17 Trillion Is Just a Number

Burst the lock,

release the chain,

we ask for different

but get the same—

save (sell) our souls

in forward exchange.

Our customary currency:

owe the Reserve, owe the Chinese,

bail out you, bail out me,

come one, come all, handouts are “free”!

 

We’ll see who’ll hold the master key

come the year 20-16

and be the next

to blame the wreck

on the last jalopy

presidency.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.  Michael (Grapeling) has provided a list of 10 words for us in which to craft a poem.  I used 5 of the 10 he offered.

Also for Poets United Midweek Motif:  The Key

and the Poetry Pantry

US Debt Clock:  17 Trillion and Counting

To a Poet, For a Poem

I listen to the darkness,

the beautiful kind

when the lights are off,

and I close my eyes

and see the last light

burned into my mind.

I sit, in my poetry nook,

in the corner of the room,

in a chair, arms leaning, at rest,

my feet propped.

I listen, listen,

ceiling fan low,

box fan high, pointed toward me

to carry the sound

of the silver crackle

of the millionth star

no less wonderful

than the first.

And it might be yours, the only light

in this dark room tonight.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For all you beautiful, amazing poets out there.  Thank you.

Poetry Pantry

ordinary summer nights

photo © 2014 jennifer wagner

we’ve been

thirsting for this all year—

summer,

when we cut the edges off

with soft flecks

of twilight

that stream

the warm air,

bespeckled with

sprinkler water

            d

     r

o

     p

p

     i

n

     g

to the carefree kiss

of bare toes

that splash and dash

with smiles—

for s’mores,

for watermelon,

for staying up late

but mostly

for each other,

to share

the extra-

ordinary

sparkle with

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam:  Thirst

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.