Dogs Without Leashes

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Dogs have stories.

People have stories.

~

I saw her in the morning, on one of those

sites on the internet. I had gone for two

months without a dog. That was enough.

In the afternoon, I drove to the shelter,

an hour and a half, and asked to meet her.

A middle-aged woman went to the back,

to the place of cement and shiny metal, of

kennel rows and forlorn once-they-were-wolves

singing out their deep grief and longings.

I waited.

The door opened. She slunk into the room

on her pink belly. I came to my knees

to greet her.

“Hello, pretty girl.”

She urinated on the floor. I lifted my right hand

to the nape of her neck, and began stroking

her soft fur, black and white, all the while saying

lovely things. She trembled and tried to make

herself smaller than her bones were able to go.

Beneath my fingertips, under her tight skin, rolled

hard round pellets, several, put there by a shotgun blast.

Trapped there. Part of her body.

“May I take her for a walk?”

Outside, she strained to the end of the nylon leash,

wild-eyed, scanning the woods and fields,

planning the direction and speed she would go,

should she break from what tethers her to this world.

~

Whenever we go hiking, she runs out ahead of

me on the trail – up the mountain or down. Every

so often she’ll stop, and look back, tongue lolling.

“Are you coming?!” 

“Please, let’s keep going!”

“Yes. I’m coming.”

“I’m coming, pretty girl.”

She runs back down the path towards me, smiling,

coming nearly close enough for me to touch her, but

never close enough. There’s a glint in her eye. Her tail

is wagging. She turns, and bolts off again, full speed

ahead, and around the next bend.

I watch her go.

~

When I went back into the lobby, the woman

behind the counter looked anxious, embarrassed,

perhaps, apologetic.

“We have lots of other dogs,” she said.

“I can bring you several more to meet.”

“No need,” I said, handing her the adoption

form and the fee.

“We understand each other.”

© 2015-2017/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Conversations with Mary"

To be published by Talking Waters Press in 2017

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Coming Home: Now Available!

NOW AVAILABLE...

"In this collection of new poems, Jamie K. Reaser explores the journey and meaning of coming home. She invites the reader along as welcomed guest, witness, and co-walker. The way is demarcated by the themes that define her work: nature and human nature. Whether the poems were inspired by reflections on birthright, a black dog, or someone poaching wild ginseng, Reaser reminds us that the only way to truly come home is to actively love this world – a learning process for every human."

http://www.amazon.com/…/B004X2X6O8/ref=dp_byline_cont_book_1

Visit Amazon.com or other major online retailers

Or, ask your local independent bookstore to order a copy for you

Winter Solstice

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Sometimes it is the growing darkness

that writes the lines. How foolish we

are to think that we are not bound by

this. The red bird and I are animals. You

would admit to this too, I think. Short days

make for short foraging. It’s not always

about food though. Sometimes, it’s about

finding something else vital that you need to

sustain you. Survive. Joy, for example.

I know people who are starving.

I put out seed for the birds. I have enough to

share and their joy is mine. That’s what the

short days are for – to realize that time is short.

We best receive what is offered and give joy.

“Come! Come! The feeder is full.”

The sun is rising. Make thoughtful haste. 

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

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People in Winter

Photo: (c) Barbara Melton

Foxes don’t try to hide what it takes

to live. They see no reason for shame,

and so do their deeds in the bright of

moonlight, sometimes announcing them,

like the vixen did in the meadow two

nights after she took my golden rooster

by the neck.

In winter, there are two thieves:

The fox and the season trying

to steal the fox.

One of them succeeds.

You can’t blame it.

Why do people look upon the angel

in the snow and say they are that?

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award silver medal for poetry

Many thanks to Barbara Melton for use of the photo

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When Men Sell Their Souls

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

“When men sell their souls,

where do the souls go?”

It’s an important question,

if we want to get them back.

And, we should, you know.

There are good reasons to do it.

~

I have a deep fondness for hollow

trees, they welcome so much to live

within them: a screech owl whom I

have known personally and, on my

farm, there is an old black locust filled

with thick honeycomb and sweet,

golden honey and so many bees that

the tree hums and vibrates under a

many-lined palm laid gently upon the

vertical-running bark. We keep each 

other secret.

But, hollow people, they don’t let

the lovely things in.

~

I find myself spending more and more

time with trees.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

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Those Who Bow Their Heads

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I too want to keep the company of those

who bow their heads. What is our

purpose if it is not attentiveness

and gratitude? Let us have allegiances

with that which breaks us open and

that which makes us whole.

Have you noticed how the light finds

you, but always gives you over to the

darkness so that you can see what is

really there to see? Listen to the voices

around you, I have begged, how they tell

you about humanity in gestures. Your

humanity, theirs, mine, ours. How much

of it we have neglected out of neglect of

this generous world. I want to comfort

this place with a million utterances of,

“Thank you!”

Let me find other words too, always, and

walk with reciprocity in my step. Always.

If we were having dinner together tonight,

I’d say something simple like:

“There is food on the plate.

Lives have made it so.”

That’s plenty of reason, certainly you

agree, to bow our heads in attentiveness

and in gratitude.

“Thank you!”

“Thank you!”

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award silver medal for poetry

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The Fire Song

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I have walked among the sage, brushing

it with my palms and wafting into my nostrils

the scent that lingers in the cup of my hands.

You don’t forget this. Not the circumstances,

not the place. Explain this to me.

I’ve never seen a sage grouse dance. I’ve

heard tell that it’s like watching a feathered

dervish making his way between the worlds.

A spiral up. A spiral down. I believe that’s possible.

When I was a little girl, I’d sing a nursery rhyme

to ladybugs. Do you know it?

“Ladybug, ladybug fly away home. Your

house is on fire…”

People thought I did it because I like ladybugs,

and I do. But that wasn’t it.

Have you stopped to wonder why certain plants

will come all the way across the world to ask

you what you love?

That was it.

That moment when a ladybug must stop

everything she is doing to save her home,

to save her children.

Will she?

“Ladybug, ladybug.”

Do you care enough to go home?

If you listen closely, you can hear those weeds

out there singing the same song, the fire crackling.

“The sage?” They ask.

“The sage-grouse?” They ask.

So often, I’ve found answers to adult conversations

in the memories of my childhood.

“What do you care enough about to 
stop everything for?”

“The sage?” They ask.

“The sage-grouse?” They ask.

There have been a lot of fires recently.

“The sage?” They ask.

“The sage-grouse?” They ask.

                              

Large areas going up in smoke.

How many of us remember that this is our home?

How many of us will remember that this is our home?

I love the sagebrush and the sage-grouse. I want 
to dwell on the scent of sage again.  I want to see 
that dance. I want to be close enough for dust 
disturbed by bird feet to settle on my boots and jeans.

I hear the song of the fire.

I want to go home.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

For the participants in the Western Invasive Weed Summit

Boise, Idaho, November 2015

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Sufis Whirling

Photo: origin unknown

I like to think about Sufis whirling, wondering

what they see, or if they see at all. Maybe,

there is something beyond seeing.

I think, perhaps, it is knowing. You,

understand, don’t you?

Poets must have one foot in knowing and

the other in what is not knowable. That’s our dance.

© 2015-2019/Jamie K. Reaser

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

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The Angels in My Head

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I have angels in my head.

They teach me to be a better human

than I would be if left to this rather

awkward task alone.

They say things like:

Stop!

Look!

Listen!

Here, now!

They give me a chance. They nudge me

into re-membering that there is a difference

between living and existing. Things exist.

I want to do better than that.

Sometimes they quarrel.

Quarreling angels make for interesting

company. Sometimes, there is just so

much good, so much loveliness, so much

wonderment to be experienced that

these angels feel the need to fight

for my attention.

I think this is what it means to be blessed.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Conversations with Mary"

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award silver medal for poetry

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Homecoming

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I’m thinking about what happens when you go back
to a place that was once fond of you and see all

those strangers you’ve known for many years,

and how so much will have changed, undoubtedly,

but not the fact that you are still wondering who you

are and how all of this is supposed to fit together,

somehow. There are bridges that convey us between two
points on this Earth, and others that take us

on entirely different journeys. I’ve stood on both.
I want to see the ducks, yes, of course, the ducks of

the ducks that once held my confessions, hear the

yellowed beech leaves crackle beneath my boots,

and try, very hard if I must, to remember

things that I never thought were important. Somewhere

along the winding brick pathways and boxwood-edged

gardens, I’ll stop and say my hellos to some soul or another.

I’ll mean everything I say in the words that follow. A poet

is always earnest. The trouble is though, we never truly

find our way home. And, we know it.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"

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Leaving

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

On these mornings you can hear the trees themselves
speaking, not the birds that have lifted into currents
and gone on two miraculous wings. There is grief
in their voices, and relief. You know what this feels
like, if you have lived. Leaving: letting go of what no

longer serves the body and soul, often the heart. I can

standby, beside and underneath, and give some sense

of comfort by telling them how beautiful this process

is, how I admire the way they do it with the bold

prospect of witnesses.

I think that relating to the leaf is harder than relating

to the tree, unless you consider that the bird left

the tree for some grand adventure, and then you go on to

realize that we are all leaving each other constantly.

Our old selves, too.

It was a tree, on one of these delicate barren mornings, 
that said to me: 

“I love to watch you change and grow.”

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "Plant Songs" (a work in progress)

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Mountain Stream Poem

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I’ve looked, but I cannot find a poem

that Mary Oliver has written about

a rushing mountain stream, the

kind that takes on the tongues

of gods after storms have done

their cleansing and prepared the

land for what is next to come. How

could she not? How could her pen not

have stopped here, so many times

before, wondered, listened, and then

told the stories that the gods want

us to hear, want us to live?

I have written one for her.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award silver medal for poetry

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Water Ways

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I took form in this aqueous place, this place of 

tentative buoyancy,  in this life, decades ago, in 

other lives, perhaps, long since, in ways that I 

cannot understand but some part of me

recalls as belonging.

As a child, I meandered in brooks, turning over 

rocks for crayfish and salamanders, salamanders 

that still had gills, indicating that they were still 

young in the way that we are still young.

And, in the summers, I went to the beach, where 

waves taught me how to take hold and how to let go, 

and where I learned that I am ruled by the moon at 

least as much as the sun and other stars.

Have you ever noticed how the moon has chosen 

water to hold her reflection, only water?

I am not a fish, but I have looked into the eyes of fish, 

many. I am not a whale, but I have looked into the eyes 

of whales, a few, and each time I find myself there. Other 

orbs too. Like blue marbles that sparkle iridescent in the 

sunlight and in the gleaming of those who hold them 

between thumb and forefinger.

Have you ever noticed that when you walk up to a fountain 

with pennies in your pocket in a grand city or some out of 

the way little town that your heart beats differently than it 

did the moment before you stepped onto the bricks, or 

cobblestones, or asphalt that led you there?

Rain. A metal roof. That’s enough.

I have had relationships with puddles that are deeper than

with those who have called themselves family, some who

have called themselves friends.

You? When was the last time you jumped in one?

What was the point of this story?

It had something to do with water, how in water you can

drift back and away, and how despite – but I believe because of –

this drifting, this floating, this letting go of some proverbial

shoreline, you can come back from some place remembering

every thing, everything, that is essentially you.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "Wonderment: New and Selected Poems" (a work in progress)

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A Snake in the Hand

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

My parents decapitated every snake

they saw. I remember watching severed

heads and severed bodies writhing,

separately,

in the grass. The mouth would open and

close, open and close. It was pink inside.

Maybe, black.

When I was old enough to read field guides,

my parents got in trouble. Big trouble.

According to the books, there were no

venomous snakes where we lived. None.

Every single species was harmless. Actually,

they did good things.

I was not happy.

I laid down the law. “You aren’t allowed to

kill any more snakes!” My declaration was

non-negotiable and backed by facts. Plenty.

That was the day that I learned to stop

trusting everything adults said and did.

The next snake that I encountered was

a garter snake – a large female. I reached

down and picked her up, gently placing the

fingers of my right hand behind her narrow

head and supporting her sleek body with

my left hand, just like the books said to do.

Then, I went to find my parents.

I was told that ‘it’ was not coming into the

house. Ever. But, I was given a playpen-sized

box that an appliance had arrived in earlier

that week.

The snake and I spent most of that day

on the back patio in that box with grass

that I pulled and worms that I caught.

She ate a big one. It was still wriggling

when it disappeared into the universe

inside her.

I learned a lot about snakes that day,

like how easy they are to love.

I let her go.

And, the next day, I went down to the

brook that ran patiently behind the house

– Harrison Brook –

where I knew northern watersnakes

lived in holes at the top of clay banks.

I waded in waist deep, causing water

to separate at my left hip and embrace

me before flowing onward, and waited for

them to swim by – going to or from their

streamside apartments. When they came

my way, swimming, I’d put my hands in the

water under their long undulating bellies

and gently lift them up. Then, I’d get

bitten. It never hurt much, but it did

draw blood. Sometimes.

I did this again and again, until they

trusted my particular touch. Then, I’d sit

with one or two on the sandy shoal at

the turn in the creek and just look at them

and talk to them. I think they said things

to me too, but I don’t remember

what, exactly.

All demons can be befriended this way.

The snake in my hand, right now, is a lovely

ringneck, steel gray with a golden belly and

collar. She’s silky smooth and elegant,

looped around my thumb and forefinger.

I relate to scales in much the same way that

religious people relate to beads. Holding her

is an act of prayer. But, what is the

prayer? This is my question. I think that it is

a good one.

I think, perhaps, I’m still praying for those

decapitated snakes. Or, maybe, I’m praying

for people. Decades have passed. I’m still

clear about who is harmless. But, it seems,

much of the world is not.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

Winner of the Nautilus Book Award silver medal for poetry

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