tilt the semi-axis (in cinquain)

Glasshouse at Chihuly Garden and Glass – Seattle, WA

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

ice cold

lemonade—the

kind to make you pucker

the scent of fresh-mown grass, ahhh it’s

summer

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Just for fun for Poets U (Midweek Motif:  The Longest/Shortest Day, Solstice and Poetry Pantry).  Happy Summer!

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.

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.

Amanda Marie

We line pebbles

on the path,

one

for each day,

and hope for more.

Our eyes rove

the swish of leaves

in the verdant lushness

of treetops,

the bright snaps

of daisies,

the flitting burst

of butterflies

that land soft on our arms

and legs

and flip-flopped toes,

the swell

of the ocean,

dolphin-dipped

with joy.

We watch

the sky burn pink

when night falls

and the stars begin to dance;

and contemplate

how all this reminds us

of how love’s branches budded

to bring us your smile.

Maybe tonight

Gavin and Cassidy and Sawyer

will dream

of their mother’s eyes,

Derik, her voice at his ear,

and Susan

of her little girl

so brave, so strong.

Something like

God’s lovenotes

dropped

even when

we’re not looking.

And what we thought

were scattered pebbles

lost in this life’s storm

are picked up

and churned with God’s tears

and our own,

placed in His bottle

these new-polished pebbles

are jewels

close to His heart,

treasured and unforgotten,

until we see

your smile bright again

and are

together

Home.

“You keep track of all my sorrows.  You have collected all my tears in your bottle.  You have recorded each one in your book.”  Psalm 56:8 NLT

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Behind the poem:  a few days ago my sister asked me if I could write a poem for her sister-in-law’s daughter, Amanda, who had been a given a prognosis of two weeks to live, as a special gift to her family.  She survived leukemia as a young child and had more recently been diagnosed with cancer again.  Yesterday she passed away.  She was 31 and has three children who are 8, 6, and 4 years old.  This poem is for her, for them, the man she shared her life with, her faith-filled mom, and all her family and friends who love her and wait for the day they will be together again.  With love and prayers for comfort and peace. ~ Jen

no matter how you spell it...

photo © 2014 jennifer wagner

if i could

i would

break off

a piece

of the sun

to give

to you

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mother’s hearts out there!

© 2014 chalk sketch by me and my 6 year old.  He loves his family…we’ll keep working on the spelling…smiles…

Are You Not Entertained?

We like

to do nothing.

For a moment

he found himself

looking up from the tracks

at scores of faces watching them.

“Some people were

snapping photos

or taking video with their cell phones,”

he said.

“It was amazing

seeing all these people

doing nothing,” he said.

“It was

an eye-opener.”

And we answer:

we like

to do nothing

but

snap photos

for Facebook and Instagram,

stand and observe—comment

on the misfortunes

of others

and how

the world

is so wrong.

But never

get our hands dirty

while she tumbles

head first

from the platform

we’re all

preaching from.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Meeting the Bar:  Conversation/Dialogue in Poetry

Italicized words are from the news article by Murray Weiss in DNAinfo New York:  Humble Hero Saves Teen Who Fell Onto Subway Tracks.

Title is a quote from the film Gladiator.

freebase

Chair with the Wings of a Vulture, 1960, Salvador Dali

from broken life

to broken life

the deadlight

arises

vulturous

lit candles warming

the addicts’ spoons,

lift plumes

like blackbirds’ wings,

ominous,

cancerous

moments that free them

to carrion,

eyes nightblind

to hope threaded

in a spindle spoke sky

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Magpie Tales 218

The Sunday Whirl, Wordle 159

fair maidens

photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

strawberry cream

and mint

renaissance girls,

spring’s popsicle juleps,

and the deer’s delight—

who wait

for the slumbering

of the gardener-knight

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Fuliginosity

That April of the fall

it was already the burning season;

petal-damp tulips lined

the bent road, curving west.

We donned the camouflaged windbreaker

of nomads, who have nothing but each other—

dashed from rock to rock along the river’s edge

watching flames lick the surface, catching fire

to ferns and evergreens,

and burning down the barns and silos

behind us.

We ran from it, singed, to each other,

knowing together

we’d be able to save us

and our crumpled matchbook hearts

tossed somewhere in the

ka-chunk, ka-chunk, ka-chunk

of old tracks, trained so many

miles long.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

lemon blossom & lavender

my alabaster box is broken

my hair perfumed

i am the weeping woman, child

lost & found

i am like stardust

hammocked

in the web of the moon, dreamer

asleep in the blue-flame rain, cloud and fog

delivered on the dark-smoke water

eyelids stirring

in dappled light

opening to the full

s     t     r     e     t     c     h

in the sweet summer sun

when everything is new again,

believing

i am my best work

in my pajamas, cuddling

my preferred method

of communication

i am a seeker of poison

to extract from wounds,

salve when storm-blistered,

and hope when there is

nothing else

i am consumed

in crimson smolder passion

and peaceful glow, soft & bold

my alabaster box is broken

my hair perfumed

i am the weeping woman, child

lost & found

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

photo © 2014 jennifer wagner

For dVerse Meeting the Bar:  Self Portraits.  Brian has challenged us to write a "selfie" poem which can be "symbolic, metaphorical, descriptive".

Honus

T206 Honus Wagner Baseball Card

Image in the Public Domain

When you’re rare

you’re worth a lot.

Even if you’re just

the kid brother afterthought

working in a coal mine

at 12 years old—

you can

dream,

believe,

become.

Like becoming

one of the

first 5 players elected

to the National Baseball Hall of Fame,

or becoming

the first

to get your signature on

the Louisville Slugger,

or have yours

be the most valuable

baseball card in history.

Like Honus,

there’s only one you,

and it might be schmaltzy

to say, but—

that’s pretty rare.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Poetry Jam:  Baseball & Barriers

Paper Mosaics

image by cohdra

 

Poems are

stained paper mosaics,

words

picked up

on the journey,

dismantled proverbs

set

in the window glass

of personal palaces

and in the stepping stones

of personal ghettos;

broken tile stories

crafted

with more blood

than it looks.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Happy National Poetry Month!

In Memory

photo © 2014 jennifer wagner

what is found

when we are

broken down

to remnants, to debris?

mementos,

photos,

things we treasured,

things we valued?

as i read the names

of the lost and missing

my tongue

tasting

each   L

each   I

each   F

each   E

           

i gulp

tears

and time

91 years

71 years

69, 67, 66, 65, 64, 63, 61, 60 years

59, 58, 55, 53, 52 years

49, 47, 45, 41 years

36, 35, 31 years

23, 21 years

19 years

14 years

13 years

6 years

5 years

4 years

2 years

4 months

how quickly, each,

in a moment’s breath,

like the morning fog,

gone—

to be summed up

not by things

but by those who cared,

who knew what made them

more than mist.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

As of today there are 30 people confirmed dead and 17 still missing in the landslide in Oso.  I tried to get all the ages of victims down here (some victims were the same age, of course); my apologies for any I have missed.

                                                                                                                              

The team my husband is on will hand the baton to the next set of searchers and will likely be able to come home tomorrow for much needed rest.  We haven’t seen him since he left to be a part of the search but we have been able to talk.  He has some heartbreaking and amazing stories.

James4:14

Oso Landslide

Remembering Those Lost

Poetry Jam: Time