Sunday Harmonica—after a Week of Heavy Metal Riffs

 

This memory . . .

     a blown candle-

 

wick—black and crisp,

     tastes of smoke-deep autumntime.

 

Wild turkeys ran beneath the trees;

     blacktail deer lingered, clopped, crunched,

 

pivoted away from the cold squeal

     of reds at the heel of a mama javelina

 

while the warm music of your hands

     spread out wide,

 

your mouth buried in my neck

     forever

 

taking the long way home.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

dVerse Poetics

 

Note: “reds” are baby javelinas.  

 

Beer and Swearing (a Lesson Learned on Vacation)

 

Remember that root beer float we had at Mt Rushmore

made with Jefferson’s original ice cream recipe,

swearing it was the best we’d ever had—

 

and how we swore to remind ourselves

that we’re always in a rush, and always want more,

when maybe we should just sip, spoon and float?

  

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

NaPoWriMo 15:  a six-line poem

You really can get ice cream made from Thomas Jefferson’s original recipe at Mount Rushmore, and it really was the best root beer float I’ve ever had.

 

Sigh Lens

 

Chattahoochee River

Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

Wild horses and burros

roam back home

grazing on fireland.

 

But, iced tea in her hand,

Grandma would say,

Come, sit a spell.

 

And that’s just what I

intend to do,

 

sweet tea,

 

with you.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For Mary’s prompt at What’s Going On?  Silence.

 

I used “sit,” but my grandma said, “set,” in her sweet Missourian way (which she also pronounced, “Mi-zur-uh”).