Showing posts with label Little Girl Lost. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Little Girl Lost. Show all posts

Monday, February 25, 2013

Sandmorphs of the Amethyst Moon

The watchful eye of the bleeding heart moon
turned amethyst,

her vellum glowed in its gaze—
a canvas for creatures of prey.

Black sand morphed white on her toes,
confectioners’ sugar

to said creatures
making them voraciously bay.

Storm clouds rained dirt
for moments turned years

while she learned to make bloodcastles
with hellbowls of tears.

Sorry for what they’d done,
treacherous birds of root

flew from her tormented refrain
to nest and to watch from beaches of soot.

A pièce de résistance complete
in its unfinishing,

thus, she set off to hunt prey of her own.
She tortured a few, but could kill only time,

true more to herself than a rule.
She’d only been waiting on setting cement,

and Prince Charming’s repent
for having left her alone in the light of such an encouraging moon.

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

Linking up to Imaginary Garden with Real Toads for Open Link Monday and OpenLinkNight at dVerse Poets Pub.

Saturday, January 5, 2013


she hears it
within her heart
darkening that softly whispered thing
he’d wept at her feet
squeezing his chest
begging her
to come back
where he could have her, love her

but, snow white
and glistening,
she congeals in
the rush of blood—
cheeks heated, flushed
and damp
spent where he
could never bring her back,
hold her into it long enough
to let it sink
into her skin,
her fluids,
her flesh and bones

holding her, hard
and pushing love into
that bruised place
she cries
every time he touches

forged with passion
sought with tears
a groove never deep enough
to reach the watercourse
and dangles
not siphoned,
a conduit,

as she turns away
too close
to feel it anymore

Copyright 2013 Jennifer Wagner

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Ornament (Beauty for Ashes)

adorn me with your breath,
i will flower and grow

underneath the overgrowth
of black trees

that bear no fruit
and needle the ground

in winter’s graveyard

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Slave (The Calling of Manumit)

One lung full while the other

crushed beneath this weight
I can’t think, can’t  resist,
by the purchase of screws
I held myself down for
and bled my tears
listening to the
sweet sound
of mourning doves.

I have forgotten You
and I confess
sometimes I think You are gone,
abandoned me
for greener fields
of those more faithful.

But You say I am Your temple—
chained as I am to memory,
so please keep holding out keys
to this puzzle of wings

I am putting together
to fly away from ghostly apparitions
that visit me in my dreams.
They kiss me on the forehead

and keep me from the tiny living temples
that matter at all to me.

Serpent of haunting,
you’ve bitten, but you are crushed,

and I, while breathing in a whisper from the moon
through windows
streaming enlightened threads

in reflection of daylight,
in the back of my mind
I hear it

in each pump of blood
from my heart
I know
I know

I was meant to be free.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

I'll be linking this to Poets United Poetry Pantry

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

Newly Fallen White

Her skirt of scarlet pulled
from the ankle;

as she hastened her steps
breath rose in forms of smoky blue.

Stopping cold on broken twigs
frozen in fairy tale,

she peered upward. Snow fell
with no cloud in the sky.

How soon lovers forsake the
faithful whispers of moonlight;

cooing birds shutter, flutter
and blur the lines with tears.

She’d only wanted one to love her,
but tragic oaths of mutilated promise                 

breed an anemic beast hungry for
a burning, scorching bite.

The milky air
washed invisible the copse of antiquity

while her lips turned aubergine
against the newly fallen white of frosty vows.

She squeezed the fruit and
licked the juice of indiscretion

with no pleasure.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OpenLinkNight Opening 12pm Pacific Time

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Purple Shoelaces

She is
hiding behind black everything—
hair protruding from a black hoodie,
covering all but one eye.

Headphones are pumping sounds
into the darkly shrouded form;
I see the wires that must lead to an iPod
—hidden somewhere.

Staring down, so as not to
greet the oft-dismissing world, she walks
with slow purpose, counting the steps,
within the walls
where she keeps her fear of rejection.

She looks at me, despite herself,
as if she doesn’t want to be seen, but does—
and she can’t hide it
soon enough
that she is happy
to be noticed.

Hers eyes are pools of wounded gray,
deep, and soulful.
And I keep looking—eyes tell stories,
and dreams,
and everyone should have one.

Then I spot them—her black Converse shoes
have purple shoelaces,
and this bespeaks
the truth.
She doesn’t want to be disregarded.
is just waiting
until it’s safe
to be seen.

I smile, at them, at her;
and she grins, lifts her chin,
and walks on.
While it occurs to me
we’re all
wearing purple shoelaces.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Abuse of Power, Power of Abuse

Leave me to solve riddles,
in the dark ruminations

puzzling with pieces
slipping through my fingers.

They have long legs and,
until now, ran faster than I could;

but I have sprouted legs of my own, and

the caramel is dripping
from your polluted apple

revealing a leprous underbelly
and the twists of your myths.

Since released
I write my farewell to arms,

though I know it will not pierce your heart.

I have learned the impossible
remain impossible, impervious,

and must rule

without question,
without consequence.

I write to pierce my own
and release your venom

to drip, to flow,
to collect in puddles at my feet.

While ash and toxicity
paint bleak the petrified forest

where once hearts of
children tried to play,

before you caught them, taught them,
deftly smothered them in your decay.

I have escaped, but intermittently I
perchance upon your minions,

try as I may, when near,
I cannot blind the stench from my nostrils

from the blood
on their hands.

My blood

mind you, cries out for justice,
and like Abel’s,

is heard.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner