Wednesday, April 27, 2016

war for me





my brokenness has borne
the fruit
of a thousand sorrows

piece by piece by piece
piercing by piercing by piercing
arrows of unlove
unbecoming
to become

what can only be
remedied
by the man of sorrows

acquainted with grief
my grief

borne
in love’s long-suffering war


© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



“Love is a long-suffering war.” –Janet Martin, poet extraordinaire


Note:  over at dVerse the prompt is to write a secret admirer poem and since my poem is a bit similar to the guidelines of the prompt offered I wanted to make mention of it--though I didn’t write it in response.


Monday, April 25, 2016

Butterfly, Rest



We captured blown kisses
left like a note
on the kitchen table
saying,

I’ll be back soon--
just went to the grocery
to pick up a few things.

If we only knew
then,

that last sprinkling,
last dot under the heart
she drew

on the page
was her final
wingspread

now folded.


© 2016 Jennifer Wagner


for edr and kjt

Thursday, April 14, 2016

Sevenling (In that Dream)


image source

In that dream, I had all day and more
in the lavender field, sunlight speckling
my arms, my legs, the straw hat sheltering my face.

It was one I'd never worn before,
but you were there, sunny, honeyed
and yellowing all my purple darkness,

as it always should have been.


© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



This was written for De's dVerse Meeting the Bar: the Sevenling. I was unable to post it in time so I'll be linking it to dVerse OLN.

Monday, April 4, 2016

Calling the Game


Like Pudge.
Like Bench.

Like Yogi.

Opening Day
on the glistening green

shimmering
diamond,

with dirt under his nails

he scoops
the ball
from his mitt,

tosses back to the ace,

crouches,
gives signal,
waits

for the curve

of his smile,
and spits

o - u - t.


© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



Opening Day 2016. Go M's!
photo © 2016 Jennifer Wagner


A Quadrille poem for dVerse. Exactly 44 words (title excluded), including the word “shimmer” (or variant as I've used here).


Friday, April 1, 2016

Like Spent Cherry Blossoms


Milling about
the door,

while the garden lights
were swaying

and the moon was high,

this poem
found itself

arriving,

sweet spices
on rainpetal skin

from spring's unfurling trees.

And what was I to do, little poem?

Of course, I swept you in.



© 2016 Jennifer Wagner



Happy National Poetry Month! :-)

dVerse OLN
 

Thursday, March 24, 2016

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!

Thursday, March 10, 2016

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

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
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!



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