Memorial Stones

Image URI: http://mrg.bz/URIXxH

He's gathering up,

one by one, and placing,

the memorial stones.

I can hear it

all through the house.

I press my palm

to the door,

feel his heartbeat

in sobs calling out

from the other side--

ruins beautiful

for the remembering,

and whisper

a mother's prayer

for grief too big

for these hands alone.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

How To Get Rich

(according to my eight-year-old son)

First, manual labor.

Then, buy lots and lots

of football cards

until you get The One

you can sell

for lots of money.

And then, he says, buy more.

He looks over at two

nine-year-old boys walking

toward school

and says, sagaciously,

they don't care about manual labor.

I've heard them talking

when I've been walking home.

All they talk about is video games.

I pull up

to his drop-off.

Mom, what's manual labor?

Physical work, I say,

like building a house.

He nods, gets out for school.

How To Get Rich, For Parents:

First, drive your 8-year-old to school.

And then,

laugh the whole way home.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

football cards on my son's dresser

photo © 2016 Jennifer Wagner
manual labor performed to purchase cards: brushed dog, set table, took out trash
manual labor in order to purchase more: clean room

Fruit Bat

Grapes, mangoes,

sweet satsumas,

watermelon.

Apples, red.

My son loves fruit

and drinks only water.

We've called him Fruit Bat

since he was 2. He owns it,

with swagger.

Bats:  the only mammal to fly.

I hope he always does that, too.

© 2016 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 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

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!

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

Last Monday of May

image by deegolden

The weird Y at W Bostian Rd reminds me of the little house we rented when we were young and living on love.  When I drive it I think of our oldest son slicing his thumb with a razor blade in that garage trying to cut into a tennis ball to see the “guts.”  That afternoon I was pushing his little brother in one of those kiddie cars in front of the house when he came out to me, blood dripping from his hand, a brave and amused smile on his face.  I took him inside to survey the damage.  I admit I had to sit because the room was spinning.  And it hasn’t stopped.  I suppose it never will.  We’ve added two more sons and each have gotten cut badly enough to have stitches, but I’ll never get used to seeing them bleed. So on this day of memory and honoring I say a prayer for the mothers who have had to endure so much more.

memorial day

a mother’s heart

unstitched

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse:  Meeting the Bar-the haibun, a combination of prose and haiku.

Cute

i don’t want to be cute!

i hate being adorable!

when you want to

have muscles

and body hair

and drive a car

this is,

to a boy of six

with three older brothers—

a curse.

the curse of cuteness.

ok,

what do you

want to be?

with no hesitation,

all gumption and flash,

the reply: 

scary!

i laugh, and quickly try to stifle it—

because he really means it

and

because

i do

get what he’s saying—

he wants to be taken seriously

around here,

a mustachioed man/ninja/t-rex

to be reckoned with,

even if i do still help him

to put on his belt

and slick down the cowlick

on the back of his head.

i nod,

as somber and intent

as if i am making

a most grave and

solemn vow.

but

just between you and me—

he’s still so cute

it’s scary.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

shared at poets united poetry pantry

Fourteen

Like a classic car,

or old school stuff

that never goes out of style,

like when people say, in admiration,

“they just don’t make ‘em like that anymore”

you

make me grin

and say to myself,

yes, they do.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

An instant classic.   

I know, I know, spoken like a Mom.  But what can I say?  I adore the kid.  He celebrated his 14th birthday this weekend.  

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

it's about more than winning

photo © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

baseball is about more than just the money

baseball is

a metaphor for life

           

baseball is

to return home

good for what ails us

romantic

an art

           

baseball is

poetry

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

For Form for All:  List Poems and the Poetic Heart of Google.  Sam Peralta has us using Googlism to create poetry.  Our instructions were to visit the Googlism site and type in a word of our choosing and craft a list poem from the results.  Fun! 

And for Clint, my 13 year old crazy-for-baseball, grand-slam-hitting kid.  You amaze me and make me so proud!  (Photo:  Desert Fall Classic Tournament 2013— opposing teams taking a knee together).  

Amaranthine

photo © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

Just outside this circle of light

the mood of sky is darkening

as sprinkles of rain are turning to floods.

I feel I won’t drown this time,

awash in ash, as deep autumn burns out,

thrusting the baton to barrenness.

Stained on the caverns of my heart

are four amaranthine trees.

Their branches and leaves are arms and handprints,

shoring up each chamber.

Their colors are lanterns,

bright and glowing.

This heart has been made rich and fertile;

this ship has beacons, reasons,

to remain buoyed and sustained.

By them I am helped to weave my way,

even when the dark bleeds thick

upon my mind, poisonous and looting.

I have found in their eyes

warm respite from the seeping cold of lifeless hollows

and cradle the hope that is anchored

in the breath and vitality

that each of their smiles light

to bring me home.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

For my four sons and all they have had to understand in my struggle with depression.  Ever yours ~ Mom.

Remember Boys

Remember boys

Are tender souls

With mud stains

And Xbox games

Running fast

Looking back

Sword fights

Movie nights

Flexing muscles

Soda burps

Green slime snakes

And broken plates

Little men
In the making

Make my heart melt

With “Mom, I love you”

Little men

In the shaping

Their growing pains

Are mine too

Remember boys

Are tender souls

With dirty hands

And…pure hearts

© 2007 Jennifer Wagner

For the boys who delight me daily.  I am so grateful to be your Mom!  I wrote this not long after the birth of my youngest son in 2007.  I often cringe when I read my past work but the sentiment is there so I’m pulling it out of the archives to submit it to The Poetry Pantry:  Mothers Around the World.  Happy Mother’s Day to all moms…hope you have a beautiful day!

Westport Beach

cherry blossoms and butterflies

get stuck in my throat

today, and every time,

a just right spring blows

the salt wind and dark wave

against my memory

and across my bare toes

to unbury thoughts of pebbles and sand

and running and laughing

and six year old you

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

For Andrew.  On a day like today.

The Beginning of a Poem

your life

began

as a song to me

your tender heart

beat

and when

your smile

was all i had

to get out

of bed

it was enough

Copyright 2013 Jennifer Wagner

for Andrew

dVerse OpenLinkNight 

Harbinger

Harbinger

by Andrew Romero

Haste the day the harbinger comes

With songs of loyalty and triumph

The sounds of life exude pain

The silence of existence is eternal

Death saddles his horse

At the living’s lamentation

He rides unto the cradle

Listening for Ataturk

Upon release he kneels

In respect for the deceased

At this he takes them within his bosom

Thrashing they vie for life

His icy embrace calms their tenacious fire

The horseman rides on

To father time, with emptied hourglass

Onwards he rides unto oblivion


Copyright 2012 Andrew Romero 

My son Andrew recently turned 18 and will graduate from high school this year.  Sigh...expect to see some nostalgic mama writes from me.  He writes poetry and wrote this piece a few months ago.  Also, he predicted, on the day of the Super Bowl last year, that the Seahawks would play in the Super Bowl this year.  Poet and possibly prophet?  Proud mama, no doubt.

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.

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