Light, Interrupted

In one season

life can

bury

its own color,

cover

every inch of ground

in death

brewed from

an age-old

malady,

leave the path covered

with skyjacked shadows

of nearly

three thousand

who died from the spread

of the disease—

but as shadows

are

light interrupted,

they are not then, nor now,

light forgotten.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

World Trade Center Memorial 

by Denise Gould, Department of Defense

For dVerse Poetics: Bringing Light to Darkness

magnitude of creation (1)

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

the chickadees

and nuthatches

clap their wings

against their sides

zip, dip

snip

seeds

from the feeder

look

and dip,

snip again

twist

fly       a          w         a          y

and a moment later

are

back again

all day long

inch

by inch 

we get closer, to the window

watch them

watch us

watch them

face to beak

and learn

in some small way

how each

small thing

is never

small

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

This summer I visited the Poetry Foundation in Chicago.  On display were some of Tony Fitzpatrick’s drawings The Secret Birds.  He says his grandmother used to say, “For the price of a piece of bread you can hear God sing.”

Poets United: The Poetry Pantry

On Dead Dragonfly and Giant Mushroom Trail

It’s on our lips,

we’re whispering the change of time

while the ear tips of trees

are burning orange.

Seven and I

pick and eat blackberries,

just a few, though—

as the bulk have not yet turned

from green,

to red,

to purplish-black.

Not far away

charcoal is smoldering

and the scent of

grilling hot dogs

keeps summer alive—

we pause,

as much to watch

a rabbit watching us

and then bounce away,

as to hold on

to the end

and the beginning.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

“Seven” refers to my seven-year-old.  There is a trail near our house we often walk on where he found a beautiful dead dragonfly and where a giant mushroom grows sideways out of the trunk of a fallen tree, therefore, the title.  Happy changing of seasons!

For OLN at dVerse

Cleaning House

In my thrift store psyche

the ghost of you sits

in a ring of dust

on a table not quite antique.

I keep check on it

every now and then,

making sure you haven’t reappeared

midst blue and gold gilded vases,

LP’s with faded jackets,

and hand-me-downs.

New stuff gets added

daily, weekly, monthly. . .

and some things find other homes, too—

like you.

One day I’ll dust,

after the clutter clears,

and then

even your memory

will be gone too.

Until I find another thing

that reminds me of you.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Meeting the Bar: Patterns of Life 

(Out of) Focus

Broken, I was

in a thousand fifteen places.

Broken, then

in two hundred twenty-eight.

Broken, now am I

in ten plus seventeen.

And more—but why do I only see

the broken parts of me?

 

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

The Poetry Pantry