A vee of honkers heading south…
—Poetry by Peter A. Witt, College Station, TX
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
LIVING IN A WORLD OF HOPE
Dawn ran its pastel fingers through the tall trees
Dawn ran its pastel fingers through the tall trees
greeting morning glories, busy honey bees
mockingbird practiced his latest hit song
invited the sparrows to sing along
our backyard rabbit felt safe on the grass
enjoying the sun, his morning repast
soft overnight rain left sweet smell behind
a prettier morning you'll never find
we sit on our porch, drinking our tea
eating our crackers, slathered with brie
we pause to watch a grey squirrel on the ground
hoping he's lucky, a few nuts to be found
soon it is time to get on with our day
listen to what the commentators say
we'd rather just feel the warmth of the sun
cleaning our dirty house won't be much fun
perhaps there's time to just sit and stare
enjoying the sun, still fragrant air
DAYDREAM NIGHTMARE
Dusky daydreams dangle
Dusky daydreams dangle
in the floating trees, broken
horses plow across rotting
prairies plagued by yesterday's
leftovers and shame
of tomorrow's regrets.
Vagrant clouds parade across brow,
rain pellets of anger down spine,
stiffening toes, soldering feet
to hallowed ground until
all is mud, platitudes with
a side helping of disdain.
Lifting fog yields sunny skies
filled with humid heat
that melts childhood into
a cyclorama of puddled images
that quickly fade into sneers,
flagrant jeers of pride.
Daydreams, nightdreams,
one and the same, hard to sleep,
harder to roam the streets awake.
TURN IT OFF
I hate, no loathe, the sun
I hate, no loathe, the sun
as it rises all orangey in the east
for inspiring me to write
another dang poetic verse
when I could be playing bingo
down at the corner store,
drinking beer, moaning
about high taxes and inflation.
The pitter pat of rain's no better,
causing me to grab pen and paper,
compose some metaphoric slop
about love bursting like a storm,
when I could be watching Tiger
soar another drive on the 15th hole,
while eating nachos smothered
with cheese with my long-eared spaniel.
Sighting a vee of honkers heading
south for the winter leads to poetic
phrasing about the seasons, when
I could be mowing and edging the lawn,
getting hay fever, drawing blood
when I try to clip a wayward branch
and my finger gets in the way.
In the end, I guess I'm destined
to be a poet, since everything I
experience inspires my pen to dash
across paper in a daily fit of imagery,
but I still hate the sun.
GHOSTS
Old dog wanders from room to room looking
for ghosts of owners no longer with us or him.
Sometimes he struggles to jump on the couch
where he does small circles then curls on the spot
where my wife used to sit; this triggers my sadness
at her passing, wonder what the old dog is thinking.
Yesterday, old dog stood at the back door, his signal
that he wanted to go into the garden where he'll
make the rounds of the beds along the fence,
sniffing,
sniffing,
digging a bit as if trying to find my green-thumbed
wife with whom he'd spent most mornings as she tended
wife with whom he'd spent most mornings as she tended
her bodacious border of colorful spring flowers.
I fear I may pass before the old dog, being rather
ancient myself. Wonder where he will sniff and
search for me, as I become another ghost from his past.
search for me, as I become another ghost from his past.
MY GLASSES ARE ON TOP OF MY HEAD
Let's face it, I'm old,
not middle-aged, just old,
so excuse me when I boldly
say I can't write angst-laden
poems about girlfriends
who left me for a turtle
or bad hair days
(as if I still had any),
can't even remember
the color of my wife's eyes
or how we met, let alone
craft a piece about
being stood up at my
high school prom, or whether
I even went to high school,
Nope, I retreat to writing
about scones and clotted cream,
birds honking on their way south,
and efforts to find my glasses
amidst the clutter in my study.
WHERE POETRY RESIDES
There are poems waiting to be discovered in
There are poems waiting to be discovered in
the bold radiant strokes of thunder and lightning
that parade across the May sky on a changeling day,
the soft breath of a newborn June child
laying gently on her mother's chest
swaddled in a gifted blanket,
the soft glow of an August sunset
casting shadows through the trees
of a forest soon to grow quiet with sleep,
a V of geese fleeing October's dark,
honking in protest as they draw us
from our houses in reverent awe,
waves of a cranky November ocean,
battering the rocky coastline
with a pounding daybreak rhythm.
From each, truths are drawn through the nib of a pen,
onto hallowed paper, to be read aloud around a
December
December
hearth fire, while sipping well-steeped mulled wine.
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
______________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen to Peter Witt; our thanks for today’s poetry!
At noon today, First Church of Poetry meets at McKinley Park by the rose garden, with poetry and music. Also starting at noon (til 4pm), there will be an Open House in Sacramento for Sac. Poetry Center’s Gallery Exhibit, featuring artist Daniel Shoori. And in Lincoln, Sarah Dittmore will be reading (plus open mic) at Lincoln Poets’ Open Mic, 3pm. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
______________________
—Medusa
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
______________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen to Peter Witt; our thanks for today’s poetry!
At noon today, First Church of Poetry meets at McKinley Park by the rose garden, with poetry and music. Also starting at noon (til 4pm), there will be an Open House in Sacramento for Sac. Poetry Center’s Gallery Exhibit, featuring artist Daniel Shoori. And in Lincoln, Sarah Dittmore will be reading (plus open mic) at Lincoln Poets’ Open Mic, 3pm. Click on Medusa's UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS (http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html) for details about these and other future poetry events in the NorCal area—and keep an eye on this link and on the Kitchen for happenings that might pop up during the week.
______________________
—Medusa
For more about National Poetry Month,
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
including ways to celebrate, see
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month.
And sign up for Poem-a-Day at
https://poets.org/poem-a-day/, plus
read about Poem in Your Pocket Day
(this year, April 27) at
https://poets.org/national-poetry-month/poem-your-pocket-day/.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
