Friday, January 15, 2016

Fields of Remembrance

Cut corn stalks in the wind” video by Maria Wulf at Full Moon Fiber Art


The howling of the wolves,
the empty stalks,
this is home now.

Remember when we had it all,
before the burning, the chafing,
the emptying?

I won't cry, though;

tonight, a full moon
reveals the sickle-swept rows
we hid between,

and our ghosts laughing
and playing,

reflecting us
as we always should have been.


© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



For Artistic Interpretations at IGWRT, featuring artist Maria Wulf. 


Wednesday, January 13, 2016

Pine (ing)


in rainland
we long for snow
but oh! the green


© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Saturday, January 9, 2016

Fruit Bat


Grapes, mangoes,
sweet satsumas,
watermelon.
Apples, red.

My son loves fruit
and drinks only water.

We've called him Fruit Bat
since he was 2. He owns it,
with swagger.

Bats:  the only mammal to fly.
I hope he always does that, too.


© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Tuesday, January 5, 2016

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


Thursday, December 31, 2015

Wishes



All the
best,

all the
brightest,

wishing you

all the
finest

for 2016.

Saturday, December 12, 2015

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

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

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

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

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

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

How to Write a Poem




http://www.amazon.com/How-Write-Poem-Collins-Introduction/dp/1943120129/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1448303676&sr=8-1&keywords=how+to+write+a+poem


Author Tania Runyan surprised me by requesting to include a poem of mine in her book How to Write a Poem.  This work is a companion volume to How to Read a Poem.  Both books are recommended for those new to or seasoned in the art of writing or the enjoyment of reading poetry.  Click on the book image above (or on the sidebar) to read more about this work and to order your copy from Amazon.


Thank you Tania and T.S. Poetry!


Happy Thanksgiving to all celebrating!  Enjoy your holiday!

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Saving


He sat in front of me
in third grade
and turned and stuck his tongue out.
His mom later told mine
he had a crush on me.
I did not like either of these things.

I didn't know why
he called me
when his dad called him
from the drunk tank--
unsure and hurting, preteen boy,
abandonment in his voice.

When bullies
carried him
into the bathroom
I saw his scared/brave smile
trying to laugh
at this brand of middle school hell, and walk out,
hair wet and freshly “swirlied.”

I ignored him all school year long
then let him kiss me on a dare
in summer.
I could have gotten out of it.
Never told him it was my first.
Started dating his cousin, the next day.

Walking across the field
from the annex
in high school,
I heard the sirens, saw the lights,
knew it was him, somehow.

Weeks later,
peering through
the screen door at dusk, he appeared
needing to talk.

The overdose
had made him sober, changed,
at least for a while.

His sad, teary eyes,
that lonesome ache in his voice,
and could he,
come over tomorrow?”

No,” I said.
And had to say it again.

I knew it, then,
when my dad asked,
what did he want?”
Though I shrugged and said I didn't know,
I said to myself, “a savior.”

And learned
for the first time
that sometimes
you have to say no
as much for someone else
as for yourself.



© 2015 Jennifer Wagner