Baiting Hooks with Luke

At 9 years old

it’s funny how

half the bait slips off the hook

before it hits the water.

Plop.

A lonely barely-bit of bait,

not worth a triploid trout’s time, really—

makes it

into Rufus Woods Reservoir.

He shrugs, though, good enough—

just to get it out there,

sits down on the dusty rock

and waits

for a pulse on the line.

He owns this moment

as I watch him

smile a bit,

flick his foot in the water,

and gaze at the opposing hills;

while I wonder

what he’s thinking.

No more than half a minute goes by, and

tug—tug—tug.

‘Got one’ he says, not surprised, at all—

and begins reeling;

the rest of us look at each other,

shake our heads,

and laugh a bit in disbelief.

Something about

the faith of a child

to know you don’t have to

be perfect,

sometimes fish

are just hungry.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

to be linking up with the amazing poets at dVerse Poets Pub this week

Inconsequentially Rotating the Ball

yoga, green tea, SUV

pop culture, church, reality TV

and don’t forget trips to Ha-wa-ii

raining down words

while sitting fat

like Jabba the Hutt

on a throne

of carc-ass-es

children of the same god

Mother Teresa should send us all to our rooms

to think about it

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

i like some of the things i’ve listed here, so this is not meant to offend anyone if they like any of them too…it’s just thoughts about what’s important on this big ball we live on and what we do, and don’t do, on it…

Poetry Jam 

Never Lose the Ability to Get Lost

blonde and brown

heads bobbling

with energy

they, like arrows,

pierce the earth

with exuberance

never losing

their silly, boyish grins

as i watch them

jumping, bouncing

wrestling each other

on the trampoline

where they forget

brotherly offenses

i hope they never lose this

ability to get lost

in the moment

with laughter

and forgiveness

like dollops of rain

drenching the

thirsty onlookers

and me the memory of it

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

my boys and how they work things out, my favorite people to watch…meant to link up to Brian Miller’s people watching poetics prompt, 6 Billion Others at dVerse, but got busy and was too late…so I’ll be linking it to openlinknight

Falling - A Set of Haiku

old country road

blanket of pine needles

your cheeks ruddy

-------------------

my cold hand

in yours

warm

-------------------

smoke rising

flames bursting

scent of leaves

-------------------

sweeping over

shades of dusk

black crow moon

-------------------

cattle lowing

a song

for autumn

-------------------

cider

cinnamon swizzle stick

hints on my lips

-------------------

crème brûlée,

and the salt in your kiss

delicious

-------------------

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

recuerda mi corazon and Poetry Pantry

Newly Fallen White

Her skirt of scarlet pulled

from the ankle;

as she hastened her steps

breath rose in forms of smoky blue.

Stopping cold on broken twigs

frozen in fairy tale,

she peered upward. Snow fell

with no cloud in the sky.

How soon lovers forsake the

faithful whispers of moonlight;

cooing birds shutter, flutter

and blur the lines with tears.

She’d only wanted one to love her,

but tragic oaths of mutilated promise                 

breed an anemic beast hungry for

a burning, scorching bite.

The milky air

washed invisible the copse of antiquity

while her lips turned aubergine

against the newly fallen white of frosty vows.

She squeezed the fruit and

licked the juice of indiscretion

with no pleasure.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OpenLinkNight Opening 12pm Pacific Time

9:11 am

Shift ends at 8am

and I look over at the clock

It’s odd to me he often arrives

at 9:11, post commute

I try not to think about

that nightmare

I had struggled to get

out of my mouth

Shaking and choking

as I tried to tell him about it;

The one where I am at his funeral

with our sons beside me

I just enjoy the moment

of being a firefighter’s wife

Enjoy his smile and laugh

full, when he bursts in the door

Sounding like the Ghost of Christmas Present

rich and deep, full of all things good

Today is the day I think about those photographs

with the towers in calamity

The firefighters rushing to, and in

while others are running away, and out

The looks on their faces

telling bravery is not without fear

It is committing to give

in spite of it

Not withdrawing

courage to save someone else’s spouse,

Someone else’s children

while praying someone will remember theirs

And I do

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner 

Posted to dVerse Poets

Russet and Gold

russet dreams

in flax and gold

spun through my fingers

crisp and cool

and bright

the mornings of disappearing mist

crunch of apples

sliced and sprinkled

cinnamon and sugar

little fingers

licked clean

i kiss their cowlicked heads

 

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Autumn Series Haiku 

haiku my heart and dVerse Poetics Autumn

Purple Shoelaces

She is

hiding behind black everything—

hair protruding from a black hoodie,

covering all but one eye.

Headphones are pumping sounds

into the darkly shrouded form;

I see the wires that must lead to an iPod

—hidden somewhere.

Staring down, so as not to

greet the oft-dismissing world, she walks

with slow purpose, counting the steps,

within the walls

where she keeps her fear of rejection.

She looks at me, despite herself,

as if she doesn’t want to be seen, but does—

and she can’t hide it

soon enough

that she is happy

to be noticed.

Hers eyes are pools of wounded gray,

deep, and soulful.

And I keep looking—eyes tell stories,

and dreams,

and everyone should have one.

Then I spot them—her black Converse shoes

have purple shoelaces,

and this bespeaks

the truth.

She doesn’t want to be disregarded.

Hiding

is just waiting

until it’s safe

to be seen.

I smile, at them, at her;

and she grins, lifts her chin,

and walks on.

While it occurs to me

we’re all

wearing purple shoelaces.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OpenLinkNight. Some of the best poets on the web. 

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