war for me

my brokenness has borne

the fruit

of a thousand sorrows

piece by piece by piece

piercing by piercing by piercing

arrows of unlove

unbecoming

to become

what can only be

remedied

by the man of sorrows

acquainted with grief

my grief

borne

in love’s long-suffering war

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

“Love is a long-suffering war.” –Janet Martin, poet extraordinaire

Isaiah 53

Note:  over at dVerse the prompt is to write a secret admirer poem and since my poem is a bit similar to the guidelines of the prompt offered I wanted to make mention of it--though I didn’t write it in response.

photo source

Butterfly, Rest

We captured blown kisses

left like a note

on the kitchen table

saying,

I’ll be back soon--

just went to the grocery

to pick up a few things.

If we only knew

then,

that last sprinkling,

last dot under the heart

she drew

on the page

was her final

wingspread

now folded.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

for edr and kjt

Sevenling (In that Dream)

image source

In that dream, I had all day and more

in the lavender field, sunlight speckling

my arms, my legs, the straw hat sheltering my face.

It was one I'd never worn before,

but you were there, sunny, honeyed

and yellowing all my purple darkness,

as it always should have been.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



This was written for De's dVerse Meeting the Bar: the Sevenling. I was unable to post it in time so I'll be linking it to dVerse OLN.

Calling the Game

Like Pudge.

Like Bench.

Like Yogi.

Opening Day

on the glistening green

shimmering

diamond,

with dirt under his nails

he scoops

the ball

from his mitt,

tosses back to the ace,

crouches,

gives signal,

waits

for the curve

of his smile,

and spits

o - u - t.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Opening Day 2016. Go M's!
photo © 2016 Jennifer Wagner

A Quadrille poem for dVerse. Exactly 44 words (title excluded), including the word “shimmer” (or variant as I've used here).

Like Spent Cherry Blossoms

Milling about

the door,

while the garden lights

were swaying

and the moon was high,

this poem

found itself

arriving,

sweet spices

on rainpetal skin

from spring's unfurling trees.

And what was I to do, little poem?

Of course, I swept you in.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



Happy National Poetry Month! :-)

dVerse OLN
 

March 20

Everything I saw that day

reminded me of another.

Two daisies in a glass bowl.

A discarded coffee cup (Starbucks).

Red spray paint, lipstick, a little bit of blood.

Never mind the window

speckled with mint green rain.

I wanted to lick it

but that would have been inappropriate.

Undignified. Quite.

But, since I've already

lost my mind a time or two. . .

more than that even. . .

What of it?

A mind is an easy thing to lose.

Don't even get me started on hearts.

That's another poem.

This one is about

my tongue licking mint green rain

and never you mind

I saw pumpkins and gourds on a March day,

orange and round, warty and yellow.

There's nothing to it.

I see what I want to see these days.

And afterwards I started jumping

because I determined

that's what you do.

And then you eat yellow daisies

or daffodils, if that's what you can find,

and you can, because it's March

and the Ides have passed.

You made it.

No one sticking it to you

this time, Caesar.

And death,

she's your friend,

but not today.

No, not today.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

OK, I went a bit wacky maybe, but I've been reading Ray Bradbury's Zen in the Art of Writing. So yeah, Happy Spring! :-)

Daffodils are poisonous, though daisies are edible, so please, don't actually eat!

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