Monday, May 14, 2018

Tucked In




















Art: Mark Collins
www.markcollinsfineart.com/


Do you remember it, being tucked in? Secure.
Afraid of nothing. Faithful. There was a trust
in something greater, wasn’t there? To be held.
Something so big from something so simple.

At bedtime, did you request it?

“Tuck me in, please.”

“Please, tuck me in.”

So, the barred owl was there in the beech,
tucked in, peering outward to the world
with dark round eyes that I couldn’t quite figure,
but there was something big and meaningful
behind them, maybe something pained, and I
thought about things that I hadn’t been thinking
about, not before the owl:

How sometimes we need to be held tightly,
and for long enough. Long enough is so
important.

How as an adult it can seem so very hard to
get tucked in. Maybe there’s a hug, yes. But,
is it long enough?

How it seems we’ve lost our trust, maybe
our faith in something greater, a caring
something. Caring is so important.

There is a longing I know well.

You?

I think about being tucked in and
wonder: could this be our animal
nature?

Do we, all of us, need to know
that we are being held?

And, do we need to trust that it
will be for long enough?


© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
A book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins
"Tucked In" has been accepted into the Birds In Art Exhibition

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Sunday, April 15, 2018

Goldfinches





















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser


The goldfinches insist that this life is worth living,
and that there’s something yet to be done with this
pained world that is beautiful.

I’ve had my doubts. You?

They choose the loveliest branches, redbud budding.
They sweeten the air with sweet sound. Happy sound.
They flash brilliant yellow as they come, as they go.
They can’t be anything but joy. I’ve noticed.

Are these prayers answered? These emphatic moments
that won’t let us turn away. If so, who sends them?

Here. Here.

You. Here.

Look. Listen. It’s going to be okay.

See? Goldfinches.

A moment ago, there was a goldfinch there.

I saw it.

That was all I needed.

Someone knew.

Somehow.


© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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Sunday, April 1, 2018

Said the Rabbit
















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Out and about,
to find something green,
like we all have been awaiting green.
And, the spring rain, it wants to help,
at least as much of the sun we crave,
it laps at the Earth saying, “Arise!”
And, everywhere there is something
stirring that is remembering, or perhaps
discovering, its relationship with the light.
But this moment is for the rabbit,
the rabbit and me. And, our thoughts.

Maybe they are the same, or similar.

Are we leaping towards something that
is new and expecting us to show
ourselves?
Could it be joyful? Could it be dangerous?

Rumi proposes that lovers meet in
a field. He knows about openness and
vulnerability: what it takes to be seen.

And, the rabbit says:
“We are in a field. Right now. We are in a field.”

And, I think: This is true.

And, the rabbit says:
“It is good to see that you have come
out from the darkness.”

And, I don’t know what to think.

But, I’m suddenly very happy.


© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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Sunday, March 25, 2018

The Nature of Reflections









Art: Mark Collins



If I were to reflect on the nature of water,
I’d have to say, “Ducks!”

Think about it.
I know you had a childhood too.

~

For a time, my best friend was Kristin Mason.
She lived on a farm with chickens and ducks,
and a brown-and-white pony.

We scattered cracked corn.
We collected eggs.
We brushed Nutmeg, the pony.

One night, I got to stay for dinner.
Her mom made duck with orange sauce,
wild rice, and artichokes.

That was the night I decided two things:

1.       I was going to learn to cook.
2.       Someday, I’d live on a farm.

I have a farm. I love to cook.

~
My sisters and I were clever girls.

Father was directed to get us out of the house.
It was the Saturday before Easter.
He wanted to know where we wanted to go.
We said, “The old farm store.”
He obliged without asking why.
When we walked in, he knew.
The stale air was filled with peeps and quacks.
He wasn’t going to get out of this one.

One box. Three ducklings.

Sunny.
Tippy.
Waddles.

That was about a year before the divorce.

~
Children are told a story about a
duckling that is big and grey and ugly.

Everyone, even the old farmer, is
mean to it. They make it feel so ashamed.

But, then, one day, the duckling looks into
the river and sees it’s authentic self.

And, it is beautiful.

And, it knows it.

~
There is a sign on a post by the lake.

“Don’t feed the ducks!”

People tear up bread and throw it to them.
Millions of loaves annually. Seriously.
Some people are religious about it:
every morning or every evening,
out there with the ducks, throwing.

They dabble.
They waddle. Sometimes, fast.
They quack.

But, don’t do it. It’s not good for the ducks.

Why don’t we pay attention to the signs?

They are right there. In front of us.

~

Where I went to college, there was a pond.
I’d stop there on my way to and from classes,
to visit the ducks. I loved those mallards.

Once a red-tailed hawk came down from a big
beech and landed on a drake. The duck screamed
and thrashed. Students screamed, some running away,
some running toward. Death arrived and fed the
living while we watched.

Emotions are never calculated into predator-prey equations.

But, it was mating season that I remember most.
How cruel the pursuit of a hen could be. There
were always feathers flying, torn from the nape
of the neck. And, near-drownings.

They say not to anthropomorphize. But, I did.

And, I still do.

And, how it makes me feel matters.

~

These are my reflections.


© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
A book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins

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Monday, March 12, 2018

Thresholds
















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Thresholds are magnificent things.
A wonderment: neither this, nor that.
Are they a place or a time? What is
the in-between?

There are answers that I don't have,
but there are also knowings that I do.
Like: that my favorite threshold 
is the one that I cross when I stop
being a creature of winter and
start becoming a creature of spring.


(c) 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Wonderment: New and Selected Poems" 
A work in progress.

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Saturday, February 17, 2018

What is Here




















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

What lies ahead
cannot be known,
only imagined,
and sometimes
poorly so.

What is here
must be precious
to us or life is wasted,
this one and
all others.

I think you know
this road, but do
you know even
one piece of gravel
that is its making?

If you desire intimacy
with any part of this
world, stop passing
it by.

Moments.
A presence.
That longing.

The place you
are is a destination.

Arrive.



© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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Sunday, January 7, 2018

A Thorny Situation
















Art: Mark Collins
http://markcollinsfineart.com/


Look around and see how this world
is created. How a protective mother owl
chose the acacia branches lined with thorns,
long and intentful, they easily knowing
their singular purpose, impressive when
there’s so much human longing for the same,
and the owlets perched there, not
understanding that they are part metaphor.

"Hooo hoo hooo!”

She could have chosen, let’s say, something
tall and in flower with lovely petals, soft delicate
petals of a particular lovely color, and there might
have been nectar pooled, readied for gravity’s
lapping tongue. That would have gotten me
talking about the spoiled gods of old, but it’s not
necessary, not in this place.

"Hooo hooopoooo!”

If you want to take something from this world,
the situation can get quite thorny and, sometimes,
it really should, but if you want something precious
to belong, to remain as it is, pray for thorns, invoke
thorns, call them your allies. I find this interesting.

“Kreep! Kreep!”

Perspective has so many angles. Look at them there!
How they wish they could venture forth
into the wild, unknown yonder. They’re scowling,
seemingly a bit grumpy, because they can’t.

They could, I suppose,

but this world was created with thorns.



© 2018/Jamie K. Reaser
Book collaboration in progress with artist Mark Collins

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