Sailin' On

morgueFile

She has an oil tanker sized chip on her shoulder

and it's become the only thing I see.

But still I play nice,

though my loyalty is waning.

It's not so much giving up on her

as it is giving up on it: loyalty,

probably my best and worst trait

when it comes to those I love.

But, it's time,

because oil tankers are no beauty queens

while ugliness spills like the Exxon Valdez,

and because I am bound for fairer seas.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

dVerse OLN

Dear April

image © 2015 Jennifer Wagner,

photo of my home calendar

You don't fool me. Though

you start off that way.

Yes, you slosh rain

from infinity buckets,

but you smile

just the same

from the ground up--

jelly bean tulips and buttery daffodils

springing round

like long-lost jewels.

And even though it's time

for the bogey-tax-man,

you balance him

with a month of poetry

and the crack

of a bat and Big League Chew

(Original, Grape, Sour Apple, and Watermelon!).

So, you're not really fooling me, April,

as much as you think you are.

T.S. Eliot said you are

“the cruelest month,” but

at least more often than in March,

there is guaranteed

one Good Friday

and a Resurrection reminder

(coming back from the dead

really can't be beat).

Plus, your flower is the daisy (my favorite)

or the sweet pea,

which always reminds me

of the song my dad would sing,

“Oh, Sweet Pea, come on and dance with me . . .”

riding along with him in his truck--

after which he'd switch it off

to bellow into the CB,

“breaker 1-9, this is Gladiator.”

No one's dad is as

cool and tough as a Gladiator, right?

So,

you don't fool me, April.

I think you kind of like me.

P.S. I kind of like you, too.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics: Let's Write Letters

And, Happy National Poetry month!

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.”