March 20

Everything I saw that day

reminded me of another.

Two daisies in a glass bowl.

A discarded coffee cup (Starbucks).

Red spray paint, lipstick, a little bit of blood.

Never mind the window

speckled with mint green rain.

I wanted to lick it

but that would have been inappropriate.

Undignified. Quite.

But, since I've already

lost my mind a time or two. . .

more than that even. . .

What of it?

A mind is an easy thing to lose.

Don't even get me started on hearts.

That's another poem.

This one is about

my tongue licking mint green rain

and never you mind

I saw pumpkins and gourds on a March day,

orange and round, warty and yellow.

There's nothing to it.

I see what I want to see these days.

And afterwards I started jumping

because I determined

that's what you do.

And then you eat yellow daisies

or daffodils, if that's what you can find,

and you can, because it's March

and the Ides have passed.

You made it.

No one sticking it to you

this time, Caesar.

And death,

she's your friend,

but not today.

No, not today.

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

OK, I went a bit wacky maybe, but I've been reading Ray Bradbury's Zen in the Art of Writing. So yeah, Happy Spring! :-)

Daffodils are poisonous, though daisies are edible, so please, don't actually eat!

Memorial Stones

Image URI: http://mrg.bz/URIXxH

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

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

(In the) Mood

so much depends

upon

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,

really,

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!

Weather Eye

MagpieTales 305, Photo by Caroline Knopf

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

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

dVerse OLN

Poet's Pen Strokes

morgueFile

She was born

with a bottle

of blue darkness

inside her.

When the light

cracks

the glass,

shafts of light

splintering

the container,

the darkness

spreads

inky arms,

stretching through,

reaching out/into

everything

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

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. 

Pine (ing)

in rainland

we long for snow

but oh! the green

© 2016 Jennifer Wagner

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

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

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!

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

Fatigue

On the shower wall

this morning

I saw

a baby chick, mouth open.

On the other,

the curve of a question mark

without the dot.

I'm growing my hair out;

loose, wet strands land in shapes

of my own mind's making.

But you

may have seen something else

instead of these

unfinished questions,

answers not yet forming,

and time

turning

the water cold.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

8

Photo © 2015 Jennifer Wagner

If smiles light up rooms,

yours lights up a thousand

rooms in my heart-dark-need

for such a beacon.

Yours, my own little

prince of peace.

Yours, my own little

light of the world.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

After Suicide

He still goes over to his house,
sits in his room,
says a lifetime of goodbyes to ashes
--what's left
when the oxygen of hope thins,
choked out by the rasping fire-of-lies
believed at just-turned twenty.


Remembering often in stories,
as the living do
of the dead--
he laughs,
cries,
swears,
breaks, bitterly.


And when reads to me what he writes,
how it is to lose a brother,
memorializing what was,
he ends it
the only way he can.


You don’t know what you’ve done to me.



© 2015 Jennifer Wagner


At the end of August my son's best friend since he was 11 years old committed suicide at the age of 20. A crater-sized hole has been created, and though I know it is a pain that will remain for the rest of his life, I pray for it to lessen for him and for all those who loved Baily. He is greatly missed.

Prince

Prince and me, circa 1977

He was puffy and fluffy

and rarely barked.

I was in the car

that ran over him

the night he died. Six years old

and sitting in the backseat

between my mom and Shirley

as we headed out for dinner. Louie’s Chinese.

Shirley’s husband, Harry,

was the driver. A sweet, adorable man.

A diabetic whose foot later developed gangrene.

He felt terrible, of course.

I felt indescribable.

How do you say

how you feel,

your first prince’s yelps

stinging everything?

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

A Moment at Twilight

This poem may not hold up

to the elements,

in fact it may

float away with the cherry blossoms,

bleed away with the swell of the sea,

wash away with the rain.

But I wrote it

and you read it

and for the moment

that is enough.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

I began this poetry blogging journey three years ago in May and it has been a most enjoyable experience. I have enjoyed the work of many talented poets, writers, photographers, and artists of many types and I am grateful to you all for sharing yourselves through your work, and for your support of and interest in mine. I'll be taking a break from blogging for a while and this site will be going into hibernation. My plan is to return some months from now. My email address, poetlaundry@gmail.com, will continue to remain active. Take care and enjoy your journey!

 

Wonder

a modern haiga for igwrt and haiku my heart

happy international haiku poetry day!

Upon Departure

He calls to say

he'll be late:

had a D.O.A.

at shift change

(paperwork still to be completed,

tasks to be checked off).

And I can't help but think

that is

how it is,

for the lady who succumbed,

for the sister, now, who had been taking care of her,

for each of us

one day.

Shift.

Change.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

PJ: Sometimes it's Time

Brothertime

Stretched out on the grass

looking up at the stars,

hands tucked behind their heads,

feet crossed at the ankles, bellies full--

fat for the sacrifice

of what lurks, stalks them

in the dark: werewolves, zombies, orcs . . .

While dragons skitter-fly by

on iridescent wings

they craft stories

from far away worlds

to see which of them

can scare the others most.

A fir wood fire crackles in the pit.

Marshmallow bits stick to their lips.

“Can I have your room when you move out?”

Laughing, with brave faces,

their eyes in firelight reflect the wonder

of what it will be like to be the first to leave,

be the ones left behind.

A large spark darts skyward

splitting unspoken thoughts

and they turn back to stories of goblins, of ghosts,

on this warm night in brothertime,

shaking off the growing chill

of jitters a bit more real.

© 2015 Jennifer Wagner

For dVerse Poetics: Brothers/Brotherhood. Hope you come and join in the fun!

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