

Here I lay, here I'll stay


accompanied by underground things,


some with wings, some with stings


all intent on living large


in the deep dark, without a spark


of underground light, day or night.



 

Here I lay, here I'll stay


mourners will come and pray,


kneel and say silently, reverently


what they never said out loud


while I, in my shroud, cannot hear


for I have died and they'll have lied.



 

Here I lay, here I'll stay


arms folded, body molded,


singing a song, eternity long,


as the years pass,


let's not be crass


I'm beyond my youth


ain't that the truth.



 

Here I lay, here I'll stay.

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

Living is like tearing through a museum. Not until later do you really start absorbing what you saw, thinking about it, looking it up in a book, and remembering—because you can't take it in all at once.

—Audrey Hepburn

____________________

Peter A. Witt is a Texas Poet and a retired university professor. He also writes family history, with a book about his aunt published by the Texas A&M Press. His poetry has been published on various sites including Fleas on the Dog, Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Active Muse, New Verse News, Silver Birch Press, and WryTimes. He's also published two collections of poetry for family and friends and anyone else who might stop by via LuLu.com/. Welcome to the Kitchen, Peter, and don’t be a stranger!

___________________

—Medusa

 

 

 

 Peter Witt


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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