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

(In the) Mood

so much depends

upon

the spill of water

warm in the basin

the tumble-soft

tones of Coltrane

from another room

the smooth glide

of your hand

upon my hip

so much depends,

really,

on the flip

of my hair

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Written for Fireblossom Friday--taking the opening lines of William Carlos Williams' poem The Red Wheelbarrow (“so much depends upon”) and crafting our own poem.

Late and linking to Poetry Pantry, too.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Weather Eye

MagpieTales 305, Photo by Caroline Knopf

When you left

I swore off hunting

for reasons I wasn't

good enough.

Now, here I am,

pike and pole,

keeping a

weather eye

in case you come back

to remind me.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Wing and Wind

Mama chestnut-backed chickadee

flew in our 70's window

and landed on our

scarlet, gold and green rug.

After a few moments

she sputter-flew up to the windowsill,

as I held my breath, hoping

she could see her escape.

At last, I urged, Go, little girl---

and she lit out,

quick as wing and wind could carry,

while I

peered at the question of sky,

as I do now,

heart throbbing,

wings trembling,

for wherever the wind might take me.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OLN

Poet's Pen Strokes

morgueFile

She was born

with a bottle

of blue darkness

inside her.

When the light

cracks

the glass,

shafts of light

splintering

the container,

the darkness

spreads

inky arms,

stretching through,

reaching out/into

everything

she is, she's been, has yet to see

and exits

on pages

needing both dark and light

to come

to be.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Fields of Remembrance

“Cut corn stalks in the wind” video by Maria Wulf at Full Moon Fiber Art

The howling of the wolves,

the empty stalks,

this is home now.

Remember when we had it all,

before the burning, the chafing,

the emptying?

I won't cry, though;

tonight, a full moon

reveals the sickle-swept rows

we hid between,

and our ghosts laughing

and playing,

reflecting us

as we always should have been.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



For Artistic Interpretations at IGWRT, featuring artist Maria Wulf. 

Pine (ing)

in rainland

we long for snow

but oh! the green

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

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

This Side of Heaven

My son's crutches

leave double circles

on the wood floor,

marks that show

where he's been,

sometimes stuck,

suctioned for a moment,

to one place.

He moves on, though,

like we do,

leaving part of us

on the distances

we've traveled.

But what of

these wounds, so old

they should have

healed by now?

We continue,

cracked and crumbling,

accepting fractured roads

bearing us up

and all the scars

we're made of.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner