Sunday, June 12, 2016

Song for Summer




















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser


In the days that creep toward summer,
have you noticed how the flowers 
have become practiced at rising into  
the sky and give no hint of the  darkness
from which they emerged? They choose
to be bold. And do you think about the
trees hosting all the little cupped nests and
the little cupped nests holding something
precious that will have to make its way
into the world by taking a risk on an impossible
dream? Can you hear the humidity like I can
hear the humidity, coming alive, growing its own
body out of nothingness? Some people complain
about it, but not me. I know this shroud and
how a woman is to wear it. A dragonfly crosses
paths with a butterfly down by the pond
where the green frog sits edge-wise on
a stone in the sun. Into the night the bats take insects
on wing and the barred owls speak out the only
question they know. This is where I live: in this
place of welcoming and celebration. Summer is on
her way. I will meet her on the porch steps,
wearing my shroud.


(c) 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press in 2016

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Saturday, June 4, 2016

Pond Lilies














Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser


Do you ever wonder what Monet thought
of the lilies? The ones there in the dark-watered
pond on a summer’s day. Those petals and pads
working their sweet way into his soul.

How is it that we have forgotten this art of
intimacy with the other?  I stand here on the
edge, a thousand voices inviting me to go
deeper.

There are lilies floating.
White vessels for the sky.

Oh, yes, what in this world is perfect?
What resides without wanting to lead
us to the pain of knowing our true selves?

I think the answer is either nothing or everything.

I happen to be someone who finds perfection in
what is broken. How lovely.

A lily broke me open today.



© 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary
To be published by Talking Waters in 2016

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Monday, May 30, 2016

The Trees Speak
















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Those who can hear the trees speak have never
had a thought of loneliness. What they know
is joy, and something of grief.

Trees tell amazing stories. Stories told by
generations of trees. They pass them along.
Wherever it is you stand now, there is a tree
that knows the story of that place.

How do I know these things?

I’m crazy enough to ask. That’s all that
this delightful world requires of us:


to be crazy enough.


(c) 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press in 2016

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Sunday, May 15, 2016

The Blue Iris




















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

But, what if it is the blue iris?
What if that is all we need to speak
to God, or the gods, or some other
form of the sacred?

I try to pay attention. I piece words together.
This is prayer, yes. But, more so, it is ceremony.
I want to hear another voice. I want a reply.
I want to know that I’m not alone and that
all of this matters.

May I put it in a vase?  May I decorate my home
with it? It is beautiful.

Could I be worthy of something
that I love?



© 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press in 2016

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Sunday, May 8, 2016

My Mother Was




















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser


My mother was the purple iris,
sometimes a peony, but never
the carnation. My mother was
red lipstick and a big, bright smile
that sometimes lied about how
much she loved her life. She counted
her burdens and could recite them
with ease, but she said that you
could make things better with a bag
of peanut M&Ms. Green ones, especially.
You don’t forget, not all of it.

But when you bury someone
in a blue ceramic jar
near the old boxwoods
and walk away,
things start to become
hard to remember.

I don’t know the meaning of life.
But, maybe, it is simply to take notice.



© 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press in 2016

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Saturday, April 30, 2016

The Flowers




















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

We only lived in that house for a year
and I was only six, but I remember
things. Like, Mom planted a row of
flowers along the walkway to the
front door. They were red and
yellow and orange and shaped like
rooster combs. “Cock’s combs,” a
neighbor said. They fascinated me,
how a flower could look like part
of a chicken. I watched them for
endless minutes, like I expected
something to happen and didn’t
dare miss it. I knew something of
magic then. Perhaps, I simply
expected they’d become chickens,
scratching about the yard for seed
and small insects. But, maybe it
was something even more
miraculous than that. Maybe, it
was some bigger knowing that had
possession over me. I’d put some
in a pot on the stoop of my first
house. For no particular reason, I
thought. And, there would come  
the day when I’d be standing in the
Amazon and meet a field full of the
ancestors of Mom’s flowers, as tall
as me, and I’d feel an odd sense
of family and want to tell someone
about it, but there was no one to tell.
Then, a day would arrive when I’d
have my very own chickens and
while watching them strut, cluck,
and scratch, I’d remember being
a little girl watching flowers, and
realize that I was still watching them.

We shouldn’t underestimate children.
They become something else.



© 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Plant Songs" (a work in progress)

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Saturday, April 23, 2016

What We Want From A Flower
















Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Tell me nothing,
and I won’t believe
you. Within you
there is longing,
something

that you want from
a flower, maybe it
isn’t a fancy thing,
but I’ll bet it is
profound. Life

changing, maybe.
Have you thought
about this? I hadn’t
until today. I’m

thinking about
it now, how I want,
no, expect, flowers
to make things
better. They do. Isn’t  

this interesting? I wonder
what a flower wants,
no, expects, from
me.



© 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press in 2016

Feel free to share