Singing to Monsters

Image: Sophie Munns (?)

The day will come

when the monster

that haunted the halls

of your childhood nightmares

stands in front

of you

wielding what seems

to be

power over your Fate.

You can hope that

he’s not hungry

in that moment,

but he will be.

A karmic lack

of Holy satiation

is what makes a monster.

He will want to devour you

because your absence

makes him feel safe.

Listen closely now -

I will re-mind you

of what all true faery tales

teach:

When confronted

by a monster,

Sing.

Sing the song that

Life has been composing

in your heart –

breath-note by breath-note.

Sing until the monster

returns to human form.

Sing until the wounded child

who was the monster

is wounded no more.

Sing until the child who

was wounded is initiated

into authentic adulthood.

Sing until the authentic adult

who was the child

has found within his own heart

the harmony that complements

your song.

Sing until the duet

re-minds all those dwelling

between Heaven

and Earth

that Love

is what

transforms.

© 2010-2011/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in "Note to Self: Poems for Changing the World from the Inside Out" (www.hiraethpress.com)

Remove the Shackles

Image: origin unknown

It's time to remove

the shackles.

The angel at your left ear

finally reports:

“The bindings have reached

their expiration date.”

Free your Self.

You are not the property

of others,

of culture,

of dogma,

of your limiting beliefs and fears.

Stop volunteering

to wilt in the dungeon.

Let the gallows be nothing

more than a guano-encrusted pigeon perch.

Give the heavy, cold chains

that have weighed you down

back to the wounded-child-Master

link by link,

like prayer beads

intended for a long meditation

on compassion.

Refrain from thrashing

yourself

with shame

for where you have been.

Instead,

release yourSelf to live,

from this moment forward,

in communion with

empathy and joy.

Turn towards the

tens of millions still bodily

enslaved

and so many more

indentured in soul.

Become an abolitionist

of what no longer serves.

I know,

You now know

how to set

Humanity

free.

© 2010-2013/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in "Note to Self: Poems for Changing the World from the Inside Out" (www.hiraethpress.com)

Mom's Handbags

Image: found at thisisnext.com


Note: October is Breast Cancer Awareness month. In order
to draw attention to the issue, women have been asked to
post on their Facebook wall where they place their handbags when
not in use..."I like it in/on the..." Last night my two sisters
and I tried to remember things about our mother and her
handbags. She died of breast cancer in April 1995, at the age
of 52. Please support breast cancer awareness, and promote
the lifestyle choices that prevent it.

Time has been kidnapping our memories

of the little things:

Her daily routines,

the zany habits.

We used to laugh –

with her and at her.

Today we tried to recall handbags.

There was the decoupaged wooden box

with a cold metal strap that she crafted

herself in the basement in the ‘70s.

In the ‘80s we were broke.

She made do with a LeSportsac

hand-me-up

and a gray faux leather bag,

so frayed at the edges that

the cording showed.

Grandma complained at the sight of it,

nearly as much as she complained

that Mom needed a haircut

in order to show off her neck better.

In the ‘90s she took to big totes,

carting around her knitting,

reading materials,

and colorful scarves -

Things to bide her time

and distract.

She wasn’t good at keeping house

or tending handbags.

She’d dig and dig

and dump on counter tops

for keys, glasses, and that lipstick.

She was always putting on lipstick.

This we remember best.

The spread of the bright red grease.

The smack of the lips on Kleenex

until she approved of the mirror’s presentation.

This was ritual.

And there is one thing more we remember:

Our mother kept her purses in the liquor closet.

That’s just the way it was.

© 2010/Jamie K. Reaser

The Hickeys on My Cheeks

Image: origin unknown

For decades,

the Sun has planted

passionate

hickeys upon my cheeks.

Brown and splotchy,

they greet my eyes in

the reflections of glass

and puddle,

And my mind caresses

the memories of so many lusty,

blue-sky rendezvous.

Oh, but,

Recently,

a woman gasped

at the sight of me:

“You have so many

liver spots!”

she exclaimed.

Her expressions spoke

of horror -

like Death himself

had just, suddenly,

for the first time ever,

whispered in her ear:

“People age.

Then people die.

You too.”

And, in a voice pleading

for naiveté,

she moused:

“You can cover them

with make up,

you know.”

Two years prior,

a dermatologist

enthusiastically offered to

“make them go away.”

I,

looking inside,

declined.

Hmmm.

Why, I wonder,

would anyone want

to destroy evidence

of life-long courtship

with a Faithful Lover?

No.

These that mark me

are the love notes

of Life.

I am growing older

and I shall do what

any woman would

do who has

wisdomed

through her

experience of Love Making.

I shall, until I die,

invite

a notorious

ménage à trios

with Crows.

© 2010-12 Jamie K. Reaser

Published in "Note to Self: Poems for Changing the World from the Inside Out" (www.hiraethpress.com)