Scrapbooks and Fireworks

Summer’s kisses past

are in my dresser—

caresses pressed

between pages

like petals.

A thousand moonlights

are in my closet,

and wished upon stars

s          p          r          i           n         k          l           e

s          p          a          r          k          l           e          s

in a box on the shelf.

But summer nights,

and moonlights,

and stars—

like night lilies,

like fireworks,

are best

in their living,

bursting

moment

like you,

here & now, owning

me

with more than just a memory.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

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.