Wishes

All the

best,

all the

brightest,

wishing you

all the

finest

for 2016.

Harold Angels

When I was six

my grandfather, Harold, died--

though I never called him “Grandfather”

and definitely never “Harold.”

“Grampa” was a much more suitable term

for a brown cigarette smoking, Hee Haw watching,

take-your-teeth-out-and-sprinkle-black-pepper-

on-raw-hamburger-and-eat-it kind of guy.

So when I heard “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,”

I tried to picture it: all the Harold angels

up there,

singing,

angelic.

I loved him,

but if you'd have known Grampa

you'd have had your doubts, too.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

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

How to Write a Poem

Author Tania Runyan surprised me by requesting to include a poem of mine in her book How to Write a Poem.  This work is a companion volume to How to Read a Poem.  Both books are recommended for those new to or seasoned in the art of writing or the enjoyment of reading poetry.  Click on the book image above (or on the sidebar) to read more about this work and to order your copy from Amazon.

Thank you Tania and T.S. Poetry!

Happy Thanksgiving to all celebrating!  Enjoy your holiday!

Saving

He sat in front of me

in third grade

and turned and stuck his tongue out.

His mom later told mine

he had a crush on me.

I did not like either of these things.

I didn't know why

he called me

when his dad called him

from the drunk tank--

unsure and hurting, preteen boy,

abandonment in his voice.

When bullies

carried him

into the bathroom

I saw his scared/brave smile

trying to laugh

at this brand of middle school hell, and walk out,

hair wet and freshly “swirlied.”

I ignored him all school year long

then let him kiss me on a dare

in summer.

I could have gotten out of it.

Never told him it was my first.

Started dating his cousin, the next day.

Walking across the field

from the annex

in high school,

I heard the sirens, saw the lights,

knew it was him, somehow.

Weeks later,

peering through

the screen door at dusk, he appeared

needing to talk.

The overdose

had made him sober, changed,

at least for a while.

His sad, teary eyes,

that lonesome ache in his voice,

and could he,

“come over tomorrow?”

“No,” I said.

And had to say it again.

I knew it, then,

when my dad asked,

“what did he want?”

Though I shrugged and said I didn't know,

I said to myself, “a savior.”

And learned

for the first time

that sometimes

you have to say no

as much for someone else

as for yourself.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Fatigue

On the shower wall

this morning

I saw

a baby chick, mouth open.

On the other,

the curve of a question mark

without the dot.

I'm growing my hair out;

loose, wet strands land in shapes

of my own mind's making.

But you

may have seen something else

instead of these

unfinished questions,

answers not yet forming,

and time

turning

the water cold.

© 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

After Suicide

He still goes over to his house,
sits in his room,
says a lifetime of goodbyes to ashes
--what's left
when the oxygen of hope thins,
choked out by the rasping fire-of-lies
believed at just-turned twenty.


Remembering often in stories,
as the living do
of the dead--
he laughs,
cries,
swears,
breaks, bitterly.


And when reads to me what he writes,
how it is to lose a brother,
memorializing what was,
he ends it
the only way he can.


You don’t know what you’ve done to me.



© 2015 Jennifer Wagner


At the end of August my son's best friend since he was 11 years old committed suicide at the age of 20. A crater-sized hole has been created, and though I know it is a pain that will remain for the rest of his life, I pray for it to lessen for him and for all those who loved Baily. He is greatly missed.

Prince

Prince and me, circa 1977

He was puffy and fluffy

and rarely barked.

I was in the car

that ran over him

the night he died. Six years old

and sitting in the backseat

between my mom and Shirley

as we headed out for dinner. Louie’s Chinese.

Shirley’s husband, Harry,

was the driver. A sweet, adorable man.

A diabetic whose foot later developed gangrene.

He felt terrible, of course.

I felt indescribable.

How do you say

how you feel,

your first prince’s yelps

stinging everything?

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner