Finches in the Morning

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

At the feeders,

in the brisk of morning air,

they come

golden and fluffed

miniatures of the one sun

that everything is waiting for.

Finches cracking the hard shelled seeds

of flowers that radiated their own

kind of celestial joy during a summer

now passed into bittersweet memory.

In the lingering grey of this frigid dawn,

I ask the steam rising from

the kettle:

Do they long for the months

behind and ahead?

Do they count days until they

are once again swaying

like brilliant pendulums on man-tall

flower stalks?

Or, perhaps, they know every moment

as its own kind of happiness:

The look of the black and white stripes.

The width and weight.

The bulbous triangular shape.

The crackle as it breaks.

How far the shards fall and where.

The taste of the tender kernel bits.

The long streak of darkness that flies

so swiftly with equal awareness and intent

from the patient cover of cedar bough.

The air-piercing blades seeking

to grasp the small butter-faced streak

of feathers and flesh

that is now deep in the boxwoods

because it knew precisely

how and when

to change its focus and perch.

And I was there,

at the window,

loving this world,

Making no mistake in judging

the outcome;

each having needs

and a gift of service to

offer through their living,

and dying.

And me, and you?

Could we want anything more?

Could every moment matter this much?

© 2013-2019/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" 

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Leaves Rising

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Each winter there’s a moment

in which my lungs are

completely freed

of stale air ~

The daffodils are rising!

“Oh!”

This, I think, is what it is

to acknowledge prayers

answered:

To fall to ones’ knees.

Just like this.

This is what it is to voluntarily

enlist as the voice of an

encouraging angel

for little, faithful plants who

have been tucked away

in the cold and dark

of the underworld,

Somewhat forgotten.

I reach out and stroke

the green, sleek, blade-like leaves,

So bold against the

dank rot

and grey.

Oh, yes.

I shall push through,

again.

© 2013-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Plant Songs" (a work in progress)

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The Tri-colored Heron

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I couldn’t catch it,

that moment that just

passed me by.

How I wish I had tried!

But no,

I let the moment go to

indecision and doubts.

What if I were a tri-colored

heron knee-deep in pond

weeds and shallows ~

I would starve!

The wild makes no concessions

for that which does not

believe itself worthy of a fish.

There are musts in life if

one wants to go on living.

But that’s just it,

isn’t it…

the want.

I wonder:

Is that want,

the one that keens

the senses we’ve been

gifted,

The one ready to grok

 “Now!” deep in the gut

when the heart hungers,

The one that knows

that moments -

like shimmering, swirling,

big-eyed minnows -

must be grabbed

with full-bodied intent…

Is that want the essence

of our Wildness?

Has domestication of the soul

made us feel so uncomfortable

in our own inner landscape

that we have given up the

desire to feed ourselves?

I think you know the answer.

Me?

I’m going to the pond.

To fish.

© 2013/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Re-Union: Coming Home to Each Other" (a work in progress)

The Jaguar's Bite

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Mayan relief from Palenque, Chiapas, Mexico

The jaguar gripped my hand

in his wet and gnashing mouth.

Wounds are mysterious things;

How they can speak out so long

and loud

after new skin and new stories

tuck them

out of sight…

Sometimes it’s hard to put a

name to the old voice,

Mostly because there are so

many options:

Shame, grief, despair, anger, rage,

Fear…

But it is a growl that is recognizable –

in the ear of memory,

or the pit of the stomach.

And, in the last breath of an addict,

the jingle of prison cell keys,

the door slamming on bruised and beaten hearts,

the moment that innocence is stolen.

And, in all the self-betrayals.

In every act of prey turned predator.

Unlike other cats, jaguars kill

with a bite to the head.

When he takes you by the hand,

it’s an invitation to go

to where you have always

had an invitation to go –

Where Light’s canine teeth

pierce

the Darkness.

It is here where wounds become

Sacred Wounds.

It is here where artists make vows to beauty,

musicians become composers,

poets transform poems into prayers,

prayers become a way of walking,

and the body begins to understand Love.

It is here where poison becomes medicine.

Follow this path,

this path,

though it twists and turns sharply downward,

though it leads to the lair

of everything you have been avoiding…

for a long, long time.

Follow this path,

though you realize:

You’ve already been here.

This is the cave of your dreams.

Yes, yes!

All those nightmares were

perfectly inscribed love notes

from the lily-scented Underworld,

always beckoning you to claim the

potential of this place,

Calling on you to honor

your blood –

The red thread embroidering

the edges of the tapestry

in which past, present, and future

are continuously being

woven together

in a circle.

Back to the jaguar:

I have found him to be a trusty guide.

And, odd as it may seem,

thanked him for the bite.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in 'Wild Life: New and Selected Poems' 

Feel free to share