Lyric from the Land of My Dead Grandmothers

 

 

It was just a pinpoint of light,

a small hole punched in black—

 

but there they were—

the river voices

humming

like bees in wildflowers.

 

When the light grew,

I could see

them walking there, singing—

 

their limbs limber again,

these forebears—

naked, supple, strong,

who carried all of us

into the light.

 

They hollered over to me—

grandmothering

isn’t always a quiet affair—

 

Why, daughter, why

are you sitting in the dark?

 

These women who bore so many scars

marring their delicious skin,

harvesting beauty into baskets on their backs—

 

the petals of poetry made from sorrow

and wings

where in dreamstate I weep.

 

Pillars of fire, lyric pyres into my night—

I ran to them.  Ran.

As only in dreams you can.

 

Ears hungry

for their grandmother

songs again,

to write them,

to journey on—

 

making dark beauty

from my own scars

 

naked in the light.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

For dVerse Poetics and OLN

and What’s Going On?  The Dark

Inside

 

A few days ago, I burned

my collar bone

with a wide and sizzling

curling wand.

 

Next day, I spent the morning

picking oranges from my tree

(not in Venice, but charming nonetheless)

and scratched my hands up

on the fruit-filled, rough branches.

 

These self-inflicted wounds

look worse than they feel.

Handsome scars—evidence of

the messiness of living.

 

If only they were all that way.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

For Shay’s Word Garden Word List

From a Silk Hat

Sometimes I pull these poems

out of the hat of my heart—

 

black coffee, moonlight,

a silver-tipped spear.

 

Take what you will of them,

they’re mine to give—all or none. 

 

Like this one.

Darling rabbit, unfrantic, and

 

soul-bounce away, less fretful

of time’s sand already swept away

 

by gravity through finger-roots,

filling up the bottom

 

of the hourglass.  Now see this.

New soil.

 

Lift, flip,

start again.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings:  Endless

Gold Rush

 

This scent, this soft

sweater, both lavender,

on my skin.

 

I don’t know

where I got them—just picked them up

somewhere on the journey—gifts

 

along this path of stones

with sun, partly obscured, glinting

off miles of crushed fool’s gold—

 

my eyes squinting

in the dark

until the true rush—

treasure, shining.

 

This scent mingles

with memories of breast milk

on my babies’ breath,

 

fresh soap on their skin—

and that old quilt

from when I was young.

 

I wish I had it here now.

Purple, storied, some patches

tearing away.

 

I’d lay it down,

drink the wine of your lips,

pull our stories around us,

fool’s gold abandoned—

 

as our children are tearing away,

the lights of their own stories—

quilts unfolding.

 

Us, gold, rich.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

What’s Going On?  Light

 

As a mother, nothing delights me more than seeing my sons thrive and follow their dreams.  This year is a big one for each of them with significant upcoming milestones.  What’s best is they all have such good hearts.  True gold.  I am overwhelmed with gratitude to see who they are becoming as men, as lights.