Part II

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

So I remained still,

and what found me were ghosts

wanting me to give them names.

Though they had come and lingered before,

they had never asked this of me before,

and it wasn’t hard,

it was like remembering the names

of lovers,

or the one name they shared,

and, actually, it was this,

exactly this,

and I was astonished by the profound simplicity

of it.

One ghost,

One name.

And, it wasn’t God.

~

I didn’t pay much attention in church growing up.

I scribbled on the yellow-toned donation slips that 

were tucked into

the back pocket of the pews.

It provided distraction from my father’s sobs and

my mother’s down-turned face,

and the shame-cast looks of those sitting in front,

behind,

and to the sides.

But that was only for one year.

The ministers didn’t want us back after he left.

~

I’ve been thinking on things, like:

Angler fish

and alligator snapping turtles

and venus fly traps.

In clever ways, they say:

“Come here,

I have something to offer you.”

You think it’s something good.

Something you want.

Something that will make you feel better,

and all the while they are just hoping

that you are gullible enough

to let them devour you.

It’s not personal.

It’s just what they do,

and it wouldn’t seem reasonable

to apologize for it.

~

And that’s when the white dove

returned

to me,

alighted so gently within me.

Firmly.

She is my re-membrance of me

as something holy.

~

That ghost is no longer Holy.

I am.

© 2014-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"

This poem follows another entitled, 'In the Morning.'
Published by Talking Waters Press
Available from Amazon.com and other major retailers

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In the Morning

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Do you know mornings that refuse

to fully release

the night’s dreams?

I do.

I’ve learned to apprentice to them,

their want for me to re-member

that I am alive in other places,

that what we most long for can find

us when we are still.

A small white feather drifted, downward,

falling in gentle swinging motions, coming

from the clear blue sky onto land

that we had stood on together, side by side,

so very long ago,

I could remember the texture of the warm

soil under my bare feet,

and the view of the side-sprawling mountains

on the salty-blue horizon that we had

walked towards with an intent to be

something else,

and I wondered

how the white dove you had gifted me

found me again.

© 2014-2020/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"
Published by Talking Waters Press

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The Sound of Snow

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

She asked me how to describe the sound

of snow falling softly in the mountains.

I stood among the flurries until the tears came,

until I couldn't stop them. Not even

if I’d wanted to,

and I didn’t.

And, after a good long while, I replied:

“You must let your heart break for want of love.

You must listen carefully when it does.

Whatever it is you hear then,

that is it;

That is the sound of snow falling,

softly,

in the mountains.”

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight" 

~  for Ann Dye  ~

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I Will Choose a Bluebird

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

In the so-many-days-of-grey

            Winter

I will choose a bluebird as

my god.

It is not hard to do;

The heart has needs - like being pleased

by the flit-about presence of little-winged spirits

in meadow and wood,

how they can remain so cheery through it all.

I haven’t mastered that.

There’s a good chance, I never will.

Still, sometimes, I’ll give it a go.

But, mostly I’m a creature of seriousness

who wonders on things as a way of

finding the holy in the unspeakable truths.

Does this warrant an apology to my maker?

Maybe,

maybe not:

I have to believe that bluebirds

aren’t quite done

making us human.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "Wonderment: New and Selected Poems"
A work in progress

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The Encounter

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I heard it at the front door.

The front door!

This great scream.

It was, in fact, a scream,

And it begged me to

come running,

running on a large-shoed foot

of wonderment

and another of fear,

striding, one after the other.

What could it be? This thing that screams.

At my front door!

And there he was.

                I had asked for him only days before.

And there he was.

I grabbed my camera and headed after him.

Slowly, but fast too.

He looked back,

making sure I was there,

and sauntered.

He sauntered down the driveway away from the cabin.

No. He loped.

He loped down the driveway, picking up

his big (magnificent!) paws and letting me

count the pads below

and memorize their shape

and their position so that I’d know his signature

anywhere;

In mud maybe, or snow. By the creek. I’m sure.

And there he was.

There we were.

And, then, he leapt to the right,

bounding into thick greenbrier and up the mountain

slope he was gone.

He didn’t ask permission to leave.

Or, even gesture a “Goodbye.”

He was informal. The wild isn’t polite.

No one has ever told it to be and it wouldn’t be anyway.

But, there he had been.

And, there we had been. Together. Long enough

to know of the existence of the other.

Long enough to be able to say we had

an encounter.

How would he describe it?

Long enough for me to feel blessed

and him to feel whatever he felt.

I could claim that my prayer was answered.

I certainly can’t deny it.

I had so wanted to see a bobcat.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"

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