The Finest Thing

High Angle Rescue Drill, Firefighter Ian Wagner

Photos © 2012 Ian and Jennifer Wagner Family

On the deck

sipping the last of summer

from my glass of iced coffee,

I’m drenched in a moment

of luscious sunshine,

one of the few left before

autumn’s return.

I’m watching our youngest boys

with delight—

plastic swords and shields in their hands,

attacking The Alien, also known as

the small green sprinkler

with four arms

and a mind of its own.

A miniscule, slate blue butterfly

flits by

and then a larger one, white and clumsy—

meanders by too.

Does it know where it’s going? 

I like thinking it doesn’t,

it just floats along, discovering.

But I know as I watch

two crows

wave west over my roof,

looking so purposeful,

that there are jobs to do, of course—

and each one of us has our own.

A neighboring apple tree

is nearly full of green-gold apples,

three Asian pear trees are laden too—

our Polynesian neighbor

will fill sacks full of the succulent fruit soon,

drop them off on our porch,

with his brown-sugar fingers

and white smile, wrinkled.

My contentment spreads,

a drunken, giddy peace

in the listening to leaves rustling—

still clinging, green, to trees.

They will fall soon enough,

as time keeps its own pace.

I’ll savor this good day

with the gray day of remembering looming,

ashy, grating,

real—

for the grief of

New York’s Bravest, Best and Finest

and all who fell too soon.

But real, too, is the spirit

of what is the best of us.

And that has lived on.

I know it

in the browned fingers of giving,

in the bright laugh of the innocent,

and in your mouth on my neck—

like a breeze,

like sunshine.

I am reminded,

here, in this moment,

not eclipsed

by any large, evil scheme,

that come what may,

some will continue to Give,

Sacrifice,

Love.

And that is still The Finest Thing

on any given day.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

 

dVerse OpenLinkNight

Margarita

In the scablands

I was his sour rose

made from the brittle peel

of a dark and shriveled lime.

I wore heartache on Tuesdays

and stilettos on workdays—

cradling my rusted pride

with strength just enough to throw halite

on the trail of slush

left by his insensate heart.

He simply laughed, depravedly,

Corona spraying from his nose,

until the sting

and watery-eyed regret

saw my frozen eyes, obsidian, indifferent—

to his suffering of half-drunk burns.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

For Laurie Kolp’s prompt at Poetry Jam.

*Halite-aka rock salt, used to melt ice.

*Mexican beer and lime can cause burn marks similar to that of a jellyfish sting.

Trafficked

photo © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

she never knew a man

before this

hasn’t known a real one since

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

“Between 700,000 and 4 million women and children will be trafficked this year, with the majority being forced to work in the sex trade. In America, there are an estimated 40,000 men, women and children enslaved at this very moment. If everyone who cares takes action, we can end slavery once and for all.” Don’t Sell Bodies.

“Typically known for coffeehouses and cloud cover, Seattle has also gained another title: 3rd most prostituted children in the nation. Experts estimate that there are up to 300,000 underage girls sexually trafficked nationally every year. These girls (many as young as 12 and 13 years old) are bought and sold for the pleasure of men all over the country.” Rape For Profit Film website.

Click the links above to learn more, raise awareness, help end this thing.

haiku my heart
Poets United: The Poetry Pantry

Snowball's Chance

I Follow the Wind - by Judith Clay

By

a

thin thread

I hang on

chasing your wild wind,

risking all for a house of cards.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

A Fibonacci poem for Hedgewitch’s Weekend Mini-Challenge at IGWRT and for dVerse Poetics where Claudia has provided us with an opportunity to write to the wonderful work of Judith Clay.  I’m too late for the link so I’ll be linking to OpenLinkNight.

Electric

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

I searched and searched

for the sun, but could not find it.

So I traveled east to where your arms

grew soft against mine, softer.

The full bloom scent of electric blue

burst within the wild

to chase that dark day wisp of cloud to white—

white like night when just past black,

and into new day dawning

to find and enter that centered

rose of sun,

asking where I’ve been.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

Poets United: The Poetry Pantry