Thursday, March 6, 2025

in a name

 

 

in the 70’s we were everywhere—a

white wave

 

of bell-bottoms, hot pants, platforms and disco

at night—

 

us, jennifers—meant to be, I suppose,

fair, soft—

 

but to that dirt-gravel half of my history, i’ve always been “gin” and i like how

that hits

 

how you say it with a lick of

your lips

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

 

At dVerse MTB: The Poetry of Names, Laura has us writing WaltMarie poems about the meaning or history of our names.  You can visit the link to learn more about this form and visit Writer’s Digest as well.

 

*smaller hand-held devices may not display this poem true to the ten-line format due to compacting


Wednesday, March 5, 2025

A Day's Journey from Blueberry to Heron

 

 

Poetry can be like this—

blueberry stains on my fingers

from shoving them straight

from the bush to my mouth

—blackberries, too.

 

Seeing six rotting oranges

sitting underneath a tree—

hoping they smell good

to what crawls below.

 

The desert cottontail,

a perfect Russel Stover,

who froze still in the sun

when I stepped lightly by—

nothing but nose twitching.

 

A box full of free grapefruits

on the road

in front of the cottage house—

heavy, ripe, uneven.

 

The new puppy, dancing,

learning a leash, excited

to come to me—still unsure

which of us wanted to play more.

 

A Great Blue Heron

with long, delicate legs,

sleek and slow-hunting

at our green-gold pond.

 

I say our,

because it’s yours, too—

as is this journey-poem, for you to add

your own lovely thing to.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

“Look for a lovely thing and you will find it,

It is not far—

It never will be far.”

-Sara Teasdale


What's Going On?  Beauty

Sunday, March 2, 2025

Desert Stardate


 

On the First of March,

the desert doesn’t know

it’s not even spring yet.

Summer tosses dandelions

through a hole in the sky.

 

With my face upturned,

I let them pelt me

with soft, moist tongues—

pollen making eye shadow,

powdery blush,

a soft dusting of body glitter.

 

With a strike of your hand

on my hip like a match,

we become a collision of stars,

a kilonova,

exploding, burnt.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings