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

A Moment at Twilight

This poem may not hold up

to the elements,

in fact it may

float away with the cherry blossoms,

bleed away with the swell of the sea,

wash away with the rain.

But I wrote it

and you read it

and for the moment

that is enough.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

I began this poetry blogging journey three years ago in May and it has been a most enjoyable experience. I have enjoyed the work of many talented poets, writers, photographers, and artists of many types and I am grateful to you all for sharing yourselves through your work, and for your support of and interest in mine. I'll be taking a break from blogging for a while and this site will be going into hibernation. My plan is to return some months from now. My email address, poetlaundry@gmail.com, will continue to remain active. Take care and enjoy your journey!

 

Wonder

a modern haiga for igwrt and haiku my heart

happy international haiku poetry day!

Upon Departure

He calls to say

he'll be late:

had a D.O.A.

at shift change

(paperwork still to be completed,

tasks to be checked off).

And I can't help but think

that is

how it is,

for the lady who succumbed,

for the sister, now, who had been taking care of her,

for each of us

one day.

Shift.

Change.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

PJ: Sometimes it's Time

Brothertime

Stretched out on the grass

looking up at the stars,

hands tucked behind their heads,

feet crossed at the ankles, bellies full--

fat for the sacrifice

of what lurks, stalks them

in the dark: werewolves, zombies, orcs . . .

While dragons skitter-fly by

on iridescent wings

they craft stories

from far away worlds

to see which of them

can scare the others most.

A fir wood fire crackles in the pit.

Marshmallow bits stick to their lips.

“Can I have your room when you move out?”

Laughing, with brave faces,

their eyes in firelight reflect the wonder

of what it will be like to be the first to leave,

be the ones left behind.

A large spark darts skyward

splitting unspoken thoughts

and they turn back to stories of goblins, of ghosts,

on this warm night in brothertime,

shaking off the growing chill

of jitters a bit more real.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics: Brothers/Brotherhood. Hope you come and join in the fun!

Sailin' On

morgueFile

She has an oil tanker sized chip on her shoulder

and it's become the only thing I see.

But still I play nice,

though my loyalty is waning.

It's not so much giving up on her

as it is giving up on it: loyalty,

probably my best and worst trait

when it comes to those I love.

But, it's time,

because oil tankers are no beauty queens

while ugliness spills like the Exxon Valdez,

and because I am bound for fairer seas.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OLN

Dear April

image © 2015 Jennifer Wagner,

photo of my home calendar

You don't fool me. Though

you start off that way.

Yes, you slosh rain

from infinity buckets,

but you smile

just the same

from the ground up--

jelly bean tulips and buttery daffodils

springing round

like long-lost jewels.

And even though it's time

for the bogey-tax-man,

you balance him

with a month of poetry

and the crack

of a bat and Big League Chew

(Original, Grape, Sour Apple, and Watermelon!).

So, you're not really fooling me, April,

as much as you think you are.

T.S. Eliot said you are

“the cruelest month,” but

at least more often than in March,

there is guaranteed

one Good Friday

and a Resurrection reminder

(coming back from the dead

really can't be beat).

Plus, your flower is the daisy (my favorite)

or the sweet pea,

which always reminds me

of the song my dad would sing,

“Oh, Sweet Pea, come on and dance with me . . .”

riding along with him in his truck--

after which he'd switch it off

to bellow into the CB,

“breaker 1-9, this is Gladiator.”

No one's dad is as

cool and tough as a Gladiator, right?

So,

you don't fool me, April.

I think you kind of like me.

P.S. I kind of like you, too.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics: Let's Write Letters

And, Happy National Poetry month!

Chemistry

Image by Karsten Hohmeier

PublicDomainPictures

Every now and then

a poem stays with me

or a line

gets stuck

in the groove of the vinyl

of my mind,

like you do,

and I let it play.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner


Poetry Pantry

Symbiotic

Image by Dawn Hudson

PublicDomainPictures

I'm a patchwork sketch

with patchouli rest

between my breasts---

and you

press, indent,

build

your heart

around me.

And this,

keeps me here---clear,

centered,

focused

just

as each window lilac breeze,

each fringe and tassel,

wisp of candle flame,

batik,

bohème

needs a frame.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OLN

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