Thursday, December 31, 2015


christmas eve 2015 © jennifer wagner

All the

all the

wishing you

all the

for 2016.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

Harold Angels

When I was six
my grandfather, Harold, died--
though I never called him “Grandfather”
and definitely never “Harold.”

Grampa” was a much more suitable term
for a brown cigarette smoking, Hee Haw watching,
on-raw-hamburger-and-eat-it kind of guy.

So when I heard “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,”
I tried to picture it: all the Harold angels
up there,

I loved him,
but if you'd have known Grampa
you'd have had your doubts, too.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

A Love Poem Should Be Spent

When you write a love poem
on the palm of your hand,
the kind that's meant to stick,

and blow it away
like a kiss,

if it returns
on wings, crispy-black,
falls like St. Helens' ash,

that's when you'll know
it worked.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

The Poem I Choose Today

In the wild wood
there are poems everywhere:

forest grouse, bright berries, late blossoms,
little sounds our feet make
on the undergrowth.

In the streets
there are poems, poems everywhere:

cigarette butts, Christmas lights, hurried voices,
the scent of roasted beans
wafting from coffee bars.

But here beside you,
tangled breaths
like drenching rain,

are more.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner