It's a laundry list of problems.
Nothing that someone hasn't had before.
Except now they are mine.
Why is this laundry mine by the way?
I didn't ask for it.
I'd rather have a nice vacation.
Do you think I can take them to the cleaners?
Maybe speedy express would work.
Can't hurt to try.
The pile just grows bigger and bigger.
What if I washed some things together?
Will one of them bleed?
Maybe it can hurt if I try.
How will I know?
Anyone out there?
folding laundry with you
singing don't let me down
and you know
i never will,
but those words look lovely
on your lips.
An example of the simple parts of love, I suppose.
Id kill to go back home
where my bedroom still looks the same
where my mom takes my dirty laundry away to be cleaned
but my dirty laundry piles up now
and I wanna go home
where my laundry doesnt sit in the corner for me to look at
Bleach my soul with the tips of your fingers
Make it polish so your reflection lingers
Wring out every unpure thought until theres only you
You may even want to let some of those drip out too
Scrub my mind with an innocent nap together
To be awoken up by the sunny morning weather
Return my mind to the dirt when our lips meet
For the best results wash, rinse, and repeat.
You left me hanging like a shitty shirt on a hanger you stuff in the back of your closet
But easy does it, at least you let me dry myself, you never let me try, to be myself, I saw my self on your closet shelf, I am one of my favorite movies, I fell for the way you moved, free spirit groove with your skin so smooth, I guess you were never really mine to lose
Your deep breathing just led to more misleading thoughts
Baby blues like a tropical cruise to somewhere warmer, now ill just be remembered as someone former, I tried to let the toms river bring us closer, but the current washed you down stream and I wished it had made you scream for a better dream, one where we were together, and you were a mother, and you were where you wanted to be
I am an immigrant now and I all I want to do is flee to somewhere ill be free, from still thinking about you, I know the feeling Isn't mutual, and I see no future for me here, and it brings tears to the eyes of my mother, I hope one day I can just remember you as another woman I loved along the line, good things take time, and great things happen all at once, and I haven't seen you for what seems like months, and I still think about you all the time, longing like this could be considered a crime, but you made me put the lights down low, and you told me about the life you couldn't grow, and I knew it was hard, like a glass shard, stuck into your side
I don't know where to go now,
Guess I can skip town, let my self spiral down, ill never know what you've been through, this is true
And ill listen to everything that makes your soul turn blue, but I'm starting to get sick of writing so many songs about you
Her thoughts took a dark turn
like jackals in the threadbare sun
ripping, ripping until she couldn’t see
herself, now a carcass of once-sought dreams;
a bone-hollow skeleton
stripped of all marrow by which future is made,
where the ink dried within.
Blood, first red then black, gathered in pools
around her head
until the ears spilled no more.
She’d done it to drown out the howling—
for who can bear the noise
of a broken heart?
The muting of syndicate
mocking and whimpering replete,
she worked the metallic taste of hate off her tongue.
It lingered though and became bitter
so she used her teeth to bite into its flesh
for nothing other than to taste a mellowing of salt.
A waft of perfume lingered in the cloying rot,
the remnant of her identity laying in the dust
while the air spilled with the scent of her decay;
a lone paper, yellowed and curled at the corners,
rattled in a wisp of wind.
A cloud began to form on the horizon,
a growing mist of dry, kicked-up earth,
swirling and choking the throat of tortuous barbs.
The cyclonic reclamation filled the desert of scars and loneliness,
returned sinew and marrow, blood and ink
to the supine form of the battered giant
of a dream so big the rabid enemy of her soul
was lost for strategy to bring down.
Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner
"For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jeremiah 29:11
I walked alone
On a dark stretch of imperfection
The road was pointless
Stumbling marked my hesitation
I found courage, tried to run
But darkness cloaked the air
And twisted vines mocked my despair
Dropping to my knees
I wished for strength to fight the night
And clear the wood, to reach the light
The prayer I spoke
Was little more than just a breath
But there it was,
An answer on my quest
It stood alone, the orchid,
Fragile beauty wrapped in might
And seemed to glow from inner light
I gasped and smiled
As through the darkened mist it shone
Its unique purpose before unknown
The bloom was there, placed perfectly,
And because of this bloom
I remembered me
Its beauty, both intricate and fair,
Reminded me of what I usually fail to see
That we are magnificently created things
I continued on that day
To purpose which had seemed so far away
But the path was not as gray
The orchid lit my way
Copyright 2006 Jennifer Wagner
Bullying is a newsworthy subject these days. We’ve all seen it; some of us have even participated in it. My son recently began to be the recipient of some ugly bullying behavior at school. Undeniably, it is one of the most heart-breaking things to watch your kid go through. To have that once-tiny, bundle-of-cute you would die for come home sobbing after you have sent him out into the world of his peers is well, hell. Or something like it. Differences aren’t often tolerated, and the messages that life can serve (you’re too fat, not smart, not athletic, not good at anything, or just plain not good enough) warp us until we believe them. But they are not correct. We are valuable. We have purpose. I had written this poem a few years ago when I was wrestling with my own thoughts on this issue, and it came to mind as I have been traversing some rough waters with my son. Have you ever taken a good long look at an orchid? It’s a masterpiece of artistry isn’t it? But it doesn’t look like a daisy and it doesn’t smell like a rose and it doesn’t grow like a sunflower. It is different. It is its own unique work of art. And so is he. And so are you.
I could practically smell the cigarettes
Though the windows were rolled up
In the aging tan-colored Oldsmobile
It is the first thing I noticed, strangely
A sun-shriveled old face
Peered above the steering wheel
Crowned by a large straw hat
We were united he and I
Two travelers, strangers
Our only common ground the numbing freeway
I began to wonder about his life
And wonder if he wondered about mine
I imagined him an artist
A widower, missing his children
Who again forgot to send a card
I could see him on the old dock
On the summer lake at dusk
Sitting cross-legged, casting his line
Thinking of the malignancy
That took them all from him
That steady current in his own veins
I craved to know his stories
A little girl version of Manolin
And suddenly he was The Old Man and the Sea
As I made my exit
My eyes lingered on the aged auto, aged hat, aged man
Continuing together to amble the road
I silently wished him farewell
And for his final battle, one
Not so bitter-sweet as Santiago’s
Copyright 2012 Jennifer Wagner