Abuse of Power, Power of Abuse

Leave me to solve riddles,

in the dark ruminations

puzzling with pieces

slipping through my fingers.

They have long legs and,

until now, ran faster than I could;

but I have sprouted legs of my own, and

the caramel is dripping

from your polluted apple

revealing a leprous underbelly

and the twists of your myths.

Since released

I write my farewell to arms,

though I know it will not pierce your heart.

I have learned the impossible

remain impossible, impervious,

and must rule

without question,

without consequence.

I write to pierce my own

and release your venom

to drip, to flow,

to collect in puddles at my feet.

While ash and toxicity

paint bleak the petrified forest

where once hearts of

children tried to play,

before you caught them, taught them,

deftly smothered them in your decay.

I have escaped, but intermittently I

perchance upon your minions,

try as I may, when near,

I cannot blind the stench from my nostrils

from the blood

on their hands.

My blood

mind you, cries out for justice,

and like Abel’s,

is heard.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Linked to dVerse Poets OpenLinkNight

75

I see them

most every week

when I’m driving.

The little man

with his little wife

going for their afternoon stroll

on the sidewalk

in our neighborhood,

holding hands.

They must be 75

years old, at least, and

his leg is bad—

the knee, I think.

His other hand

holds a cane,

but he doesn’t use it—holds it

parallel to the ground. 

Just in case.

And she,

with her opposing hand,

carries an umbrella,

unopened. 

It is Seattle, you know,

better to be prepared. 

Just in case.

I love this scene,

supporting each other,

ready in case of stumbling,

ready in case the rain comes.

They’ve been blessed

to have weathered

life together—so long.

I imagine that will be us.

I know one day

I will see only one of them

going on that walk…

Then I picture you,

tomorrow, in your bunker gear,

and rush home

to kiss you

until we’re 75, 

at least.

Just in case.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse: Characters  Nonfiction

Laughing Hills

Hills

in August rise frozen

against the setting sun

a glass of chardonnay

perspiring at the table

of summers

she doesn’t drink

anymore.

In her laughter, a reminder

of the best medicine,

and the lesson she lived—

no one can beat you

when you’ve learned

how to laugh

at yourself.

R.I.P. Phyllis Diller, Comedic Genius (July 17, 1917 – August 20, 2012) 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse Poets

Composing

through table legs

painted toenails coquet

the edge of denim

lemon, sea salt

and baby arugula

eaten with fingertips

candlelight flutter

a catch in her breath

traced in his own

sicilian jazz

the subtle intensity

composing their story

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Linked to haiku my heart forever

The Judging Game

watching them with her orange eyes

looking through their glass house

she opens the window

for fresh air          

her clipped wings

grow with the lilting song

“Don’t listen,” they say,

“…the luring…”  with that head-shake and tsk-tsk

of controlling, condescending tone

but she is sick with love

from their poisoned, pressure well

too eager to drink

when she’d been wilting

holding the beat of

their ridiculous freudisms

in her head on bloodied neck

she whispers “jung may have more substance for me

anyway,” so—

from the place where stained glass

is beautiful again

she waves goodbye

with tar-dipped feathers in her teeth  

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Three Word Wednesday  Poetry Jam  dVerse Poets  

Quenched

Stepping with bare toes across

meadows of balsamroot

I glide swiftly on grasses

soft from last night’s rain.

Quietly slipping between rocks

I meet the gush of spray;

with full pupils down,

tiny rivulets cascade my bare shoulders.

Droplets form and cling precariously

to my hair, responding as I shiver;

a flirty audience of aquilegia formosa

quivers with the steady rush.

The voice of the waterfall

is a mighty quenching of everything;

a gushing spray of explosion and tranquility, reverberating

like the sound of a mother’s heart in a growing womb.

I didn’t come here to grieve, only to soak

in the majesty of a paradisiacal place;

but my heart remembers and wishes I could have buried you here,

instead of where you ended up, in pieces, on porcelain.

I feel embryonic in the moment, wholly enveloped, naked, treasured.

Coming alive in the lusty boom, I scream, and moan,

and grieve, leaving everything here on these ancient stones—

laboring with the violent echo of women’s loss before mine.

I hold hands with the knowing barren wombs

and weep the deficit that will never feel your sigh at my breast,

your pink mouth to my skin, see the shine of accomplishment in your eyes.

They know how I feel—you were brief, but you were mine.

I let you go, but still carry you with me as I push through;

emerging back into the sun of life, weaker and stronger,

spent, and refreshed, sprinkled with pure minerals,

with lilac and wild lavender, and just a hint of baby’s breath.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

found in The Beautiful Sadness, dVerse and Poets United: Poetry Pantry

Tide Pools

basalt,

discordant and black,

scattered the hillside of late warmth,

a cadaver benumbed of cherishment.

defeated, we wondered

what happened to us—

and how we had viciously squandered

our landscape in chimerical hue.

laying down our weapons,

prisoners of our own war;

in the tide pools of aftermath,

we beheld it together.

in harmony

we choked back the sobs of rue,

gathering the tiniest,

brightest, glimmer of tomorrows unwritten.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

linked to Vice Versa and dVerse

Chelan Haiku

sunrise

on the vineyard

the bees smell sweet

blue dragonflies

tango above

the lake in sea green

white birch night

the heady scent of you

in bent ryegrass

  

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner  

Linked to Poets United #109 Poetry Pantry