Peter A. Witt is a Texas poet, with poems appearing in online and print publications such as Bluebird Word, Verse-Virtual, Live Encounters.  He is a former university professor who now devotes his time to researching and writing family history and poetry.  He is also an avid birder.

I smell a poem coming on

On a frost painted morning
I smell a poem in the breeze
first stanza wafting like the scent
of cinnamon and sugar
on a freshly toasted bagel.

Second stanza has the aroma of
oatmeal, dabbed with golden brown
honey, slices of banana,
topped with a quarter cup
of smooth warm cream.

Third stanza has the scent
of white onions and green peppers
sautéing on the stove, fresh tomatoes,
and corn kernels from the cob added in,
along with a couple quarts of vegetable broth
to make a pot of minestrone soup
to warm the spirit on a cold winter day.

Brownie who lived under my bed

A good story often begins
once upon a time,
recalling the life of a fairy queen
or myth of a church gargoyle.

But my story is about
a real little boy,
one I knew well,
who loved the brownie
living under his bed.

No ordinary brownie was he,
but rather a special sort
who read stories to the boy
in the dark of night
projecting images on the ceiling
that made the words come alive.

He read of grandmothers
who baked sugar cookies for Christmas,
grandpas who planted seeds in his garden,
which burst into vines
decorated with blue and yellow flowers
that climbed to touch the sky.

Sometimes the brownie told stories
about fathers who took their children
to the zoo to see snarly lions, black bears;
mothers who bandaged scrapes
their sons got playing outside.

Once in a while the brownie told tales
of pig-tailed sisters who played
with their little brothers,
even when they acted like brats,
and a large rambunctious family dog
who loved to go on walks,
chase grey squirrels up the trunks
of majestic neighborhood oak trees.

Stories like these were told each night
by a brownie living under my bed,
reminding me of the wonderful life
I lived each day.

First squeeze

She was my first squeeze,
the taste of fresh dripping from her pulp,
with pits strained through an old time juicer,
zest of orange permeating the breeze.

Over the years things went awry,
tastebuds gravitated to sour
of grapefruit and limes.

Last time I saw her, she sat
disconsolate in a bin
at my neighborhood grocery store
bemoaning our annulment.

In a family heirloom rocking chair,
I sit on the porch in my waning years,
sipping from a frosty antique glass of lemonade,
beads of sweat tickling its sides.

I think of the old days,
my first squeeze,
wondering about her fate,
did she find a new lover,
or was her life spoiled
by my change in taste.