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Best Poems Written by Robert Wagner

Below are the all-time best Robert Wagner poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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The Obiturary of the United States

Lower the flags to half mast,
America the Beautiful has been gutted,
Its word emptied of all meaning,
There is no jubilant throng singing,
“Glory, glory Hallelujah!”
Our nation’s heroes rise 
From their earthen graves enraged
And cry out to the heavens,
“Have our cruel deaths been in vain?!”
Their ghosts march en masse 
On the nation’s capital to haunt
Those who have betrayed our nation
In the Chamber of the Senate.

Abraham Lincoln holds his head in his hands,
And weeps bitterly for his nation.
All he endured to protect the Union from traitors
Has been destroyed in a single vote.
Our Founding Fathers who had sacrificed all
Watch in horror as the orange faced buffoon
Mounts the steps of the Capital with
The  beloved Constitution of the United States
Attached to the bottom of his shoe
Like used toilet paper.
Tomorrow morning in newspapers 
Throughout the nation the obituary is written,
“The United States of America,
Born on July 4, 1776, died on February 5, 2020 
In the Senate, Washington D.C.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

Another Year of Grace

With John Wayne snarling at me
from the television screen,
I quickly glance at my watch;
five minutes to the end 
of a year’s journey through
what the Psalmist would describe
 as the Valley of Death,
and what Dante would describe
as a descent through hell.

The little small ball of white fur
whines at my feet,
his almond dark eyes
begging for the last bit of cheese
I have in my hand.
Take him out now 
for his nocturnal constitutional,
Or wait until three in the morning?
It is not a difficult choice.

The puppy and I head for the door.
The puppy runs hither and yon
around the yard,
sniffing and searching
the frozen ground 
for the perfect spot 
to make his nocturnal emissions.

I reflect upon the arrival
of another year In Anno Domini, 
with dread, or is it anticipation?
Another year of grace 
is what they always say about
the turning of a new year.
Like the puppy running from
one frozen turd to another 
in the yard, I, sniff and search
among the heap of promised
 “grace-filled moments?” 
from my past year.

The church bells begin
to peal out the old year
as the puppy stops and
stands poised upon a 
strategically chosen location
to unleash the grace
contained within himself
upon the frozen ground.
I appreciate my puppy’s
brilliant metaphor of
crapping out the old year
to make room for the new year.

There are some years indeed,
in which grace is bestowed
in abundant quantity.
And, there are some years indeed,
in which one must sniff
and scratch to find the grace
hidden within the dung heap.

The church bells cease their tolling,
as the puppy, in a triumphal display
Of accomplishment, 
kicks with his hind feet,
bits of ice, snow, and fecal matter 
high into the air.
The puppy, head held high,
small tail wagging, and I, 
retreat from the frozen yard
toward our house.

Warmth and a hope for new grace
greet us as we enter the house.
And, as I close the door,
I glance once more at the frozen yard.
I leave the old year 
and its promise of grace,
lying in a heap 
upon the frozen ground.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

Learning How To Walk

When did I learn to walk?
The awkward stance,
a toddler’s uncertain step,
stumbling, falling, 
getting up again until
rhythm of feet and
balance work in sequence, 
was that when I learned
to walk? No.

When did I learn to walk?
Kindergarten marches,
a military parade of sorts
around a classroom, 
rhythm band instruments
in hand, banging on toy
cymbals and drums
to the measured beat
of feet and blare of
prerecorded sound? No.

When did I learn to walk?
Was it the long hours
in marching band
practicing routines,
memorizing music, 
and the beating of feet  
on hot pavement along 
humid parade routes on
July mornings in hot
woolen uniforms? No.

When did I begin
to learn to walk?
From the moment
I held your hand, strolling
by the Strand Theater
on the sidewalks of St.
Paul, along the shores
of Lake Como on
Spring and Summer nights,
through Rosedale, your
hand in mine as we looked
at engagement rings
in jewelry store windows
and dreamed dreams.

I learned to walk
in earnest down
the aisle of
St. Bridget of Sweden,
into a new wedded
life filled with
wonder and love,
the many walks of 
pregnancies, Pitocin 
drip walks down
hospital corridors,
during nights with
restless infants, and
sick children, to
parks and baseball
diamonds, plays
and musicals, concerts
and gymnasiums,
graduations, weddings,
funerals, grandchildren,
all of them walks
along the spherical
path of life.

To walk with you is
to learn how to love,
each measured step,
a grace-filled journey
to something greater,
far beyond and far better
than the stumbling steps 
that I could have
made on my own. 

To walk with you,
is to see the
world with different
eyes, colors bursting
through the greys,
warmth on the
coldest of days, your
voice floating, playing 
delightfully in the air
alongside until the 
sound settles gently,
gracefully in my ears.

We have walked many
steps together in life, 
my gait now not as steady, 
these days of uncertain
limbs, joints and cane. 
In walking with you, 
new discoveries never
end, new beginnings
abound, and that
with you, the first, 
and the finest of
all teachers, learning
to walk is never
fully learned.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

The Third Christmas Poem

Two in the morning,
and the long drive home
from an afternoon and night
of Christmas Eve liturgies,
the air is bitterly cold
as my car and I climb
the long, steep hill out of
the Minnesota River Valley of Tears
to our home fifteen minutes away.

Dreams of our warm bed,
and three hours of sleep,
before awakening and
doing it all over again,
dominate my thoughts 
during the long drive home.

I think of you at work
in the nursing home,
watching over the residents
in your care, as the shepherds
once watched over their flocks
in the deepness darkness of night
in Palestine over two thousand years ago.

As I reach the crest of the hill,
and climb out on the barren plateau,
the light from the full moon
glistens off the frozen surface
of snow covered corn fields.
The moonlight reflecting off the snow
is as bright as the light of a noon day sun.

Enraptured by this brilliant light
high on the frozen plateau,
I turn off my headlights
and drive only by the moonlight,
experiencing the epiphany
of the Magi, as they traveled
by a similar light from 
the Star of Bethlehem.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

A Nocturne For Our Medical Heroes

A NOCTURNE FOR OUR MEDICAL HEROES
Literature is filled
With narratives of
Individual and collective
Acts of heroism.
The shining armor
Of righteous knights,
The Robin Hoods’
Of world history,
Bandolier draped chests,
Fighting a heartless
World that preys
Upon the powerless
Trapped in poverty.

We search the horizon
For visions of soldiers
Bravely raising a flag
On an embattled hill.
We seek for leadership
In an absentee government,
To find only a vapid vacuum
Of intelligence, draped
In self-indulgence.
and corruption,
spreading as easily
and as deadly,
as the pestilence that
is killing humanity.

“Where are our heroes?”
Where is the new Moses
To rise among us, 
To protect and lead
Us from our wandering
In this desert of death.
One, for whom the good
Of the many out weighs
Personal ambition
And self-gain?
To whom can we
Entrust our lives,
And the lives
Of those we love?

Rescuers arrive,
Draped in the soft cloth
Of medical scrubs,
EMT uniforms,
Armed only with
Bandoliers of compassion,
Love, and self-less service
And a stethoscope, 
A mask and face shield.
Their hearts emblazoned
With the words,
“There is no greater love
Than to lay down
One’s life for a friend,”

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

Hymn To Our God of Many Faces

HYMN TO OUR GOD OF MANY FACES
God of many names and faces,
Hymns of how our lives interlace
With you, whom we have known
And think of you as ours alone.

Our rituals, doors to our salvation?
Incense, music, food oblations,
Cultic gestures, words, and symbols,
Is this Salvation for the lazy and simple?

Truth be told, O God omnipotent,
Our feeble rituals sadly impotent,
Until we love all people on earth
To whom your love has given birth. 

For every people, culture, nation
You equally love and grant salvation,
Our foes, our lives, you equally cherish,
And grieve the deaths of all who perish.

Truth be told, O God omnipotent,
Our feeble rituals sadly impotent,
Until we love all people on earth
To whom your love has given birth.

O God of many names and faces,
All human life your love graces,
Transform into flesh our hearts of stone,
For you are flesh of our flesh, and bone of our bone.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

Empty Pockets, Empty Stomachs

“We have no milk,”
you speak quietly
in a tone reminiscent 
of another’s observation
that wine had run out
at a wedding feast.
Miraculous transformation
of wine or milk
from pitchers of water
seemingly absent from
the church job description
of educator and
director of parish music,
a deficit, in proportion
to the yearly salary of
nine thousand dollars 
for seven days work
each week with two 
weeks off for good behavior.

As there is no blood-letting
from turnips, there is
no milk-letting from music.
Your milk-filled breasts
have not enough milk
for baby and cereal for
two growing boys
at the table. Evenings
liqour store clerking and
weddings and funerals
cannot fill both
refrigerator and bellies.

Nine thousand dollars,
before government
expenses and other
deductions, does not
provide well for a
family of five.
Well below the income
for a family of four,
much less five,
no food shelves yet
conceived for the
impoverished and
hungry. Reaganomics
mock the poor
who fight for the
crumbs from the 
richman’s table. 
Trickle down’s
empty promises stab
visciously at the
hunger-panged 
stomachs of the poor.

The class of ‘70
golden ring, the weight
far too heavy
for a musician’s right
hand, would decorate
finer the hand of
another man.  Perhaps,
remolten into glimmering
shimmering light,
the golden reshaped
circlet might hang
from a chain 
adorning the neck 
of some young woman. 
The jeweler’s eye
gauges carefully
its worth, twenty 
dollars, no more
no less, twenty 
dollars  it is.
There will be milk
and bread on
the table for
another week.
© 2015, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

For My Dad On His One Hundredth Birthday

I feel you hovering around me,
your presence, your spirit,
a feeling, like fingertips 
lightly grazing the skin. 
Ten years have passed 
since you shook off 
the coils of this world.  
Your presence is not 
some ethereal spirit
condemned to haunt a 
place of past transgression, 
but more that of a father, 
connected forever to the
ones that he loves.

I feel you the strongest
when complexities clutter
my life, my mind seeking
communion with yours,
calling out to you as a
frightened child cries out
for comfort in the predawn
hours following a nightmare.
Staring into the bathroom
mirror I search for your
face, in the creases on
my forehead the crows feet 
around my eyes, longing
to hear your voice
praying a blessing over me
as you did for me
for so many years
before I would go to bed.

Formed and shaped by
your DNA, yet, as each
snowflake is created 
distinctly different and beautiful 
by our loving Creator
I realize that I am like you 
and so unlike you, 
similar yet never quite the same. 
Gratitude born long before my birth, 
I rejoice in having walked
alongside you for fifty-two years,
a man of great faith, dressed
to the “T’s in integrity and dignity.

Many look upon your image
and call you “iron man”, 
one who has been tested 
and proven worthy, 
one able to bear life’s 
great and heavy burdens.
For me, you will always be
“my dad”, devoted to God 
and to his family. One who loved 
me into existence.
Happy Birthday, Dad.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

The First of February 2020

Out into the crisp February morn,
Sunshine finally frees nature
From the long oppressive grip
Of the icy, snowy, bitter cold of
Grey darkness that has enveloped
Both sky and human heart alike.
Nature briefly awakens, 
The small winter birds scatter
And chase about the sky and chirp,
While the squirrels search and forage
For nuts buried in the cold,
White layers on the ground.
Is it foolish optimism to think,
Much less feel, hope?

A similar oppressive layer of
Enforced grey darkness
Has enveloped my nation,
As men and women in the Senate,
Bereft of a human soul, 
Feed ferociously on the chumming
Of ambition, greed, and power 
Thrown to them by wealthy despots and bigots. 
Well did they know the guilt 
Of the predator occupying the high seat of power.
Well did they know the sewage
Of corruption and deceit
Into which they immersed themselves.
Yet, bereft of a human soul,
Shaking their fists furiously
At the heavens, they curse God
To whom they previously pledged fealty.

They damn and ban both God and God’s justice
From our nation with great solemnity and decorum,
Then dance around the Senate chambers
With smug smiles of victory on their faces.
Accused of blinding justice in our nation,
These parasitical, political Pharisees,
Cry out with great indignation,
as in the story of the man born blind,
“Surely, we are not blind!”
While the 2000 year old words of Jesus,
With the tenacity of tinnitus rings in their ears,
“If you were blind, you would not have sinned.
But you do see, and your sin remains.”

On this cold, crisp winter morn of February,
As sunshine dispels the dark greyness
That has oppressed nature, I wonder
Whether the dark blanket of despair
That is now covering our nation
Will ever be cast off and the sun
Of God’s justice will ever return to our nation?
Yet, the birds still chirp 
And chase around the sky.
The squirrels still dig for the treasure
They buried in the frozen landscape.
Is it foolish optimism to think
Much less feel, there is hope?

(c) 2020, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.

Details | Robert Wagner Poem

At Home Without a Home

The semi-trailer sits at the farm,
a gift from your dad,
holding everything we own,
except some of our clothes,
and that of our sons,
and Pampers.
Homeless, my pride beaten down,
humility or is it humiliation, it’s master.
Your pride is not a self-consuming
passion, the first of an 
ever-growing realization
that I’m not the educator of our family
but a merely a student 
learning at your feet.
Your pride is measured 
in our sons, in our marriage, 
our homelessness not a
defeat, but a mere fact.
Your own family’s past,
family falling upon family 
during times of difficulty and duress, 
defines what is important.
Shuffling between families’ homes
an inconvenience of love,
not acts of desperation.
As long as we and our sons are together
no longer is home narrowly defined
to structures above or below ground,
but only defined by relationship.
You are at home in our homelessness.
(c) 2012, Robert Charles Wagner. All rights reserved.