Natia

Photo © 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

It was obvious

why she’d chosen the Marietta Diner,

in retrospect.

 

Spacecraft-esque and in Georgia.

 

She spilled a Coke

meant for someone else’s table

when she placed

a Cobb salad in front of me,

 

shaken by a few Russians discussing

the cosmonauts in a cloud of smoke nearby.

 

That’s when we’d recognized her

from a grainy photograph on the History Channel.

And of course, she’d had a different name.

 

Soon after, she’d been replaced

and we were told she’d taken ill.

 

But as we walked toward our Chevy,

there she was

crouching down behind it,

bumming a ride.

 

If someone is brave enough

to wear a red leather jumpsuit

and they ask for your help,

you know they need it.

 

So, we dropped her “anywhere,”

as requested.

She blew us a kiss,

and one toward the east,

 

then strode high, helmet in hand,

toward Narikala

and, we hoped, 

home.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

For Shay’s Word Garden Word List

 

Since I recently returned from a trip to Georgia (state not country) and watched (tripped-out over) Season 1 of Constellation, this is what the muse gave.

 

National Poetry Month: Day 2

 

Blue

 

Every season sings a song.

 

The bells and sorrows

of winter

clang on and on.

 

But if Frost was right,

they, too, only last so long.

 

Stepping on

the turf of spring,

 

new birds fill their lungs,

have their say,

and hope renews that

 

nothing blue can stay.

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

For Writer’s Digest April PAD Challenge Day 1:  Write an Optimistic Poem

 

Happy National Poetry Month!

 

Frost’s poem

 

Summerland

 

I saw it sitting on an old pickup tire,

a butterfly

with sugar on its wings,

 

as we were wading

through weeds

up to our waists,

 

brushing our hands

on dandelions

turning our palms yellow,

 

breathing in sunshine,

climbing an abandoned tractor

in the field

 

to play—

maybe all afternoon,

maybe all summer.

 

It was gone

when we headed back

to watch Grandma feed the pigs,

 

and the dogs

lounging in the dirt

by the porch,

 

and to dunk our bread

into broth,

and bite into dark juicy plums.

 

And later,

I thought I saw it

from the window,

 

on the barn door

near where I had pulled off my boots

to climb a tree

 

and saw it watching me,

a butterfly

with sugar on my wings.

 

 

 

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

dVerse Poetics:  Young and Green

Crackerjacks

 

At the mutant hospital

we grilled burgers and dogs

and listened to baseball on the radio.

 

What else could ease our rehabbing hearts?

 

Jimmy insisted on using bamboo chopsticks—

don’t ask me how he does it, but he does.

I nodded, but ate mine from the pocket of my glove.

 

Both of us sighed

knowing the Babe would be proud—

a hot dog between each finger

and a cigar after, or during,

as our preference allowed.

 

The nurse came to tell us to,

“put those OUT!”

 

But “OUT” means something different

when you’re on defense,

so, we just grinned victoriously

at her ever-increasing scowls.

 

From there in the yard,

we dreamed of donning our disguises

and escaping to our own field of dreams.

 

Me, in my beret,

trying to avoid people’s eyes

spinning like pinwheels

and glazing over

when I tell them I write poetry

(don’t look at me like that,

people have been writing it

since the dawn of time).

 

And Jimmy, dressed up

like a Spanish conquistador,

or a brightly colored piñata,

to avoid the inevitable comment

that he’s “too smart for his own good,”

which means he’s too smart for theirs.

 

But that’s why we’ve teamed up—

our gifts being misunderstood.

We know “mutant”

is another name for a special kind of

talent, a genius, a crackerjack.

 

And if you get it,

buy me some—

I don’t care if I never get back.

  

© 2024 Jennifer Wagner

  

For Shay’s Word Garden Word List—Shakespeare Bats Cleanup

I used 11 of the given words.