Poetry by Jennifer D. Wade
I Never Said It was Good....


These poems were dashed off in a fit of frustration or simply to complete an assignment.  As with all of the other poems, I was about 20 when I wrote them, so don't expect any profound thoughts.  For example, the following haikus:

Glass on the table:

Filled with Miller High Life beer;

Empty in seconds.



Destined to lead a

Life of insignificance.

No one knows my name.



The telephone rings,

And rings again. I answer

Too late: you've hung up.


(November 17, 1987)

To the Board

Tell me that I lie;

Tell me I don't care;

Please, slander my name some more.

   I read your letters in the news last week;

   Their main point was "Beware!"


You called me misguided;

You called me misled;

You called me a freakin' thief.

   If I'm those things, at least I'm alive,

   And I'd rather be that than dead.


You sit in your board room,

So cozy and snug;

You're doing a damn good job.

   But, look, on the floor -- what is that spot?

   Seems I've puked on your bright, shiny rug.


I voiced my opinion;

Was that such a crime?

I simply stated my case.

   But you didn't like that; you thought I was wrong;

   You like the way things are run just fine.


Next time the scene

Might not be so pretty;

So far you've gotten off light.

   The format's been questioned; that's just the first step.

   Now we'll elect a whole new committee.


        Anarchy! Anarchy! Isn't it great?

        No one's serving the station:

        It's not serving the school.

           So won't you please support this cause?

           We accept letters, checks, and cash donations.


(November 8, 1987)


The dark sky looms gloomy and gray;

I look out the window,

Straining to see fine raindrops

   against a background of trees and buildings;

Not sure if I see them.

I look at the puddles:

Not seeing the splashes,

  the ripples running into each other,

I know I have been a fool.

I only saw spots on the window;

Maybe I saw the texture of the glass

  and mistook it for rain.

Always look at the puddles:

They never lie.


(October 26, 1987)

Ode to a Dead Wren

The radio absorbed many hours and hours,

   With words of gratitude left unspoken;

I did not find time to smell the flowers;

   In death, O wren, please accept this token.


I loved your legs, so tiny and rice-like;

   Your body so frail, your spirit so firm.

Feathers open, a fence of picket spikes;

   Your feminine tail, free of sleeping worms.


But the spot on your head, your own mourning cap,

   Has guided you right into my little trap.


(September 15, 1987)