Sunday, March 20, 2016


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Every year
when it comes,
I ask myself:
“What am I emerging from?”
 “What am I emerging into?”

Sooner or later we must leave
the darkness. Ready or not
the brisk air of early spring
wants bodies to hold on to.

So, I think on the others coming forth.
The bear and her cubs that have been
hidden among the rock walls
above my cabin.

The frogs and salamanders that
were below ground,
breathing through their skin.

The flowers, a sacred pattern
of cells laid out on an invisible
blueprint of celebration.
And I have a question:

how too do I take myself into this world?
I think about how it seems
so effortless to them.
There they are where they
weren’t before.

But poets like to find things,
like an idea,
like a meaning,
something that causes stirring,
because a world that always
sleeps cannot awaken.

So, this is it, I think:
some words on a page,
some questions arising among

Here I am saying,
“It is spring!”

And asking you to notice
that something wants
to emerge,

and must.

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

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Saturday, March 19, 2016

The Carolina Wren

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

It is daybreak and the Carolina wren calls
out from the thick of old boxwoods that stood
around a log cabin and someone else’s lives with
a loud, cheery greeting that has defied the
intricate telling of at least two poets. 
They won’t sing it either. But, they know how to
pay attention, appreciate, and praise a thing. 
Anything. And, this is what he is doing too. This 
bright chortle must be praise. Maybe it is for 
daybreak. Maybe spring. Maybe simply the fact 
that he has a song when so  many have forgotten 
theirs. It could be that it is about tasting a morning 
seed, or little jumping spider, or simply that it is 
with song that he tastes this life. Poets can do the 
same thing with words. We won’t starve. Praise 
satiates. I want to believe that we all have some 
way of coming alive each morning and care to do it, 
to taste this life, and have the courage to say there 
is something holy inscribed in all of it. It’s not 
necessarily about bread or wine. It doesn’t require 
formality. You can be rascally about it, like the wren, 
like some poets. Guess which ones.
There is a wren in the boxwoods next to me.
I have a cup of  tea. And, I’m so grateful
that I couldn’t contain myself.

© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
A work in progress

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Sunday, March 13, 2016

This Night the Rain Spoke to Me

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

This night
the rain
spoke to me
heavy, saying,

“I will create
a place for holding
lovers and their spawn,

and you will be happy
with this earthly life.”

And, it kept its promise
and dropped.
For hours.

And, the night smelled
like spring,  like yearning,
like sex. Like life hell
bent on renewal.

And, I listened to all
the voices crying out
in the darkness
and understood

everything they

And, some part of me
was very happy.

© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"

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Saturday, March 12, 2016

How Many Mornings

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

How many mornings have I risen and forgotten that
rising is a gift? The sun streaming through my window,
or a grey horizon, or rain pelting the metal roof: gifts.
And, the bird song or just bird banter. The dogs begging
with their big brown eyes to be fed the same kibble
they were fed yesterday and all the days before. Gifts.
Mornings deserve tenderness, a caress of gratitude, a
little recognition that nothing is promised. I think that
we could learn to say, “Thank you!” to the sunrise
and keep the world alive.

© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Conversations with Mary"
To be published by Talking Waters Press 

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Saturday, March 5, 2016

What This Is

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

This is a statement about things gone missing.
This is a reflection on beauty and how it is fleeting,
and how memories can never be true
to what we are gifted in any particular moment.
This is a call out to those still here, especially
those who know it. Those who are grateful.
This is an invitation to live. To cherish.
This is a reminder that you don’t get forever.

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

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Tuesday, March 1, 2016

Singing Mice

Art: "3" x "3" miniature by Karine Thoresen

I found a new grief today:

Scientists have discovered that
mice sing like birds, but we can’t
hear them.

I don’t want to be left out of life.

© 2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Wonderment: New and Selected Poems"
To be published by Talking Waters Press in 2017

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