(In the) Mood

so much depends

upon

the spill of water

warm in the basin

the tumble-soft

tones of Coltrane

from another room

the smooth glide

of your hand

upon my hip

so much depends,

really,

on the flip

of my hair

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Written for Fireblossom Friday--taking the opening lines of William Carlos Williams' poem The Red Wheelbarrow (“so much depends upon”) and crafting our own poem.

Late and linking to Poetry Pantry, too.

Happy Valentine's Day!

A Love Poem Should Be Spent

When you write a love poem

on the palm of your hand,

the kind that's meant to stick,

and blow it away

like a kiss,

if it returns

on wings, crispy-black,

falls like St. Helens' ash,

that's when you'll know

it worked.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

The Poem I Choose Today

In the wild wood

there are poems everywhere:

forest grouse, bright berries, late blossoms,

little sounds our feet make

on the undergrowth.

In the streets

there are poems, poems everywhere:

cigarette butts, Christmas lights, hurried voices,

the scent of roasted beans

wafting from coffee bars.

But here beside you,

tangled breaths

like drenching rain,

are more.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

8

Photo © 2015 Jennifer Wagner

If smiles light up rooms,

yours lights up a thousand

rooms in my heart-dark-need

for such a beacon.

Yours, my own little

prince of peace.

Yours, my own little

light of the world.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

The Wedding Gift

The chime is engraved

with a lighthouse,

a harbor,

a ship on the sea.

It hangs from the eaves

above our deck

and has, for nearly

seventeen years,

sprinkled its tune

at every house

we've called home.

It fell

            once,

in a major storm,

was never broken, but

lay serenely

at our feet

waiting--

ready to give light, melody.

And though

I tire of wind,

of storms,

it's taught me to listen,

             hope,

                       trust light

and

play on.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics

the best bouquet

smells like

            globs

            of glue

stuck to

            crumpled

            red tissue paper

on

green pipe cleaners

held

in a chubby fist

just below

a

look-what-i-made-for-you

            grin

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

poets u

semper augustus

semper augustus,

wikimedia commons

like

a garnet-streaked tulip, valentine,

in a field of daffodils

more yellow

than the newborn springtime sun

more welcome

than my favorite denim, softest sweater,

my cowgirl boots

and, seeming

            lost

like lace and pearls

by the bed, on the floor

come morning

is found,

rare

           and flaming,

between us

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

a little bit of a late valentine...smiles. for ian.

the semper augustus was the most rare and valuable tulip at the height of tulipomania in the 17^th century ($5,700 for a single bulb!).

he forgot the (r) in togethe(r)

i didn't point it out

actually, i didn't even notice

but that's how love is,

                                               too

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Poem © 2014 Andrew Romero

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

My eldest son wrote this concrete poem and put it on the door of my room last Mother's Day (on wide strips of tape, not right on the door itself, ha). I have yet to take it down because, well, why take it down? And it is the month of love!

Pacific Northwest

Green winter notes

in January

bleed into February--

scent of pine, lavender,

           honey in my tea.

We slice lemon,

bake salmon, peppery

and warm

           like you,

a wild, wild rose,

no hint of snow--

grow 'round my calves,

up my thighs,

hug my hips

a little tighter,

hold me

to spring.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam, Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, and dVerse OLN.

after the long hours

write me a song

with your eyes

like you do

hang up your helmet,

your axe,

come

home

to

me

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Image © 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Two tenWord poems. Over at dVerse this week we were offered to play with the tenWord form. These two can be read together as one little love poem.

For Ian,

for Poets U,

and for all the spouses of firefighters...may the hours quicken!

Hunting Season

The leaves in silent fire

are mellowing,

a cool, crisp blaze

before the frost—

the last cracKle, pOp

before Old Man Winter

grays us with his beard.

We watch

as orange and white

petals of autumn suns

l           i           n          g                      e                                  r

like paper lanterns,

and then

the current

rolls them on—

I snuggle in

close beside you,

sip roasted dandelion tea

dripped with honey in the cup,

and on my tongue—

hoping you

track the scent

and catch me

mid-fall.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Poets United: The Poetry Pantry

Everything

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

There are things we lost

in the flood

or after it

in the seeping, standing water

up past our hips.

It’s no use;

they’re gone.

Remember when

I told you

I thought

we weren’t strong enough,

maybe we

were too damaged

to make this work?

But you

only remember me saying

I’d stay

and let you try.

And for that

you’d give up everything, again,

because everything

means nothing.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Things I Should Know By Now

Expect

rain.

Expect

something spilled

precisely

after mopping.

Expect

seven-year-old

to not have

brushed teeth,

even with several reminders.

Expect

twelve-year-old

to throw garbage bags

“at” outdoor garbage bin

instead of “in” it.

Expect

fourteen-year-old

to fret about being late

worse than

the White Rabbit.

Expect

dirty plates,

empty pizza box

where nineteen-year-old

“chillaxes.”

Expect

rain

again.

Expect

to be loved

despite words

I should not have said

regarding the above.

Expect

all

to repeat.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Never Stop/Taking Me Home

On the train from Chicago

we are all colors, flavors—

caramel, dark, light.

A young couple, clad

all in red and white, waits near us;

soccer fans

heading back from

Liverpool FC v. Olympiacos.

I had noticed them earlier

on the way in—

laughing at photos on his phone,

their tan legs, intertwined.

And across from us now

an even younger couple,

dark chocolate skin, laughing, electric—

their delight in each other

making me feel like grinning silly,

floating too.

Young love

makes a strong point:  never stop flirting

with the one you want to keep.

She grabs his hand, massages,

notices a scar.

I catch a snippet of what

he says, there’s a story behind that.

Let me tell you…

And I drift away

to the conductor nearing our seats,

hear you say, I lost our other ticket…

blew onto the tracks…

Don’t worry about it, he says—

waving your money away

with his face-consuming grin.

And we are on

to East Chicago,

where the roots of you grew—

leaning my head

on your shoulder

that for 16 years

I’ve trusted

to take me home.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

photo © 2014 Ian Wagner

Poème, 16

The Ad Says:  Spirited. Adventurous. Intuitive.

Don’t change, you say,

inspired by the song of love triumphant

and the scent I wore when you first loved me.

You say you like it,
whatever it is,

when I curse myself

for being too much of this

or not enough of that.

And I guess that does about sum it up.

Even when I don’t,

you love me

as I am.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

In a few days my husband and I will celebrate our 16^th Anniversary.  Poème is the fragrance I wore back when we first met and is also the title of a work by Amédée-Ernest Chausson which was originally subtitled The Song of Love Triumphant .

Poetry Jam:  Trash or Treasure