Credible Hulk

Rounding the corner

I see him

and can tell

he wants to talk.

I pull

the earbuds

from my ears—

Hi, buddy.  How ya doing?  Having fun out here?

—Good!  Yes.

Seeing a pumpkin in his yard, I ask,

what are you going to be for Halloween?

—I’m gonna be

the ‘Credible Hulk!

Great choice.  We really don’t

have enough of those, you know.

His smile leaps up

like a grasshopper

and then he bounds away, too.

I replace the earbuds,

keep walking,

and whisper—

Godspeed, little man,

godspeed.

© 2014 Jennifer

A snippet of a conversation I had with a little boy I met as I was on a walk.  Of course he meant The Incredible Hulk, but the way he said it is so much better.  Smiles!

Everything

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

There are things we lost

in the flood

or after it

in the seeping, standing water

up past our hips.

It’s no use;

they’re gone.

Remember when

I told you

I thought

we weren’t strong enough,

maybe we

were too damaged

to make this work?

But you

only remember me saying

I’d stay

and let you try.

And for that

you’d give up everything, again,

because everything

means nothing.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Trap Door

Brooke Shaden Photography

I have a demon for sale

but it will cost you

more than

you are probably

willing to pay.

It has already

bled me drier than a

dead president’s kiss,

and still I owe.

I go

to great lengths

to starve it,

try to keep it at bay—

this drunk dial

sober reality

I try wishing away—

close the trap door,

cut it off

at its legs,

squeeze-close

the cracks

in my armor, again,

from the fray.

Because

when you love

something broken

you break

and you break

and you break.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics Grace offers us the work of conceptual photographer Brooke Shaden.

Note:  I took some artistic license with the word "trapdoor."  I separated it for dramatic emphasis, in case anyone was hung up on the spelling, ha.  But dictionary.com says it can be "trap door" too, so maybe it's okay anyway.  Thanks for reading!

wood smoke...

wood smoke

a flannel shirt

rests on the woodpile

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

For Carpe Diem: Cutting Wood

Things I Should Know By Now

Expect

rain.

Expect

something spilled

precisely

after mopping.

Expect

seven-year-old

to not have

brushed teeth,

even with several reminders.

Expect

twelve-year-old

to throw garbage bags

“at” outdoor garbage bin

instead of “in” it.

Expect

fourteen-year-old

to fret about being late

worse than

the White Rabbit.

Expect

dirty plates,

empty pizza box

where nineteen-year-old

“chillaxes.”

Expect

rain

again.

Expect

to be loved

despite words

I should not have said

regarding the above.

Expect

all

to repeat.

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Artistry

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

artist point

how a mistake can still be

so beautiful

© 2014 Jennifer Wagner

Above is a photo I took this summer at Artist Point in Yellowstone National Park.  The location got its name because it was widely believed that Thomas Moran created a sketch there which he used to create his famous 1872 painting, The Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone.  In 1890 photographer F. Jay Hanes published a park guidebook with the name and the title stuck.  The location Moran actually used is now called Moran Point. 

I was trying to convey the essence of that history in the poem, as well as another message which I think has a connection to artistry of any type: poetry, photography, painting, mothering…smiles…etc. that, even if it may not be perfect, it can still be pretty beautiful.

For Carpe Diem Arti-Visual

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