Firegold

dusk

is a notion

of half-closed lids

in yellow flicks

of candlelight

against your bluegreen eyes

where

despite or because of

that lonely space between us

you pull me into

it

reaching for that tender

part you save for me

until i believe

i am the jewel

upon your hand

you always say i am

and melt like gold

in your palms

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

The Poetry Pantry

Not a Circus Fan

Circus me a frown

clown in neon blue

with stripes

I see in my sleep

Oscillating, like a cyclone

like that time

after too many mango margaritas

in Cabo

Heave-ho

pirate clown

black and white

and stubbly beard

I hope he won’t hug me

scratches, Patches

and his scent

like bourbon on Santa’s breath

Now there’s a clown

asking if “mommy” would like to sit

on his lap too

Watery eyes, seen too many

bottoms

of glasses

And cigar smoke

fingering the suit

I make for

the other end of the sleigh

feeling a bit like sequins and legs

and hope for more

of stale popcorn

and less of

the inexplicable circus peanut

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam: Under the Big Top 

Storytellers, Poets, Dreamers

shining, twinkling—

winking morse code

in the cold clear of night

                

peering toward hills

graced by tempered moon

and gathering breaths like visions

in baskets of words

illuminated,

holding gold, like dust—fragments

in upheld palms

releasing them to jump gracefully

spin, twirl like fireflies

climbing in the tenebrosity

and falling like stars 

on shoulders

whispering to hungry ears

a glittering of seasons

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OpenLinkNight

The Truce

sitting in the dust

accusers round her, thick—

with pride and spittle

dribbling their bearded chins

fingers pointing, fists shaking, rocks in hand—

the ground trembling with cries for justice

‘such women’ they yell, violent distaste rolling

off their tongues

one by one, they felt the mirrored shame in His words

until only one accuser remained

as she waited for the airless moment to pass

and a stone to pierce her

the two of them breathed slowly together, seconds ticking, until

she put it down, rose up, and began to pardon herself

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

*His words

For dVerse, Armistice/Truce/Making Peace with Poetics

Settling Upon November

The artistry of SueAnn.  Used with permission.

Damp yellow leaves

and a hanging gray

settled upon November

with sharp scents of burning wood

and smoke encircling chimneys.

Head down, she trudged ‘home’

rain splattering her jacket

and hiding bright tears.

November, the month

she knew more than leaves

were dying.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics: Through the Artist's Lens 

Night Witches (Nachthexen)

They flew in the cold,

in the pitch-blackness of an evil sky,

riddled with bullets.

No radios.

No parachutes.

2 bombs.

Engines cut

on the Polikarpov U-2,

to creep

up on sleeping monsters,

to visit their dreams

with light,

and bring the Reich and Reign

closer to hell.

Started them up

in mission, resolute,

crawling out on the wings,

on a limb,

for the rest of us.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

 

Did you know women flew airplanes in combat in WWII?  I didn’t until I visited the Flying Heritage Museum recently.  The 588^th Night Bomber Regiment was made entirely of women who flew the PO-2.  They would sneak up on the enemy by cutting their engines, drop bombs, and then restart their engines to get away; even crawling out on the wings, mid-flight when necessary, to get the props going.  And then go and do it all over again throughout the freezing night.  Truly heroic.  The Nazis began to refer to them as Night Witches because of the terror this tactic inflicted.  Seemed like the right time of year to write about them.

The photos:  (top) a few of these amazing aviators.   And (right) the PO-2, the tail number honors the 23 who earned "Hero of the Soviet Union" citations. And (left) the lettering on the fuselage translates into "Revenge for Dusya," a tribute to the first Night Witch to be killed in combat.  30 of them were lost in all.  If you click any of the links here I recommend the "Revenge for Dusya"...really some fascinating reading from the book A Dance with Death.

Linking up to OpenLinkNight at dVerse, an amazing site for poetry.

Gloom

cobwebs thick upon your hands

dirt underneath your nails

embedded deep

buried

            alive

you feel the crust

of tears and dirt

stuck to your lashes

            your nostrils

choking

you make shallow breaths

repeat your name

you are

not                   dead                 yet

remind yourself

to come back

to the living

keep scratching and clawing

out

of

the

dark

someone will need

your survival story one day

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For Ella's prompt at Poets United: Web 

Wild Peaches and the River

 She tucked me into bed,

wrapped me in

an age-worn quilt

and I slept like the baby I nearly was.

When I woke,

I pulled the quilt around me

and tiptoed across the old wood floors

covered with braided rugs.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes,

I entered the kitchen

and watched her sitting at the farm table,

with a cup of steaming coffee, slicing a wild peach.

Her hands were still strong then;

and even now I never see a peach,

smell one, taste one,

without thinking of her.

She laughed, her mellow way, eyes crinkling,

when I said how much I liked the sweetness

but not the fuzzy skin which poked

like a prickly moustache against my mouth.

Overheard her saying, later

that she ‘got tickled’

when I’d said the pigs rooting in the pen

looked like they had ribbons in their tails.

When I’d trailed her

to the rabbit cages

and saw a mama rabbit

eat her own baby

she didn’t shield me

from the horror of it,

but let me ask the hard questions

and answered them, best she knew.

‘Fascinating’ is what I’d called it,

when asked about it back home.

And she was, too,

though I never said it.

Except at the cemetery overlooking the river

when I wished her back

to see me enjoy the sweetness in my life,

to bring lightness when it poked;

and because the questions

have only gotten harder.

But mostly, to hear her ‘tickled’ laughter

one more time.

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

For Grandma.  Rest in peace, we so often rested in yours.

Submissions:  dVerse OpenLinkNight and Theme Thursday, Cemeteries

Puddle

raindrops

puddle bouncing

i want to play too

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

recuerda mi corazon 

Troll Bridge

facing the winter

of a hearse driven life

you soldier on

with skeletons in the closet

clacking along

the last frost covered leaf

curled and brown, laced with silver,

blows away in the wind

the wind,

there to bite you

sting you,

 remind you

of regrets and demons without, within—cackling

in the still-deadness

where your still-living questions

ask if you have left

them behind

they pick lustily

at your flesh, with tempting,

at your mind, with amoebic doubts—

troll-like, in a present-day quagmire

on one side of the bridge; whereupon crossing

you hear a voice

which says to Call This

The Bridge Where You Rename Yourself

                                                    And Forgiven, And Worth

                       Overcomer                                                                        Being

Names like                                                                                                                  Loved

Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner

Inspiration: Isaiah 62, Revelation 2, and a dream that woke me up

For the prompt at Poetry Jam and for  Poets United Poetry Pantry

*Note: this piece doesn't read right on most hand-held devices.  For accuracy read on a larger screen.