Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Madu Rua

Image: origin unknown

Darkness is the cape that

clothes me.

I am learning to see with

listening eyes,

and walk silently amidst the


Edges are pathways,

not boundaries.

Beyond the edge is openness.

To play there is to risk death.

By the light of the moon, I play,

letting my yippy voice carry

what could be my last moment into the wind.

What secret is nestled in the


(c) 2004-2011/Jamie K. Reaser

Saturday, March 20, 2010

In the Yard

Image: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Lush and all but bashful,

She blooms,

pink laurels, lavender spiderworts, and

daring gold susans,

inviting the feathered to dance themselves wet

in humidity and stream.

Frogs banjo twang their

krink and tronk heart throbs.

Paradise rebirthed announces


like a newborn.

From the lamp post,

the slatey mimic mocks

neighboring grass

in its short, homogeneous boorishness.

Even when the sun goes down,

the crew cut blades still know –

being in good company is no

consolation for emptiness.

(c) 2004-2010/Jamie K. Reaser

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

The Hill of Tara

Image: origin unknown

Saint Patrick

stands a lonely

man at the seat

of kings.

In the rookery

there is boasting.

Dragons, they say,

dwell from whence

the snakes departed.

Hallowed ground

and hollow ground.

Blood spilled and seeped

time and time repeat

into land now fertile

with memories.

By the feis and legends

they fed themselves.

Though coins failed to serve

as covenants.

Still a standing stone

longs to roar.

But, man in his ignorance

fences himself off

from destiny and takes

his own soul hostage.

Where rites were given,

rights are to be lost

in the savage practice

of domesticity.

Listen up!

Never confuse a road

with the path.

Call out the ancestors

of generations to come.

And, gather at the

faery tree.

She’s not so far afield

The Battle of Tara

wages thrice.

Draw forth your hearts.

(c) 2003-2010/Jamie K. Reaser


The Hill of Tara, like many sacred sites around the world,

is currently threatened by modern "progress." To read more:


Saturday, March 13, 2010

Misty Mountain Memories

Image: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

On winter mornings

in the mountains

the mists roll in,

enfolding the wings of dawn.

On some mornings the mists arrive

like a ghostly patchwork quilt seeking still

to cover bodies of the

homesteaders who once worked

these now-Nature-reclaimed, inclined

fields and who piled rock fireplaces

and rock walls and fern-rimmed,

rock-lined wells from which they

sipped cold, thirst quenching

spring water.

It was clean enough to drink

back then.

On other mornings, such as this one,

the mists arrive like wispy, outstretched

fingers yearning to touch me and

the land on which I live.

They do,

and I think we both open under the caress.

These are the mornings that I think of you,

wishing you could visit upon me

so easily.

Sometimes, I wonder if you have…

And I ponder whether memories

aren’t but mists that travel our

inner landscape when the

sacred elements combine at

dew point.

© 2007-2011/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life"

Thursday, March 11, 2010

The Frog Prince

Image: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Moonlit pool
full of lover’s folly,
chorusing percussion,
rain pattering melody,
deep, silent, yearning

among reeds
blend frothy foam,
seedy renewal

Orbital cleavage -
northern, southern
eastern, western.

Oblong extension,
diagnostic division,
tossing, turning,
waltzing free,
silty bassinet
to be.


Jetting through warm
algaed waters,
grazing diatoms daily,
master of watery domain
so envious of
water striders,
surface skaters
on aqua tension plane.

Budding limbs,
world embrace,
body interfacing
air and water,
stroke and glide sculler
traversing space,
passing time.

Night following night,
gold dust eyes star cast.
Day proceeding day,
radiant sun,
rainbow prismed dew shimmer,
bejewelled sedges.

Tourmaline damselflies
master of terra domain.

Large Souled Frog.

Wishing upon a falling star,
content no more
to krink and trunk,
to bask upon a lily pad
when at dusk
nighthawk sipping
still waters
on wind,
something greater

Forsaking mansion in the pool
vagile Ranid,
trekking dreamtime,
trailing paths of ages,
master of world domain.

Fabled Prince.

reflection in willow-edged pool,
manly gaze,
seeking kindred spirit
in wallows there.

Setting sun,
rising moon,
warm spring nights,
bass voice
sea chants and ditties
brethren’s choir.

Unhindered esprit,
rain pattering melody,
truth dancing
deep, silent, yearning
nevermore denial be
master of your domain.


©1996-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
A Talking Waters poem

Feel free to share

Tuesday, March 9, 2010


Image: unknown origin


I am crying -

weeping into

no one’s arms

but my own.

Sliding down

cabinetry until

my legs tuck to


The kitchen floor

is cold.

Dogs come and

lap at tear-laden


I miss you.


What do I know

of being a woman

or a corvid feathered



Upon an

emerald isle

I declared my love

for you

Cu Chulainn.

And, like on the battle

grounds of Magh Tureadh

and Mag Tured,

a war began

to rage within my soul.

Then came the hag -

bloodied and raw,

with a knowing

but unpracticed


Your blessing healed.

For a time.


Let not again you see

the Washer at the Ford

or the three goddesses

force dog flesh upon you.

I never more want

to settle on your

shoulder as a bird.

May I eternally be

the woman

at your side.

Re-turn to me.

I will bare my breasts

and offer up my own

heart for your

ecstatic victory


(c) 2003-2010/Jamie K. Reaser


Note: This poem is based on the love story of the
Celtic goddess of battle, strife, and fertility - Morrigan
(from Gaelic Mor Rigan: Great Queen). She is often depicted
with ravens or shape shifting to/from raven form.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Freeing Kindness

Image: origin unknown

Fear, like the cockroach,

runs and scuttles through darkness

and time,

present somewhere

in the vast universe of psyche,

multiplying and mutating

to multiply even more.

It births racists, sexists, murderers,

and those who believe progress

is all about

- more.

Kindness, now that is the

rare animal indeed;

Hunted, exploited, captured

in a cage labeled, “weakness.”

I want to set it free,

and make love with it.

(c) 2004-2011/Jamie K. Reaser