a word is just a word is just a world

photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Chihuly Garden and Glass Seattle, WA

who knows

what may come

what may grow

from an open palm,

a seed pearl

missing,

slipped from its shell

into dark fleshy loam

sweetness?  light?

drought?  blight?

who knows

what may come

from paper to lips

both dust

and sugar bowls

                           tip

to the tip,

to the tip,

from word

to poem

the ink

is drunk

or sipped

and a new world jewel

sprouts

honeyed

and/or blue

but

it’s up to the reader

what

it

will

do

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

This is for dVersePoetics - Seeding, where Shanyn invited us to imagine our words as seeds. 

She makes the point that “Words have power, but like seeds, we don’t often get to see what goes on beneath the surface and can only observe what is growing after it comes out of the soil.”  I am too late for the link, but here is my offering.

Last Monday of May

image by deegolden

The weird Y at W Bostian Rd reminds me of the little house we rented when we were young and living on love.  When I drive it I think of our oldest son slicing his thumb with a razor blade in that garage trying to cut into a tennis ball to see the “guts.”  That afternoon I was pushing his little brother in one of those kiddie cars in front of the house when he came out to me, blood dripping from his hand, a brave and amused smile on his face.  I took him inside to survey the damage.  I admit I had to sit because the room was spinning.  And it hasn’t stopped.  I suppose it never will.  We’ve added two more sons and each have gotten cut badly enough to have stitches, but I’ll never get used to seeing them bleed. So on this day of memory and honoring I say a prayer for the mothers who have had to endure so much more.

memorial day

a mother’s heart

unstitched

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse:  Meeting the Bar-the haibun, a combination of prose and haiku.

findingMefindingYou

yellow sun

adventure

sails bright                                                                          d

and                                                                             e

 r                                                         n

i                                   o                                             

b          b

in the wind

seafarers seeking

the greatest, lightest burden of them all,

the spice, cocoa,

paint and dye,

the import/export—

of color, comfort,

connection,

and risk—

soaring like a fuchsia bird

in an infinite, indigo sky

beckoning,

beckoning

us to come along,

unanchored

to gather up our

castaway hearts

and leave our

shipwrecked shores

behind

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

depression, acute

how do i tell her

it may get darker,

the night longer—

what i know

from my hollow

and vacant days?

the night may stretch you

thinner

than you ever thought

you could be stretched

by damp sheets

twisted at your wrists, elbows,

knees, ankles—

and you welcome it.

because getting up

and facing the day

feels like

a vortex of mud

and shrapnel

covered in bits of

your flesh

and blood—

pieces of you

missing

in action.

and now

you are stuck

to inaction.

you don’t know

how

or where you will find

the switchblade

to cut yourself

loose

from its mocking

grin

to begin your life

again.

i don’t mean

it’s hopeless;

i never mean that.

i just know

encouragement

to face the day

cooks longer

on the grill

than

some pre-packaged smile

someone will try to hand

you—

like a flippant curse

to your inability

to rise above

and simply “be happy” now.

as if they have some idea

that depression and happiness

are not even at war

anymore.

you’re caught

in the fallout,

the aftermath.

like a personal chernobyl,

the long-term effects

are still being accounted for.

but i tell her

you can

because

i did—

and move the blade

a little closer.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Bye-bye Bad Blood

I buried

the bubonic bitterness

in the backyard;

built a bonfire

to burn

the bits

of the behemoth boa

the buzzards

wouldn’t bite.

It’s better off

beheaded

instead of boiling

on my back.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For Imaginary Garden with Read Toads, Words Count with Mama Zen:  a confession in 65 words or less.