This Side of Heaven

My son's crutches

leave double circles

on the wood floor,

marks that show

where he's been,

sometimes stuck,

suctioned for a moment,

to one place.

He moves on, though,

like we do,

leaving part of us

on the distances

we've traveled.

But what of

these wounds, so old

they should have

healed by now?

We continue,

cracked and crumbling,

accepting fractured roads

bearing us up

and all the scars

we're made of.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Wishes

christmas eve 2015 © jennifer wagner

All the

best,

all the

brightest,

wishing you

all the

finest

for 2016.

Harold Angels

When I was six

my grandfather, Harold, died--

though I never called him “Grandfather”

and definitely never “Harold.”

“Grampa” was a much more suitable term

for a brown cigarette smoking, Hee Haw watching,

take-your-teeth-out-and-sprinkle-black-pepper-

on-raw-hamburger-and-eat-it kind of guy.

So when I heard “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,”

I tried to picture it: all the Harold angels

up there,

singing,

angelic.

I loved him,

but if you'd have known Grampa

you'd have had your doubts, too.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

A Love Poem Should Be Spent

When you write a love poem

on the palm of your hand,

the kind that's meant to stick,

and blow it away

like a kiss,

if it returns

on wings, crispy-black,

falls like St. Helens' ash,

that's when you'll know

it worked.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

The Poem I Choose Today

In the wild wood

there are poems everywhere:

forest grouse, bright berries, late blossoms,

little sounds our feet make

on the undergrowth.

In the streets

there are poems, poems everywhere:

cigarette butts, Christmas lights, hurried voices,

the scent of roasted beans

wafting from coffee bars.

But here beside you,

tangled breaths

like drenching rain,

are more.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner