Stone Mountain Lovers

image © 2025 emma & clint

 

A settlement on a hill,

whole,

together, stone

 

mountain lovers—

birds born

 

of rain, of forest, of snow—

soon to be one,

blood and bone.

 

The lights, their eyes—

azure, emerald, form

 

a curving of hands, hearts

together feathered into

the beautiful poem of home.

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

I rarely post process notes with my poems, but for this one, here goes:  my son, Clint, whose name means “a settlement on a hill,” recently became engaged to his love, Emma, whose name means “whole.”  He proposed at Stone Mountain Park, a special place for the two of them.  He comes from rain land, she from snow.  His eyes are blue, hers are green.  They are very much birds of a feather—having the same heart to serve people.  They have been doing so here in the US, with plans to do so soon abroad.  They are just simply beautiful poetry together. 

 

WGO:  Beauty

Poetic Bloomings

Pulse

 

After the departure

 

of winter,

 

of cara caras—

 

the arrival of white blossoms,

pollen, dusk moths,

bats diving for seconds.

 

After the departure

of my dark-mute-crash

in your absence—

 

the arrival of sweet,

prickly pear cactus,

green-purpling in tangelo sun.

 

After the departure

of cold,

of hibernation—

 

the arrival of migration,

your ready arms cloaking

the naked-bleed of me.

 

After the departure

of bleak season,

waning spirit—

 

the arrival of glittering sky

beyond palm bones—

and my ribboned heart

 

stitched whole

in the pulse

of your hand.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Shay’s Word Garden

Poetic Bloomings

no soul matador

i’m going to

keep my music light

today

 

no soul matador

trying to run me

out of my

sacred places

 

just a gentle

coaxing

 

of nakai’s flute

and the turquoise arizona

sky

 

where birds and scars

belong to the

wind

 

where i sit

and wait for

myself

 

to begin

again

 

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

 

“i...sit...and wait for myself” — Georgia O’Keeffe, from Roxana Robinson's biography of the artist

 

a poem for international women’s day

in a name

 

in the 70’s we were everywhere—a

white wave

 

of bell-bottoms, hot pants, platforms and disco

at night—

 

us, jennifers—meant to be, I suppose,

fair, soft—

 

but to that dirt-gravel half of my history, i’ve always been “gin” and i like how

that hits

 

how you say it with a lick of

your lips

 

 

© 2025 jennifer wagner

 

 

At dVerse MTB: The Poetry of Names, Laura has us writing WaltMarie poems about the meaning or history of our names.  You can visit the link to learn more about this form and visit Writer’s Digest as well.

 

*smaller hand-held devices may not display this poem true to the ten-line format due to compacting

A Day's Journey from Blueberry to Heron

Poetry can be like this—

blueberry stains on my fingers

from shoving them straight

from the bush to my mouth

—blackberries, too.

 

Seeing six rotting oranges

sitting underneath a tree—

hoping they smell good

to what crawls below.

 

The desert cottontail,

a perfect Russel Stover,

who froze still in the sun

when I stepped lightly by—

nothing but nose twitching.

 

A box full of free grapefruits

on the road

in front of the cottage house—

heavy, ripe, uneven.

 

The new puppy, dancing,

learning a leash, excited

to come to me—still unsure

which of us wanted to play more.

 

A Great Blue Heron

with long, delicate legs,

sleek and slow-hunting

at our green-gold pond.

 

I say our,

because it’s yours, too—

as is this journey-poem, for you to add

your own lovely thing to.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

 

“Look for a lovely thing and you will find it,

It is not far—

It never will be far.”

-Sara Teasdale

What's Going On?  Beauty

Desert Stardate

On the First of March,

the desert doesn’t know

it’s not even spring yet.

Summer tosses dandelions

through a hole in the sky.

 

With my face upturned,

I let them pelt me

with soft, moist tongues—

pollen making eye shadow,

powdery blush,

a soft dusting of body glitter.

 

With a strike of your hand

on my hip like a match,

we become a collision of stars,

a kilonova,

exploding, burnt.

 

 

© 2025 Jennifer Wagner

 

Poetic Bloomings