Live Encounters Poetry & Writing February 2026.
Median Elegy, poems by Peter A Witt.
Median Elegy
Along the median between six roaring lanes,
three northbound, three south,
the curbside wildflowers weep
like mourners at a roadside wake
as behemoth tractors descend,
twelve-foot blades whirring like rotary guillotines,
mowing down unsuspecting bluebonnets,
Indian paintbrush, and evening primrose,
grinding them into confetti of leaves and crushed petals.
Their severed stems reveal what lies beneath,
paper cups, waxy wrappers,
the greasy ghosts of fast-food meals,
all disgorged by hurried hands
too lazy to wait for a trash can,
too indifferent to beauty’s brief tenure.
Other drivers murmur their dismay,
why not let the blooms finish their final dance?
Why the rush to unveil the detritus?
They know, deep down, that calls
to the highway department
will yield only the shrug of bureaucracy,
soft-spoken sympathy
and no change in the merciless schedule.
Kerrville After the Rain
The Guadalupe River rose like a beast unchained,
gnashing at bridges with foam-flecked teeth,
its roil a griefquake that swallowed the day,
children’s slumber interrupted by sleepless terror.
Picnic tables floated with vicious intent,
tangled in branches like forgotten vows,
beneath skies that stormshuddered blue to black,
while prayers clung to porch rails like ivy.
The river mirewhirled with roiled trees and toys,
bibles, shoes, and fireworks now shipwrecked hopes,
and silence followed like a stray dog,
refusing to leave the wreck behind.
A flag caught in a fence began to twitch,
its stars like tears on a wrinkled face,
while the wind soulspilled across the fields,
and survivors stood, soaked with remembering.
Sunday at the Briar Patch Café
Meet me at our usual spot
where yellow awnings bloom like sunflowers
spilling gold across the sidewalk,
and the tables hum with stories
told between sips of strong coffee
and laughter that skips like stones.
The street is a soft symphony,
chatter and clink, footsteps and breeze,
the rustle of leaves overhead
a lazy lullaby for the heat-drunk noon.
Meet me where couples lean in like vines,
entwined in soft secrets and subtle smiles,
while friends scatter joy like confetti
over empty cups and crumbed plates,
where a red car naps at the curb,
its engine stilled like a dreaming dog,
and the windows above
watch with the quiet wisdom of stained glass.
Come when the shadows start to stretch,
and the golden light slips sideways,
we’ll sit beneath the saffron umbrellas,
breathe in the scent of syrup and stories,
and let the soft spell of the Briar Patch
wrap around us like summer’s sigh.
© Peter A Witt
Peter A Witt is a Texas poet and a retired university professor. Peter’s poetry deals with personal experiences, both real and imagined. He is a twice published Best of the Net nominee. His poetry has been published on various sites including Inspired, Open Skies Quarterly, Medusa’s Kitchen, Active Muse, New Verse News, and Blue Bird Word. When not writing poetry, Peter is an avid birder and wildlife photographer.