Honest Lee stepped out of a dime western—
wavy brown hair, chestnut mustache,
six-shooter on his thigh.
Not anybody’s prairie girl,
I knew which one of us was a lie—
even with his black olive eyes,
black as my lil’ ol’ pea pickin’ heart.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Photo © 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Forget the old—
there’s no time
like the present,
and no place
like the honeycomb-home
of your lips. Lick
those ruby reds—
meet mine, glossed,
sugar-frost
-ed,
and salt me
with your wizardry
of bliss.
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
Poem-A-Day 27: title a poem “New (blank)”
Poetic Bloomings: write a “Forget (blank)” poem
Planted, it grew. As seeds are supposed to do. Water (of course), dark (sandy loam preferred), light (direct, for several hours a day). But it was a potato and not technically a seed. And, therefore, a little safer from chickadees. What it grew into once baked (or twice), au gratin-ed, mashed, fried, gnocci-ed, latke-d, made some t-uber good comfort food. And without getting too chippy about it. . .
haiku na ma tuber tot
means no eating
a potato seed
© 2025 Jennifer Wagner
What’s Going On? Seed (or in this case, not one ;-P)
Day 18
On the menu:
chocolate cakes.
Two, to be exact.
One with espresso in the batter, one
without.
One apple cake, one apple crisp.
One chocolate chip banana bread.
I am making these,
which I do not eat.
Pretzel peanut butter cookies are next,
or your mom’s pistachio bundt,
or pumpkin spice cupcakes,
some with sprinkles, some
without.
I will probably not eat much of them either.
Strangely, I am baking as if they are
for repast post funeral, attempts
at forgetting your superpowers,
the ones that always weakened,
arrested me.
Still wanting you to hold me,
settling for within,
but
without.