Hush

Claude Monet The Studio Boat (1876).  Public Domain image.

 

Hush, the lantern is burning low;

the air is crisp and sweet

on this, our orchard, son.

 

In the cradle of the river,

before your leaves are changing palette,

before my winter comes—

 

remember these: my velvet whisper,

and your dreams of green,

when my floating here is done.

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Poetics

Summerland

 

I saw it sitting on an old pickup tire,

a butterfly

with sugar on its wings,

 

as we were wading

through weeds

up to our waists,

 

brushing our hands

on dandelions

turning our palms yellow,

 

breathing in sunshine,

climbing an abandoned tractor

in the field

 

to play—

maybe all afternoon,

maybe all summer.

 

It was gone

when we headed back

to watch Grandma feed the pigs,

 

and the dogs

lounging in the dirt

by the porch,

 

and to dunk our bread

into broth,

and bite into dark juicy plums.

 

And later,

I thought I saw it

from the window,

 

on the barn door

near where I had pulled off my boots

to climb a tree

 

and saw it watching me,

a butterfly

with sugar on my wings.

 

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

dVerse Poetics:  Young and Green

How To Get Rich

(according to my eight-year-old son)

First, manual labor.

Then, buy lots and lots

of football cards

until you get The One

you can sell

for lots of money.

And then, he says, buy more.

He looks over at two

nine-year-old boys walking

toward school

and says, sagaciously,

they don't care about manual labor.

I've heard them talking

when I've been walking home.

All they talk about is video games.

I pull up

to his drop-off.

Mom, what's manual labor?

Physical work, I say,

like building a house.

He nods, gets out for school.

How To Get Rich, For Parents:

First, drive your 8-year-old to school.

And then,

laugh the whole way home.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

football cards on my son's dresser

photo © 2016 Jennifer Wagner
manual labor performed to purchase cards: brushed dog, set table, took out trash
manual labor in order to purchase more: clean room

Wonder

a modern haiga for igwrt and haiku my heart

happy international haiku poetry day!

Saturday Morning Cartoons (with Oreos and Milk)

A father wakes up

before everybody else

and sets the world whistling.

Except on Saturday,

when he's supposed to get to sleep in,

but you jump on his belly

and pry his eyes open

to watch cartoons with you.

He doesn't mind, though,

because you're his.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For my daddy.

Dad, remember Oreos and milk for breakfast with Saturday morning cartoons? I do. Good times. :)

And for Poets United: The Poetry Pantry

Don't be a Scut Farkus . . .

Have a Merry Christmas!

I triple-dog-dare ya.

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Peace on earth?

Good will toward men?

Your two front teeth?

An Official Red Ryder, Carbine Action, Two-hundred Shot, Range Model Air Rifle?

Whatever it is, I hope you get it.

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

I took these photos this past summer in Hammond, Indiana where my husband's awesome Grandma and Aunt live (and where he spent many summers growing up). A Christmas Story was based on Jean Shepherd's book of short stories based on his experiences growing up in Hammond (fictionalized as “Hohman” in the film). Grandma and Grandpa were friends of the real-life “Flick,” who got his tongue stuck to the pole in Shepherd's story. Grandma says it really happened. Today is her 90^th birthday.

Enjoy the Christmas holiday, all . . . and be sure to drink your Ovaltine!

Cute

i don’t want to be cute!

i hate being adorable!

when you want to

have muscles

and body hair

and drive a car

this is,

to a boy of six

with three older brothers—

a curse.

the curse of cuteness.

ok,

what do you

want to be?

with no hesitation,

all gumption and flash,

the reply: 

scary!

i laugh, and quickly try to stifle it—

because he really means it

and

because

i do

get what he’s saying—

he wants to be taken seriously

around here,

a mustachioed man/ninja/t-rex

to be reckoned with,

even if i do still help him

to put on his belt

and slick down the cowlick

on the back of his head.

i nod,

as somber and intent

as if i am making

a most grave and

solemn vow.

but

just between you and me—

he’s still so cute

it’s scary.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

shared at poets united poetry pantry