Live Encounters Poetry & Writing September 2026
Things that Shine, poems by Peter A Witt.
Things that Shine
A newly polished dining room floor,
gleaming like the surface of a frozen, sunlit lake.
The moon at midnight,
hanging in the dark like a solitary pearl on velvet.
A clean glass pane just after the storm,
clear and flashing like a newly cut diamond.
A new pair of patent leather shoes,
bright as a mirror catching the morning light.
A cat’s eyes in the dark,
glowing like twin emeralds trapped in the shadows.
A woman’s eyes holding her newborn,
beaming like a sudden burst of starlight in a quiet room.
The Blur of an Aging Mind
Time is like the wind.
It passes by,
sometimes a whisper,
too often a gale.
But then, for an hour or a few days,
all is calm, focused,
nothing blowing around.
Sun warms my face,
and life moves on.
As my days grow toward the end,
I look back with wonder.
Sometimes I clearly see the puppy
that nipped my four-year-old ankles;
other times, I try to remember
if I ever had a dog at all.
Yesterday, I remembered the words
my mother said after a boy
beat me up at school.
Today, I cannot see her face,
remember her words, the school,
or why this scar runs
from my elbow to my hand.
Time is like the wind,
sometimes part of a sudden storm,
often a soft caress,
like a lover’s lips
brushing my neck,
leaving only a blur.
Ode to a Teacup with a Crack
O fragile vessel of memory,
with your rim once stained by the red lips of ladies
and your presence the battleground of an old argument,
a husband counting your numbers,
a wife counting your stories.
You, the fine bone china, the Wedgwood,
who suffered the quiet tragedy of a careless wash
when the guests had gone
and the kitchen belonged only to my mother.
For the crime of a hairline crack,
you were exiled to the dark geography
at the back of the display cupboard.
How she shielded you
from the man who saw no poetry in tea,
who measured the worth of a shelf
only in shot glasses.
But oh, the sweet resurrection
when the guns were packed
and the husband went hunting.
Out you came from oblivion,
the center of a quiet, rebellious feast
of scones and clotted cream.
With trembling, deliberate grace,
she poured the amber warmth,
handling your glued spine like a sacred relic
that must not shatter.
In those stolen hours,
a smile would claim her cheeks,
and you, finally chosen, rejoiced
in the dark cupboard of the world
just to be held by someone who cared.
© 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.