All Your Places

a blurry photo © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

say the names

and see them

like your eyes have hands

to touch them

say the names—aloud

of the places

where all your blood and bliss were sown

say the names

to your children, speak them,

so they can say them

back to you when you’ve grown old

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

Kim Nelson invited us to write a poem about The Places You Love inspired by Sherry Blue Sky’s poem Saying the Names with Love which was inspired by Al Purdy’s poem Say the Names.  I wrote three, but the other two I am still messing with so I am going to link this one to Verse First (very late) and to The Poetry Pantry.  I was really moved by Sherry’s and Al’s poems and when I had read them I immediately thought of a recent trip I took to the Grand Coulee Dam.  I learned that during construction of the dam the reservoir flooded many tribal lands and cultural sites of the local American Indian tribes as well as causing salmon and other fish to be unable to migrate.  I know the dam is very valuable because of the hydroelectric power it generates and irrigation it provides, but these words of Alex Sherwood in this photo from the exhibit brought tears to my eyes.  I kept going back to read them again.  What if my most favored places, the most meaningful to me in my history, were gone or severely altered?  Or, as I have been doing some reading on memory loss, what if it was me who was altered and could not remember “my” places?  I also love the personification Alex gives the river in his words.  His words are poetic to me.  These are long process notes for what is a short poem, so thanks for bearing with me if you stayed to read this long!  Maybe I’ll feel satisfied enough to post the other poems I’ve written inspired by this prompt at a later date.

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

Little Dark-eyed Junco

photo © 2013 Jennifer Wagner

Welcome to Rubbletown,

and thanks for leaving.

Don’t let the saloon doors

hit ya on the backside on yer way out.

Rope yerself a farmer’s daughter

elsewhere—

cuz the sheriff here does all the ropin’

of the choicest stock.

He gets a cut down at

The Delmonico,

making fodder for Madame Maynard’s

…err, establishment.

That sheriff, he’s a mean cuss.

See them boots?

Silver-tipped and intricate all up the sides?

He dips ‘em in rattlesnake venom.

And he’ll kick ya ‘til yer skin splits

and rots, black as raven’s feathers.

He’s the devil alright.

And the devil deals in hearts.

That’s why I’ve sleeved

a spade.

One day he’s gonna ask

the wrong "purty lil' thang"

to dance.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

At dVerse we’re writing cowboy poetry.  The Delmonico was a Hotel and Restaurant and suspicioned to have rooms leased to Madame Henrietta Maynard in Port Townsend, WA in the early 1900’s.  I’ve based my fictionalized poem on accounts found in the “Bars & Bordellos” booklet from the Jefferson County Historical Society (pictured). 

Leaving Crypsis

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

climb,

though it might be safer

to blend

climb,

though you might end up

decapitated on pride's wall

climb,

because the view

is always worth it

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

 

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

For Poets United:  Verse First ~ Difficulty.  Kim Nelson has challenged us to write a poem in 3 stanzas or less that is completely free of "gratuitous, show-offy, camouflaging" text.

I took these photos during a recent vacation in Chelan, WA.  There are 11 bighorn sheep in the top photo.  Can you spot them? 

Trending Chic

She smoked all her cigars

between noon and six,

listening to the bounce

of the sloping rain.

She drank lavender tea from a lowball glass,

let her hair go silver-white, and

never cared what a single soul

thought of it.

Her laugh was always belly deep,

her smile lines, deeper.

She had that knack

for letting everyone

be themselves

and they, by turn,

were able to.

Forget Vogue.

Forget Cosmo

and Elle.

An old wooden porch

frames the perfect face.

© 2013 Jennifer Wagner

I think I want to be her (well, except for the cigars). Linking up to join the fun at dVerse for OpenLinkNight!

The dVerse Anthology

A couple of my poems are included in the newly released The dVerse Anthology: Voices of Contemporary World Poetry out on Amazon.  This anthology contains works from over 90 talented poets, edited by Frank Watson (Follow the Blue Flute).  Click to check it out and order up some powerful pub poetry!