Wishes

christmas eve 2015 © jennifer wagner

All the

best,

all the

brightest,

wishing you

all the

finest

for 2016.

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,

take-your-teeth-out-and-sprinkle-black-pepper-

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,

singing,

angelic.

I loved him,

but if you'd have known Grampa

you'd have had your doubts, too.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

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

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