Darkness is the cape that
clothes me.
I am learning to see with
listening eyes,
and walk silently amidst the
shadows.
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
leaves?
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.
Life
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.
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"
Suddenly,
I am crying -
weeping into
no one’s arms
but my own.
Sliding down
cabinetry until
my legs tuck to
chest.
The kitchen floor
is cold.
Dogs come and
lap at tear-laden
cheeks.
I miss you.
***
What do I know
of being a woman
or a corvid feathered
black?
**
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
death.
Your blessing healed.
For a time.
Agony.
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
feast.
(c) 2003-2010/Jamie K. Reaser
_________________________
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
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