Abuse of Power, Power of Abuse

Leave me to solve riddles,

in the dark ruminations

puzzling with pieces

slipping through my fingers.

They have long legs and,

until now, ran faster than I could;

but I have sprouted legs of my own, and

the caramel is dripping

from your polluted apple

revealing a leprous underbelly

and the twists of your myths.

Since released

I write my farewell to arms,

though I know it will not pierce your heart.

I have learned the impossible

remain impossible, impervious,

and must rule

without question,

without consequence.

I write to pierce my own

and release your venom

to drip, to flow,

to collect in puddles at my feet.

While ash and toxicity

paint bleak the petrified forest

where once hearts of

children tried to play,

before you caught them, taught them,

deftly smothered them in your decay.

I have escaped, but intermittently I

perchance upon your minions,

try as I may, when near,

I cannot blind the stench from my nostrils

from the blood

on their hands.

My blood

mind you, cries out for justice,

and like Abel’s,

is heard.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Linked to dVerse Poets OpenLinkNight

75

I see them

most every week

when I’m driving.

The little man

with his little wife

going for their afternoon stroll

on the sidewalk

in our neighborhood,

holding hands.

They must be 75

years old, at least, and

his leg is bad—

the knee, I think.

His other hand

holds a cane,

but he doesn’t use it—holds it

parallel to the ground. 

Just in case.

And she,

with her opposing hand,

carries an umbrella,

unopened. 

It is Seattle, you know,

better to be prepared. 

Just in case.

I love this scene,

supporting each other,

ready in case of stumbling,

ready in case the rain comes.

They’ve been blessed

to have weathered

life together—so long.

I imagine that will be us.

I know one day

I will see only one of them

going on that walk…

Then I picture you,

tomorrow, in your bunker gear,

and rush home

to kiss you

until we’re 75, 

at least.

Just in case.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse: Characters  Nonfiction

Laughing Hills

Hills

in August rise frozen

against the setting sun

a glass of chardonnay

perspiring at the table

of summers

she doesn’t drink

anymore.

In her laughter, a reminder

of the best medicine,

and the lesson she lived—

no one can beat you

when you’ve learned

how to laugh

at yourself.

R.I.P. Phyllis Diller, Comedic Genius (July 17, 1917 – August 20, 2012) 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse Poets

Composing

through table legs

painted toenails coquet

the edge of denim

lemon, sea salt

and baby arugula

eaten with fingertips

candlelight flutter

a catch in her breath

traced in his own

sicilian jazz

the subtle intensity

composing their story

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Linked to haiku my heart forever

The Judging Game

watching them with her orange eyes

looking through their glass house

she opens the window

for fresh air          

her clipped wings

grow with the lilting song

“Don’t listen,” they say,

“…the luring…”  with that head-shake and tsk-tsk

of controlling, condescending tone

but she is sick with love

from their poisoned, pressure well

too eager to drink

when she’d been wilting

holding the beat of

their ridiculous freudisms

in her head on bloodied neck

she whispers “jung may have more substance for me

anyway,” so—

from the place where stained glass

is beautiful again

she waves goodbye

with tar-dipped feathers in her teeth  

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Three Word Wednesday  Poetry Jam  dVerse Poets  

Quenched

Stepping with bare toes across

meadows of balsamroot

I glide swiftly on grasses

soft from last night’s rain.

Quietly slipping between rocks

I meet the gush of spray;

with full pupils down,

tiny rivulets cascade my bare shoulders.

Droplets form and cling precariously

to my hair, responding as I shiver;

a flirty audience of aquilegia formosa

quivers with the steady rush.

The voice of the waterfall

is a mighty quenching of everything;

a gushing spray of explosion and tranquility, reverberating

like the sound of a mother’s heart in a growing womb.

I didn’t come here to grieve, only to soak

in the majesty of a paradisiacal place;

but my heart remembers and wishes I could have buried you here,

instead of where you ended up, in pieces, on porcelain.

I feel embryonic in the moment, wholly enveloped, naked, treasured.

Coming alive in the lusty boom, I scream, and moan,

and grieve, leaving everything here on these ancient stones—

laboring with the violent echo of women’s loss before mine.

I hold hands with the knowing barren wombs

and weep the deficit that will never feel your sigh at my breast,

your pink mouth to my skin, see the shine of accomplishment in your eyes.

They know how I feel—you were brief, but you were mine.

I let you go, but still carry you with me as I push through;

emerging back into the sun of life, weaker and stronger,

spent, and refreshed, sprinkled with pure minerals,

with lilac and wild lavender, and just a hint of baby’s breath.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

found in The Beautiful Sadness, dVerse and Poets United: Poetry Pantry

Tide Pools

basalt,

discordant and black,

scattered the hillside of late warmth,

a cadaver benumbed of cherishment.

defeated, we wondered

what happened to us—

and how we had viciously squandered

our landscape in chimerical hue.

laying down our weapons,

prisoners of our own war;

in the tide pools of aftermath,

we beheld it together.

in harmony

we choked back the sobs of rue,

gathering the tiniest,

brightest, glimmer of tomorrows unwritten.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

linked to Vice Versa and dVerse

Chelan Haiku

sunrise

on the vineyard

the bees smell sweet

blue dragonflies

tango above

the lake in sea green

white birch night

the heady scent of you

in bent ryegrass

  

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner  

Linked to Poets United #109 Poetry Pantry 

Paper Dolls, 1950’s Single Mother

butter she

mixed with sugar

and fed to us

on saltine crackers

we washed it down

with powdered milk

we were poor

we were rich

we didn’t know either

until we

went to school

and our dolls of paper,

worthless

to friends whose had

vinyl and mohair

and real clothes,

became priceless

because

she’d made

them all

by hand

for Mom and for Grandma (Elaine Rogers, 1926 – 2010)

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

added to The Poetry Pantry

Noonday Jackals

Her thoughts took a dark turn

like jackals in the threadbare sun

ripping, ripping until she couldn’t see

herself, now a carcass of once-sought dreams;

a bone-hollow skeleton

stripped of all marrow by which future is made,

where the ink dried within.

Blood, first red then black, gathered in pools

around her head

until the ears spilled no more.

She’d done it to drown out the howling—

for who can bear the noise

of a broken heart?

The muting of syndicate

mocking and whimpering replete,

she worked the metallic taste of hate off her tongue.

It lingered though and became bitter

so she used her teeth to bite into its flesh

for nothing other than to taste a mellowing of salt.

A waft of perfume lingered in the cloying rot,

the remnant of her identity laying in the dust

while the air spilled with the scent of her decay;

a lone paper, yellowed and curled at the corners,

rattled in a wisp of wind.

A cloud began to form on the horizon,

a growing mist of dry, kicked-up earth,

swirling and choking the throat of tortuous barbs.

The cyclonic reclamation filled the desert of scars and loneliness,

returned sinew and marrow, blood and ink

to the supine form of the battered giant

of a dream so big the rabid enemy of her soul

was lost for strategy to bring down.

  

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future."  Jeremiah 29:11

added to dVerse Poets Pub OpenLinkNight , Poets United Poetry Pantry
and imaginary garden with real toads

Summer Crickets

we held them

in an empty jar

holes popped into the lid

trickling grasses

and bits of dirt

to make their new home

they were always gone

by morning

set free as we slept

by grandpa

saving them

for tomorrow’s hunt

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

The Telling

she carpeted her windswept fears with conversational banality

every time he chanced upon her truths

when those raw elements exuded from her blood to her tissues

she could hold them back no longer

she had no more strength to restrain

those flooding fibers,

the secret self, less understood but more familiar even

than the blouse of self-belittlements she had grown accustomed to

with tremulous hand she peeled back the covers of her deathbed

confession

when the things she could never say

began to drip, horrifyingly, from her lips

she knew she’d been dying to tell him

it was death not to

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner 
Linked in the 1st Anniversary Edition of dVerse Poets Pub OpenLinkNight

Unsung Rain

I held you in my hands,

cupped you to my face,

drenched myself in your flood,

and hid tears in your presence

                        as a secret we shared.

Your music put me to sleep

and drowned the echo of sorrows

in long nights you rocked me,

showering drops against the pane

—were you begging to be let in?

When you stayed until the morning

washing and making things new,

I’d wake and sing my insensitive song,

frowning, I’d begin…

“Rain, rain go away…"

Even then you would sigh,

contentedly, from heaven;

peering sheepishly from behind clouds

as I wiped the sugars off my mouth

from the fruits that were your labor.

Never did you seek applause of me,

always willing to play sidekick, straight man, to our comedic sun

while I laughed among flowered mornings

that without you

                        would never have been quite so sweet.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

in Carry on Tuesday and Poets United Poetry Pantry

Reconciling the Sea - a series haiku

watching driftwood

roll in                   

silently                  

slow sea breeze

blowing salt

into old wounds

the undercurrent

an ocean

between them

the tide

rinsing away

bitter roots

fingers

like seaweed

intertwine

their kiss

on the beach

even seagulls speechless

tongues make

slow laps

home

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

added to dVerse Poetics: Whatever the Weather and Poets United Poetry Pantry 

Crumbs

the crumbs of midnight

still hang on the eaves of disappointment

while she longs for tenderness

from an empty bottle

of hope

it stares back, blankly

wordlessly reminding her

unfittingly placed

it does not spring eternal

nor can it button

the suit of outgrown

reasons she pulls the cork

to suck from its desiccated dregs again 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner
added to dVerse Poets Pub Open Link Night

Old Tan Oldsmobile

I could practically smell the cigarettes

Though the windows were rolled up

In the aging tan-colored Oldsmobile

It is the first thing I noticed, strangely

A sun-shriveled old face

Peered above the steering wheel

Crowned by a large straw hat

We were united he and I

Two travelers, strangers

Our only common ground the numbing freeway

I began to wonder about his life

And wonder if he wondered about mine

I imagined him an artist

A widower, missing his children

Who again forgot to send a card

I could see him on the old dock

On the summer lake at dusk

Sitting cross-legged, casting his line

Thinking of the malignancy

That took them all from him

That steady current in his own veins

I craved to know his stories

A little girl version of Manolin

And suddenly he was The Old Man and the Sea

As I made my exit

My eyes lingered on the aged auto, aged hat, aged man

Continuing together to amble the road

I silently wished him farewell

And for his final battle, one

Not so bitter-sweet as Santiago’s

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner 
Added to The Poetry Pantry

Spring Canzonet

The peonies danced perfectly;

with each windshake

perfumed heads

sprinkled sweet dew to the soil.

For a moment she longed to be them;

to listen,

to draw the lyric breath,

and contribute her song.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner 
Shared in imaginary garden

Eight

     

     spitting watermelon seeds

          proudly

     through the new hole in his teeth

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Eleven at Tulalip

Me, the flightless bird

Soaring in your wildblue

Filled

With mysteries

 

Bathing in moonlight as

The fingers of night

Brushed

Through ribbons of me

 

Sweet, your mouth,

My tears on your lips,

Tasted

So much so I wished to never end them

 

Me, the flightless bird

Now securely

Perched

In the cove on the mountain I didn’t think I could climb

 

 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Seattle Spring

all day long

  violets in the rain

  bleed hello

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Contagious

my sick sister

her contagious

laugh

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Grazie, Sue Bell

bluesy jazz singer

amid the bar chatter

i drink the notes

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

You Always Pick the Worst Apples

You always pick the worst apples, 

she chided him, all bruised!

They are still sweet in some spots—

sweeter even than others without them, he said.

And then she wondered if that’s why he’d picked her.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Rediscovered

misplaced jewels—

that little restaurant we found,

and why we loved each other

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Little Cowgirl

little cowgirl

on grandpa’s horse

ten             feet            tall

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Becoming Clay

Becoming Clay

                          

Stacked upon the shelf,

my emotions, spent and raw.

Dark are they now,

and bland—

I cannot feel anymore.

Whispers of my soul

lay broken in a mess I cannot fix myself.

If I were to blow a final deep, aching breath

the shards would fly away like dust.

A single tear slides down my cheek,

like a match across my heart,

reminding me to feel—

reminding me of what I cannot lose.

It falls to the ground

reaching the dust of my brokenness.

And in the silence,

hands caked with the mud of humanity

reach for me,

His grip unafraid of the cold reality of what I am.

A low, loving murmur breaks the dead air,

a voice confident and sure,

"Now I have something to work with."

Copyright 2005 Jennifer Wagner

Corvus Observation

the black crow

endlessly wandering

finds home

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Storms

Circumstance

White sails calmly sifting through a cerulean sea

A storm is coming, though powder blue skies are mum

Edging out the tranquil scene, comes a darkness

Passengers sleepy, lulled by the gentle breeze and even gentler wave

A storm is coming, its breath caught while attempting to speak

And the warming sun coaxes dreamers into respite

Unsteady hold or certainty begins the test

A storm is coming, preparers beware

Holding the light may be all you can do

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner 
Shared with Poets United Poetry Pantry

American Style Haiku

 

                dinner table

               hum and din

                —song of heroes

  Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Masterpiece

The Orchid

I walked alone

On a dark stretch of imperfection

The road was pointless

Stumbling marked my hesitation

                                              

I found courage, tried to run

But darkness cloaked the air

And twisted vines mocked my despair

                                                           

Dropping to my knees                                 

I wished for strength to fight the night

And clear the wood, to reach the light

The prayer I spoke

Was little more than just a breath

But there it was,

An answer on my quest

It stood alone, the orchid,

Fragile beauty wrapped in might

And seemed to glow from inner light

I gasped and smiled

As through the darkened mist it shone

Its unique purpose before unknown

The bloom was there, placed perfectly,

And because of this bloom

I remembered me

Its beauty, both intricate and fair,

Reminded me of what I usually fail to see

That we are magnificently created things

I continued on that day

To purpose which had seemed so far away

But the path was not as gray

The orchid lit my way

 Copyright 2006 Jennifer Wagner

Bullying is a newsworthy subject these days.  We’ve all seen it; some of us have even participated in it.  My son recently began to be the recipient of some ugly bullying behavior at school.  Undeniably, it is one of the most heart-breaking things to watch your kid go through.  To have that once-tiny, bundle-of-cute you would die for come home sobbing after you have sent him out into the world of his peers is well, hell.  Or something like it.  Differences aren’t often tolerated, and the messages that life can serve (you’re too fat, not smart, not athletic, not good at anything, or just plain not good enough) warp us until we believe them.  But they are not correct.  We are valuable.  We have purpose.  I had written this poem a few years ago when I was wrestling with my own thoughts on this issue, and it came to mind as I have been traversing some rough waters with my son.  Have you ever taken a good long look at an orchid?  It’s a masterpiece of artistry isn’t it?  But it doesn’t look like a daisy and it doesn’t smell like a rose and it doesn’t grow like a sunflower.  It is different.  It is its own unique work of art.  And so is he.  And so are you.

<a href="http://www.public-domain-image.com/flora-plants-public-domain-images-pictures/flowers-public-domain-images-pictures/orchid-flower-pictures/white-and-red-orchid.jpg.html" title="White and red orchid">White and red orchid</a> on <a href="http://www.public-domain-image.com" title="Public Domain Images">Public Domain Images</a>

Wistfully Whimsical

Childhood

My hand in the river

of ice cold water

charges me even as the sun

weaves its warm and dreamy spell.

Cool pebbles bounce in the stream

and I am taken with them,

down, down, down,

and back up again.

Two smiles play on my lips—

contentment and mischief;

and I am sure that, today,

I don’t need more than this.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner