St. Brutus

 

Photo © Jennifer Wagner

 

Oh, he was a love, an absolute valentine, that

St. Brutus of the backyard and chewed up swing set when

we lived just an alleyway’s kiss from Shakey’s Pizza.  You

couldn’t miss him, could always find

him, he, St. Brutus of the gentle jaws and powerful drool.  So, it

left a hole, that swinging open gate, when it

became clear he’d been lured, or stolen, or sent, from us.  Is

it that he had another mission, another boy or girl to rescue, to warm?

Oh, you may not have known where your new valentine came from,

but just know that it was warm from me.

 

 

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

What’s Going On? Pets I Have Known

 

dVerse Poetry Form: Golden Shovel.  Choose a line from a poem and craft your poem so each line of your poem ends with a word from your chosen line.  I chose the line “that when you find it, it is warm from me” from “Pocket Poem” by Ted Kooser from his 2008 book, Valentines.  I also used it in part as my closing line, though that is not a requirement.

 

Written in memory of Brutus, beloved St. Bernard, bawling as I did so.

In and Out

 

 

Out here I am weightless, or grounded, or both.  Smooth, cool grass curling up around my heels, filtered between my toes, flittering softly.  Darkness above me and here below.  I brush my own shoulders lightly for just a touch of warmth—an inside connection to the “outside” me which I think must surely appear as if crumbling in panic, in crisis, in chaos.  But I’m not and I don’t.  “Outsiders” even say I look like I am holding it all together.  But it’s not me who is doing the holding.  I am held.  Again, and again, and again, and still.  Silence is breathing about me in words the “outside” me hears inwardly.  Flowing, like prayers.  My eyes adjust to a myriad of twinkling lights.  Be still.  And know.

 

a river of starlight

the stillness of knowing

He hears me, too

 

“Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10

  

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse Haibun Monday: Silence

 

image created by me using copilot

Crisscross

 

Our kitchen became hers when

she moved in with us

after Grandpa died.

 

She taught me classic

peanut butter cookies—

how to crisscross the tops with sugared fork.

 

I watched knee-side as she made

cream pies, one after the other,

laying a blanket of raw pie crust in a tin,

 

poked with fork, baked, let cool,

and scooped full with mounds of creamy goodness

in rich dollops filling up the shell.

 

She shaved chocolate,

sprinkled toasted coconut,

layered thick meringue.

 

I wish I could look

into that kitchen window,

peering in from the backyard,

 

and see her strong capable hands,

her quick movements,

my eyes wide and hopeful,

 

youthful innocence and joy

sticking to my fingers

like sugar and cream.

 

Oh, for a quick taste

of memory—

like the window to a long-forgotten dream.

 

 

© 2026 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings: Windows

dVerse oln #407 

 

image above created by me using copilot