Showing posts with label The Waves We Let Catch Us. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Waves We Let Catch Us. Show all posts

Saturday, January 3, 2015

Saturday Morning Cartoons (with Oreos and Milk)


A father wakes up
before everybody else

and sets the world whistling.

Except on Saturday,
when he's supposed to get to sleep in,
but you jump on his belly
and pry his eyes open
to watch cartoons with you.

He doesn't mind, though,
because you're his.


© 2015 Jennifer Wagner



For my daddy.

Dad, remember Oreos and milk for breakfast with Saturday morning cartoons? I do. Good times. :)


Tuesday, December 16, 2014

Grandma, Mickey and Me




“It forks in and out a little like the tongue   
Of that frightened garter snake we caught   
At Cloverfield, you and me, Jenny   
So long ago.”  -- To the Muse, JAMES WRIGHT


Grandma killed many snakes
in her yard by the tavern
when she had to.

She could do anything
and she wasn’t afraid
of anything.
Or maybe she was
afraid of everything
and she’d just done
what she’d had to do.

She wore a cowgirl hat
with a feather roach clip
and earrings with sayings on them
like, “No” and “Well, maybe.”
She wore tight animal print pants,
read The National Enquirer
and swore the pig-boy was real.

Her little trailer sat
just off the road
and we would stay the night
with her when we were young
and play board and card games
and watch TV.

She would sneak over to the
tavern and bring us special treats
like fried tater tots
with ham and cheese inside.

I’d get to sleep
with Grandma
in her “big” bed
and my cousin would sleep
on the couch in front of her old TV,
the bust of JFK,
and her framed photo
of the son she never got to see.

During the day
we’d go off to explore,
especially the train tracks
where we’d imagine hobos
hitching rides.

She’d told me,
“the bees are out,
thicker than molasses.”
And to “be careful. 
Just be still
when they come near you.”

And I was,
except when
my cousin distracted me
by making me laugh
and I swatted my arm
and got my first bee sting.

It hurt
like H-E-DOUBLE-HOCKEY-STICKS
but I knew Grandma
could take care of it.

We wove our way back
to Grandma’s where she
plucked a leaf from her
aloe vera plant and squeezed
some of the gel out onto the sting.
It was better than new.
She could do anything, like I said.

Pig-boy might have even been real.
You never know.


© 2014 Jennifer Wagner



A couple of days ago Grace presented us with the work of James Wright.  She said we can use a “line of verse as a jumping board” and to “feel free to explore where your muse takes you.”  My poem isn’t the same subject as the one of Wright’s that I springboarded from, but it’s where my muse lead.  I think I went autobiographical because of Wright’s simple family roots and of course, “Jenny.”

Thursday, June 19, 2014

Scrapbooks and Fireworks



Summer’s kisses past
are in my dresser—

caresses pressed
between pages
like petals.

A thousand moonlights
are in my closet,

and wished upon stars

s          p          r          i           n         k          l           e

s          p          a          r          k          l           e          s

in a box on the shelf.

But summer nights,
and moonlights,
and stars—
like night lilies,
like fireworks,

are best
in their living,
bursting
moment

like you,

here & now, owning
me

with more than just a memory.



© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Thursday, March 27, 2014

friend


photo © 2014 jennifer wagner


extra treats,
longer hugs.

laryngeal paralysis
& age
are taking you
into
the next phase.

we mentally
try to hear
the future

empty
of hefty paws
padding the floor,
and your bones
groaning
with the creaking of the stairs.

we say things like:

remember when he stole that entire ham?
           
we’ll never have another dog
like him.
           
he’s happy;
he’s had a good life.
           
i want to be the one to dig his grave,
when you know,
“it”
comes.

your slow-wag tail,
your chocolate eyes
melt us

and each of us
searches
for how
we can learn to say,

do svidaniya, drug.



© 2014 Jennifer Wagner


I’ve been working on this one for a while.  Too emotional.  Our big, mellow Labrador, Druke, is 13 years old and the signs are all there.  “Druke” is how we spell his name, pronounced “drug/droogk” meaning “friend” in Russian.

до свидания, друг