Thursday, March 10, 2016

Memorial Stones

Image URI:

He's gathering up,
one by one, and placing,
the memorial stones.
I can hear it
all through the house.

I press my palm
to the door,
feel his heartbeat
in sobs calling out
from the other side--

ruins beautiful
for the remembering,

and whisper
a mother's prayer
for grief too big
for these hands alone.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Saturday, February 20, 2016

How To Get Rich

(according to my eight-year-old son)

First, manual labor.

Then, buy lots and lots
of football cards

until you get The One
you can sell
for lots of money.

And then, he says, buy more.

He looks over at two
nine-year-old boys walking
toward school
and says, sagaciously,

they don't care about manual labor.

I've heard them talking
when I've been walking home.
All they talk about is video games.

I pull up
to his drop-off.

Mom, what's manual labor?

Physical work, I say,
like building a house.

He nods, gets out for school.

How To Get Rich, For Parents:

First, drive your 8-year-old to school.

And then,
laugh the whole way home.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

football cards on my son's dresser
photo © 2016 Jennifer Wagner
manual labor performed to purchase cards: brushed dog, set table, took out trash
manual labor in order to purchase more: clean room

Sunday, February 14, 2016

(In the) Mood

so much depends

the spill of water
warm in the basin

the tumble-soft
tones of Coltrane
from another room

the smooth glide
of your hand
upon my hip

so much depends,

on the flip
of my hair

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Written for Fireblossom Friday--taking the opening lines of William Carlos Williams' poem The Red Wheelbarrow (“so much depends upon”) and crafting our own poem.

Late and linking to Poetry Pantry, too.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Monday, February 8, 2016

Weather Eye

When you left
I swore off hunting

for reasons I wasn't
good enough.

Now, here I am,
pike and pole,

keeping a
weather eye

in case you come back
to remind me.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Thursday, February 4, 2016

Wing and Wind

Mama chestnut-backed chickadee
flew in our 70's window
and landed on our
scarlet, gold and green rug.

After a few moments
she sputter-flew up to the windowsill,
as I held my breath, hoping
she could see her escape.

At last, I urged, Go, little girl---

and she lit out,
quick as wing and wind could carry,
while I
peered at the question of sky,

as I do now,
heart throbbing,
wings trembling,
for wherever the wind might take me.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

Wednesday, January 27, 2016

Poet's Pen Strokes


She was born
with a bottle
of blue darkness
inside her.

When the light
the glass,
shafts of light

the container,

the darkness
inky arms,

stretching through,
reaching out/into
she is, she's been, has yet to see

and exits
on pages

needing both dark and light
to come
to be.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

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

Saturday, January 9, 2016

Fruit Bat

Grapes, mangoes,
sweet satsumas,
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