Chemistry

Image by Karsten Hohmeier

PublicDomainPictures

Every now and then

a poem stays with me

or a line

gets stuck

in the groove of the vinyl

of my mind,

like you do,

and I let it play.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner


Poetry Pantry

Symbiotic

Image by Dawn Hudson

PublicDomainPictures

I'm a patchwork sketch

with patchouli rest

between my breasts---

and you

press, indent,

build

your heart

around me.

And this,

keeps me here---clear,

centered,

focused

just

as each window lilac breeze,

each fringe and tassel,

wisp of candle flame,

batik,

bohème

needs a frame.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OLN

The Wedding Gift

The chime is engraved

with a lighthouse,

a harbor,

a ship on the sea.

It hangs from the eaves

above our deck

and has, for nearly

seventeen years,

sprinkled its tune

at every house

we've called home.

It fell

            once,

in a major storm,

was never broken, but

lay serenely

at our feet

waiting--

ready to give light, melody.

And though

I tire of wind,

of storms,

it's taught me to listen,

             hope,

                       trust light

and

play on.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics

Lambing

mid-March,

lion dots her i

with a little sun

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Sideways

Toril “Smells Like Rain”

Winter moans elsewhere ---but here

within me,

yesterdays roam,

panicky.

Like spring rain. Staccato.

My poems are wet ash.

My skin, sand through hourglass.

I make

for shelter,

a grain too late---

caught

in clouds of least favorable reflection.

And though I'm determined to at least pace them,

I know

I can never outrun

the rain.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Art with Toril.

the best bouquet

smells like

            globs

            of glue

stuck to

            crumpled

            red tissue paper

on

green pipe cleaners

held

in a chubby fist

just below

a

look-what-i-made-for-you

            grin

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

poets u

semper augustus

semper augustus,

wikimedia commons

like

a garnet-streaked tulip, valentine,

in a field of daffodils

more yellow

than the newborn springtime sun

more welcome

than my favorite denim, softest sweater,

my cowgirl boots

and, seeming

            lost

like lace and pearls

by the bed, on the floor

come morning

is found,

rare

           and flaming,

between us

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

a little bit of a late valentine...smiles. for ian.

the semper augustus was the most rare and valuable tulip at the height of tulipomania in the 17^th century ($5,700 for a single bulb!).

Cannot Stop It

It sickles out a living

when you're not looking,

takes a piece of you,

leaves a part of it

on you, in certain scars,

you can never shake.

Sometimes it's something

you hope you'll get

to sleep through,

like when the babies

finally keep bellies

full enough

for you to miss midnight--

your circadian rhythm,

undisrupted.

But even though

you think

you're ready,

you're not yet ready-ready,

and tend to say,

it's coming, one day,

coming—

though you know enough

to know

it's already here.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Title spun from Emily Dickinson's “Because I Could Not Stop for Death.”

Mariposa

I want to search your depths
and find veils
and smoke,
that will vanish at last in flame.

           --from Eve's Discourse, by Carilda Oliver Labra

Dormant

after first frost,

gypsy lips,

            volcanic

to your molten touch, erupt--

ignite the slumbering zest,

exotic scent,

hidden in white ginger flame,

burns us up

and leaves

            to ash

the petal nest

of our broken names.

We'll sleep like murderers
who've saved themselves
by bonding together in incomparable blossoming.

            --from Eve's Discourse, by Carilda Oliver Labra

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For the Sunday Mini-challenge at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads. Grace offered us the work of Cuban poet Carilda Oliver Labra for inspiration.

Mariposa is the national flower of Cuba (white ginger lily, “butterfly”).

Gather Round

Harmonica in hand, fedora tipped,

he sits

on the curb

at Pike Place,

           a glass at his side.

I don't question

what's in it,

I don't judge.

He lifts metal to mouth,

we tune out, but--

like the President

in a State of the Union Address

after tragedy to the nation,

the street

becomes his,

all ears

to the tomcat

wailing,

and we come,

we come.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse MTB: Connecting the Dots.