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.”

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.

he forgot the (r) in togethe(r)

i didn't point it out

actually, i didn't even notice

but that's how love is,

                                               too

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Poem © 2014 Andrew Romero

Photo © 2014 Jennifer Wagner

My eldest son wrote this concrete poem and put it on the door of my room last Mother's Day (on wide strips of tape, not right on the door itself, ha). I have yet to take it down because, well, why take it down? And it is the month of love!

Pacific Northwest

Green winter notes

in January

bleed into February--

scent of pine, lavender,

           honey in my tea.

We slice lemon,

bake salmon, peppery

and warm

           like you,

a wild, wild rose,

no hint of snow--

grow 'round my calves,

up my thighs,

hug my hips

a little tighter,

hold me

to spring.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam, Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, and dVerse OLN.

Bumblebee

Image via Amazon

Yes, it's a real place, and we stayed near it for a night. Well, almost. We stayed until shots rang out way too close and we packed it up, and packed it in the RV, deciding it may be safer to put some miles between us and some teens or good ol' boys shooting at 'coons and beer cans in the near dark. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. This is about hair. “Tommy's mohawk” in a Ziploc bag hung from the ceiling of the cluttered bar/restaurant, which also served as an office in which to reserve your camping space. It hung there with a whole mix of curios we gaped at and yet, were afraid to see. While, I'll call him “McGruff,” due to the gruff manner in which he lent his aid, instructed us on how to locate our spot near the river. And then I saw the sign just above his bald head, which read: “Show off your rod...fish naked!” And I lost it. I got a case of the 8^th grade giggles and could not speak intelligibly. So I let my husband do the talking, while the kids kept asking, “What? Mom, what? What's so funny?” Obviously they had not seen it, and I wasn't about to point it out. I think it was the long drive and the sheer absurdity of the place, but let's just say, at this stage of my life it's good I maintained bladder control (hey, I've had four kids, okay? I was impressed it held). So, long story short, we set up camp, went for a dip, had dinner, roasted marshmallows, it began to rain. . . and then, Boom, Bang, Boom, Bang, Boom. And my husband and I looked at each other, and he said, “We're outta here.” So the moral of this story is:

you don't have to

fish naked

to have a hair-raising time

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

A haibun for Anthony's challenge at dVerse: Excuse, Me, There's a Hair in My Poem!

True story.

Our Birds

Townsend's Warbler,

the Pileated Woodpecker,

Varied Thrush.

Red-breasted Nuthatches,

Black-capped Chickadees,

Chestnut-backed, too.

Pine Siskins,

a Red-winged Blackbird,

the Steller's Jays.

Dark-eyed Juncos,

Broad-tailed Hummingbirds,

Band-tailed Pigeons--yes, it's true!

Northwestern Crows,

crow, crow, crow--

the No-doubt Seahawks

are going to go

go, go!

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

image © 2015 Jennifer Wagner

"No doubt" Seahawks and the 12's return to the Superbowl as defending champs (and the 12^th team to do it).

For my boys. A list poem with all the birds we have identified in our yard.

after the long hours

write me a song

with your eyes

like you do

hang up your helmet,

your axe,

come

home

to

me

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Image © 2015 Jennifer Wagner

Two tenWord poems. Over at dVerse this week we were offered to play with the tenWord form. These two can be read together as one little love poem.

For Ian,

for Poets U,

and for all the spouses of firefighters...may the hours quicken!

Resurgences (2 tenWords)

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

winter garden

tiny grave beds

(tu)lips are whispering,

“come, spring”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

tracing her scars

like braille, mouthing,

I

lived

to

tell

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse, the tenWord, a form created by Brian Miller.

mercy, please

image © 2015 jennifer wagner

a red blossom, bloodied burqa,

             voice

                        buried

stoning hole shadows

awaiting execution

press my heart,

 

            crush

within me

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse MTB. Bjorn has invited us to do some blackout poetry. I used a book I am currently reading, Stone Crossings, by L.L. Barkat. This particular page/segment from her book brought to mind the the film The Stoning of Soraya M. If you haven't seen it, it's gut-wrenching. Honestly, I couldn't sit through all of the stoning scene.

Eggshells

I won't play your eggshell game.

It's a drag

and you can't hold me hostage

anymore

from who I am,

from who I am meant to be,

from happiness.

Honestly, it's rude,

and you continue to behave childishly,

demanding things

on your own selfish terms.

Meanwhile,

I am making new loves

and they don't require that I tiptoe,

they say,

give it all you got, girl,

go ahead,

crunch.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For Poetry Jam: One Word. My word is “Freedom,” written about obliquely.

Saturday Morning Cartoons (with Oreos and Milk)

A father wakes up

before everybody else

and sets the world whistling.

Except on Saturday,

when he's supposed to get to sleep in,

but you jump on his belly

and pry his eyes open

to watch cartoons with you.

He doesn't mind, though,

because you're his.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For my daddy.

Dad, remember Oreos and milk for breakfast with Saturday morning cartoons? I do. Good times. :)

And for Poets United: The Poetry Pantry

Animus

morgueFile

Snowflakes pressed in indigo,

spit-shined

for a coming new year.

I know you will read this.

I know you will not understand.

But, the sky is ready.

Snowflakes pressed in violet,

warming up

for a coming new year.

Haven't you gotten

your pound of flesh,

and then some?

                                                             yellow

                          violet                                                              blush-burst

indigo                                                                                                                      magenta

The sun

has arrived

but you don't see

the new year,

the melt,

the new day.

You're too blindly busy

thinking of

the next

crimson cut.

But,

the sky is ready,

trade your warfare

for wings,

come fly with me.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

“What the new year brings to you will depend a great deal on what you bring to the new year.” - Vern McLellan

For the challenge at Imaginary Garden with Real Toads