City Park

City Park, Carpe Diem

across the pond

your lonely childhood

in an empty swing

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

For Carpe Diem Imagination #3

Have You Seen This? You Want To.

To This Day 

by Spoken Word Poet Shane Koyczan

Well worth every minute.  You will be moved.

Postcard 77

i had just turned six when

Elvis died

my mom with her long, dark hair

and my aunt, blonde and long too—

sat out on the steps

with their friends

and their short shorts, sobbing;

Tab and real Pepsi

in the bottle

Virginia Slims between the index

and middle

age

i watched,

barefoot in the warm shade;

topaz eyes full and wide,

little legs tan; and tendril-bleached,

umber hair, wild—

even i knew i wouldn’t  forget

where i was that day

when i heard

‘Are You Lonesome Tonight’

in the background

and cried too

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

Sliding in to link up with the amazing poets at dVerse Poets Pub for OpenLinkNight.

revised 2.6.13

Jukebox (Boombox), Baby

Joan Jett on cassette

softball summers

of field-dirt-crusted scabs

on my knees

and thighs

sliding into second

my dad said I never did it quite right

because there should be more on my thighs

if I were

a cherry Tootsie Roll Pop

with a ‘tude

sneaking gin and Jack Daniels

and smokes

dreaming of VW Super Beetles with glitter in the paint

or a ‘64 convertible Mustang, cherry red too, of course—

and The Outsiders

fast-forward

in audible

relief, mom and dad,

glad

I didn’t turn out wielding

a six-string and blowing sugar pops

but still I do

Love Rock ‘n Roll

Copyright 2013 Jennifer Wagner

At dVerse Poets Pub master prompter and poet Stuart McPherson has us writing about 'Growing Up'. 

Frozen Yesterday

I tied his little-kid size 12 gray converse shoes

while he crunched almonds

and bragged between swallows

about beating me at Go Fish.

I hid my grin

and tried to look disappointed

for losing.

Zipping up his green hoodie

we left

for afternoon Kindergarten

at 11:55.

He was concerned

that his friend wouldn’t be at school—

he’d made a paper Christmas tree

and put it into an envelope,

scotch-taped a blue candy cane to the outside

for a little present.

Walking him to the line,

I said “have a great day, buddy,”

then waved and watched as he walked through the doors,

backpack almost as big as he is, bouncing.

I thought of how many parents did this today,

leaving their hearts

in a five year old body

on cold tile floors.

And I couldn’t leave the parking lot.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner 

Dear God, dear God…more tears than words for all who are gripped in this horrific tragedy in Newtown, CT.

Got the jump on this prompt with Brian’s post yesterday.  Linking up with the amazing poets at dVerse Poetics.  I'll also be linking to The Poetry Pantry.

When words are few, perhaps there is a song.

Wild Peaches and the River

 She tucked me into bed,

wrapped me in

an age-worn quilt

and I slept like the baby I nearly was.

When I woke,

I pulled the quilt around me

and tiptoed across the old wood floors

covered with braided rugs.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes,

I entered the kitchen

and watched her sitting at the farm table,

with a cup of steaming coffee, slicing a wild peach.

Her hands were still strong then;

and even now I never see a peach,

smell one, taste one,

without thinking of her.

She laughed, her mellow way, eyes crinkling,

when I said how much I liked the sweetness

but not the fuzzy skin which poked

like a prickly moustache against my mouth.

Overheard her saying, later

that she ‘got tickled’

when I’d said the pigs rooting in the pen

looked like they had ribbons in their tails.

When I’d trailed her

to the rabbit cages

and saw a mama rabbit

eat her own baby

she didn’t shield me

from the horror of it,

but let me ask the hard questions

and answered them, best she knew.

‘Fascinating’ is what I’d called it,

when asked about it back home.

And she was, too,

though I never said it.

Except at the cemetery overlooking the river

when I wished her back

to see me enjoy the sweetness in my life,

to bring lightness when it poked;

and because the questions

have only gotten harder.

But mostly, to hear her ‘tickled’ laughter

one more time.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For Grandma.  Rest in peace, we so often rested in yours.

Submissions:  dVerse OpenLinkNight and Theme Thursday, Cemeteries

Baiting Hooks with Luke

At 9 years old

it’s funny how

half the bait slips off the hook

before it hits the water.

Plop.

A lonely barely-bit of bait,

not worth a triploid trout’s time, really—

makes it

into Rufus Woods Reservoir.

He shrugs, though, good enough—

just to get it out there,

sits down on the dusty rock

and waits

for a pulse on the line.

He owns this moment

as I watch him

smile a bit,

flick his foot in the water,

and gaze at the opposing hills;

while I wonder

what he’s thinking.

No more than half a minute goes by, and

tug—tug—tug.

‘Got one’ he says, not surprised, at all—

and begins reeling;

the rest of us look at each other,

shake our heads,

and laugh a bit in disbelief.

Something about

the faith of a child

to know you don’t have to

be perfect,

sometimes fish

are just hungry.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

to be linking up with the amazing poets at dVerse Poets Pub this week

Never Lose the Ability to Get Lost

blonde and brown

heads bobbling

with energy

they, like arrows,

pierce the earth

with exuberance

never losing

their silly, boyish grins

as i watch them

jumping, bouncing

wrestling each other

on the trampoline

where they forget

brotherly offenses

i hope they never lose this

ability to get lost

in the moment

with laughter

and forgiveness

like dollops of rain

drenching the

thirsty onlookers

and me the memory of it

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

my boys and how they work things out, my favorite people to watch…meant to link up to Brian Miller’s people watching poetics prompt, 6 Billion Others at dVerse, but got busy and was too late…so I’ll be linking it to openlinknight

Paper Dolls, 1950’s Single Mother

butter she

mixed with sugar

and fed to us

on saltine crackers

we washed it down

with powdered milk

we were poor

we were rich

we didn’t know either

until we

went to school

and our dolls of paper,

worthless

to friends whose had

vinyl and mohair

and real clothes,

became priceless

because

she’d made

them all

by hand

for Mom and for Grandma (Elaine Rogers, 1926 – 2010)

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

added to The Poetry Pantry

Summer Crickets

we held them

in an empty jar

holes popped into the lid

trickling grasses

and bits of dirt

to make their new home

they were always gone

by morning

set free as we slept

by grandpa

saving them

for tomorrow’s hunt

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Eight

     

     spitting watermelon seeds

          proudly

     through the new hole in his teeth

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Little Cowgirl

little cowgirl

on grandpa’s horse

ten             feet            tall

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Wistfully Whimsical

Childhood

My hand in the river

of ice cold water

charges me even as the sun

weaves its warm and dreamy spell.

Cool pebbles bounce in the stream

and I am taken with them,

down, down, down,

and back up again.

Two smiles play on my lips—

contentment and mischief;

and I am sure that, today,

I don’t need more than this.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner