Up!

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

She was standing in front of me,

to my left side, wearing a white dress

trimmed with lace, tiny flowers printed

upon it, head cocked, arms lifted and

reaching, little fingers wiggling in the air.

“Up!”

“Up!” she said.

This meant something; she had been

dropped so many times before.

~

What’s worse than having

to hold yourself all the time?

Falling from the arms of the

one you trusted to hold you.

No.

Becoming convinced that bruises

should be expected by the vulnerable.

No.

Avoiding vulnerability.

No.

Forgetting that you are always being held.

~

Once I rescued a tiny black-and-white

kitten that someone had thrown into

highway traffic in order to end his life.

His little organs were badly bruised

when his soft body struck the hard

black pavement. Touch hurt him.

Thus, all we did to help him, hurt him.

He didn’t want to be held. Not for

two years.

This morning, when he looked up

at me from the kitchen floor, I lifted

him to my chest and stroked his

soft fur. He was still for a moment,

then sighed. He wedged his head

in under my chin. He began to purr.

He kneaded.

I had been holding out hope

that he would someday know

of this possibility.

~

I know something of the little girl’s

story. Some of her bruises have had

odd colors and shapes, some shaped

like animals. I remember one looked

like a kitten.

~

I find myself wondering:

Is she, us?

~

Have you ever been afraid to look to the

heavens and ask for what you need because

you don’t trust that you will be held?

~

“Up!”

“Up!”

~

I am held.

You are held.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author
From "Truth and Beauty" (a work in progress)

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There Are Some Mornings

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

There are some mornings when

the world does everything possible

to get you out of bed, to draw you

into the curve of the emerging day.

On those mornings, this being one

of them, I think that it is wise, maybe

even a playful thing, to wonder what

blessing is eagerly awaiting

our attentiveness.

© 2016/Jamie K. Reaser

From “Wonderment: New and Selected Poems”

To be published by Talking Waters Press

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The World's Voice

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

You can hear it on some nights...the world's voice...wisdomed
yet also astonished, asking a question that is meant for us. "What
are you doing? This your life." Tonight is one of those nights.


(c) 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser
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What is the World You Want to Wake Up To?

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

What is the world that you want to wake up to?

I want mine to be colorful and rich in texture.

I want to hear children laughing in the woods

as leaves crackle under the scamper of bare feet.

I want to sit in awe of the faces of people

who have grown old enough and wise enough

to wear their storylines.

I want to be able to sit on park benches with

my friends in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Iraq, and Iran

and so many other places

and hold them close,

to cry on their shoulders,

and to wipe their tears.

I want to hold food to my mouth and know that

it is nourishment for this, my body.

It is the only body that I have.

And it is my body. Of this I am certain.

And it is a most sacred temple, not a commodity

to be traded in the market places or

put to work in order to carry out

deeds that indefinitely burden the soul.

I want to be awakened at dawn by the voices of

tiny birds that traverse continents

and be wooed to sleep by streams and owls

and coyotes who are telling me that

they have nothing to fear of my kind.

I want to have faith that the young ones who

will be making decisions when I am weary and

wrinkled are well educated in the school of

worldly experience, and dearly love

this planet that is their inheritance.

I want to call you my Brother,

and you my Sister,

and have no doubt that you see me

as family irrespective of our

differences.

I want us to live together in wonderment

of this heart-cracking world,

not in terror of the skies or the oceans

or the earth beneath our feet because

we collectively betrayed our own Mother.

Sigh.

This is all I want.

This, and to wake up knowing that you

too have your eyes open enough

to go place your vote for the world

that you want to wake up to.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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Protect What Matters

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I want to live in a world in which people

protect what matters. The simple things.

The lovely things. Things that grow in our

hearts and feed our souls. We have it here

and now, the chance, that chance. It

won’t be here tomorrow. This won’t be

here tomorrow. Tell the children, or

step up, speak up, protect what matters.

This land is our land to reap and sow and tend.

Tenderness is how we become human, it’s our humanity.

Step up, speak up, protect what matters

Under skies, under rooves, stories get told and beliefs get made.

If we believe we are enough, we don’t need more than this.

Tell the children, or step up, speak up, protect what matters

Anything good is worth attentiveness.

Anything good is worth saying no for and yes to.

Step up, speak up, protect what matters.

Step up, speak up, protect what matters.

This place is maybe or maybe not, you decide.

This choice is a future in the making, make it well.

Tell the children, or step up, speak up, protect what matters.

I want to live in a world in which people

protect what matters. The simple things.

The lovely things. Things that grow in our

hearts and feed our souls. We have it here

and now, the chance, that chance. It

won’t be here tomorrow. This won’t be

here tomorrow. Tell the children, or

step up, speak up, protect what matters.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From "The Song Book" (A work in progress)

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Mists in the Morning

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

How can we get so lost, banter

on and on about such frivolous things?

The mists lift every morning so that

we can see what is behind

the thick, heavy veils.

Sigh if you are sad. To grieve for what

is lost or broken is an act of attentiveness.

All I ask is that you don’t let them take

your soul. Remember this, please:

you inhabit more than

one world.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

From “Wonderment: New and Selected Poems”

A work in progress

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The Late Summer Day

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I had many things planned for this precious life,

but I’ve since learned that planning is a binding,

a tether, a grip that, when taken up in earnest,

keeps us from freely roaming all of the grand

possibilities. Like old mountains, and cricketed

fields, and long, edgy shorelines.

Now, not knowing is my practice. It works okay.

On most days, and some nights. The dark-skied ones.

I think that mystery is the only medicine for the

wild soul that nags at the feet restlessly;

predictability and sameness pain its true nature.

This, I understand.

Summer is going somewhere, but not in any way

that we can imagine. I could tell you things:

A battered white moth will lose itself to

the chill surrounding a porch light.

The sunflowers will hang their heavy

finch-beaded heads until their bodies snap

and they lie there, welcoming the molds.

The bird voice that was your awakening for

four straight months is gone, but you will be

confounded as to why you overslept.

And, the bear, the bear cares about nothing

more than its belly. You’ll come around a

sharp curve in the trail and, startled by

form and scent, halt. The bear’s head is in

thick duff and acorns. You don’t matter.

Keep walking.

But that won’t be it. It will be something else

entirely; more bold and more subtle.

Yes.

I want the next day to be that for me.

~ 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 Right Place

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Some know what they want. Yes, maybe it is to be among the trees. Or, to be in a garden in some place where a garden is an act of defiance of something.

You advise: Try to find the right place for yourself.

But, I don’t think that’s it. I think we want to be found. I think we need to be found. That’s harder than finding, don’t you agree? To be found, you have to be still. You have to be vulnerable to something that wants you. It could be dangerous. You’re lucky if it is.

People are not alone, but they are lonely. The body has forgotten what it is made of. So has the spirit. I watched a meteor shower last night. I’m not going to go into the details, but that’s some of the stuff.

Here is a good place to be, especially when I take notice of the fact that I’m breathing and muster the gratitude for it. When was the last time you heard your breath? We were given ways of knowing that we are alive and well.

When I talk to the gods, they don’t say much. Why utter lies? I think they are well aware that we are not yet ready for the truth. It’s an interesting thought, that.

The experts say that when you are lost, you should just stay put. Sit. Wait. I haven’t been particularly good at waiting. Maybe that’s because, up until now, I hadn’t really realized what I was waiting for.

~ 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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It Will Be in the Silence

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Sometimes you come upon a place that
beckons you into silence: an old stone bench,
a lake shore, a certain time in your life. Nothing

small can reside there.

I’m looking for that place now, the kind of place

that puts clocks to rest because something must

come forth to reset everything. I don’t want to

follow these rules and constructs anymore -

written, not written, felt.

Something is asking me not to, and it is wise.

Reason doesn’t have roots that run deep enough

to tap the place that I am longing for, that place

where obvious things cannot be explained. That

place that is called sacred even by those who

have never used the word before.

I want you to sit and wait with me, away from the

noise and the voices of those who speak only to rob

you of your name. What most needs to be heard

hasn’t yet been said.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion

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Sunrise

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

What it says is this:

"You are here.
Make the most of it.
I'll offer you something,
but not much.
Lovely colors. A bright form.
An idea, perhaps.
You must be brilliant about it.
Make thoughtful observations.
Commit your heart.
Do something brave.
Make it an act of love.
You won't get this day again."

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author
Published in "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"

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Ponies

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser; Kris and Chris

You wonder if this world will grow kinder eventually,

if there is a piece of some yet-lingering God inside each of us

that has a desire to make something beautiful, or

something beautiful happen, even a little something.

The ponies must have known how the veil had thinned,

how they had already become meat and glue and hide in

the eyes of the auctioneer. “How much to end these

lives?” Bid. Bid high. Sold.

The slaughter truck’s gate-mouth was wide open, its belly

waiting to be filled with the sound of hooves on metal,

fear: its acrid scent, and questions about what a soul

is worth on any given day.

That’s not beautiful. For God’s sake, it is not.

Do you want to cry?  I do cry. Does your heart sink and

crumble because you struggle to live in a world

that has coined pain as currency? I struggle.

The stock yard was growing eerily quiet when they left,

the trailer gate locked behind them, no choices of their

own available. Owned.

In truth, I wasn’t actually there to see it. Someone told me

the story about a month later, on the day that I went to meet

the lovely ponies and place kisses on their soft muzzles.

There was so much life in their eyes.

You see, the Gods had conspired to get a few strangers and

a few dollars together, and something beautiful happened.

I wonder about kindness, and what else it can do.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

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Song for Summer

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

In the days that creep toward summer,
have you noticed how the flowers 
have become practiced at rising into  
the sky and give no hint of the  darkness

from which they emerged? They choose

to be bold. And do you think about the

trees hosting all the little cupped nests and

the little cupped nests holding something

precious that will have to make its way

into the world by taking a risk on an impossible

dream? Can you hear the humidity like I can

hear the humidity, coming alive, growing its own

body out of nothingness? Some people complain

about it, but not me. I know this shroud and

how a woman is to wear it. A dragonfly crosses

paths with a butterfly down by the pond

where the green frog sits edge-wise on

a stone in the sun. Into the night the bats take insects

on wing and the barred owls speak out the only

question they know. This is where I live: in this

place of welcoming and celebration. Summer is on

her way. I will meet her on the porch steps,

wearing my shroud.

~ 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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Pond Lilies

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Do you ever wonder what Monet thought

of the lilies? The ones there in the dark-watered

pond on a summer’s day. Those petals and pads

working their sweet way into his soul.

How is it that we have forgotten this art of

intimacy with the other?  I stand here on the

edge, a thousand voices inviting me to go

deeper.

There are lilies floating.

White vessels for the sky.

Oh, yes, what in this world is perfect?

What resides without wanting to lead

us to the pain of knowing our true selves?

I think the answer is either nothing or everything.

I happen to be someone who finds perfection in

what is broken. How lovely.

A lily broke me open today.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion

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The Trees Speak

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Those who can hear the trees speak have never

had a thought of loneliness. What they know

is joy, and something of grief.

Trees tell amazing stories. Stories told by

generations of trees. They pass them along.

Wherever it is you stand now, there is a tree

that knows the story of that place.

How do I know these things?

I’m crazy enough to ask. That’s all that

this delightful world requires of us:

to be crazy enough.

(c) 2016-2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Conversations with Mary"

To be published by Talking Waters Press 

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The Blue Iris

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

But, what if it is the blue iris?

What if that is all we need to speak

to God, or the gods, or some other

form of the sacred?

I try to pay attention. I piece words together.

This is prayer, yes. But, more so, it is ceremony.

I want to hear another voice. I want a reply.

I want to know that I’m not alone and that

all of this matters.

May I put it in a vase?  May I decorate my home

with it? It is beautiful.

Could I be worthy of something

that I love?

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

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

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My Mother Was

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

My mother was the purple iris,

sometimes a peony, but never

the carnation. My mother was

red lipstick and a big, bright smile

that sometimes lied about how

much she loved her life. She counted

her burdens and could recite them

with ease, but she said that you

could make things better with a bag

of peanut M&Ms. Green ones, especially.

You don’t forget, not all of it.

But when you bury someone

in a blue ceramic jar

near the old boxwoods

and walk away,

things start to become

hard to remember.

I don’t know the meaning of life.

But, maybe, it is simply to take notice.

© 2016-2018/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Conversations with Mary"

To be published by Talking Waters Press

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The Flowers

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

We only lived in that house for a year

and I was only six, but I remember

things. Like, Mom planted a row of

flowers along the walkway to the

front door. They were red and

yellow and orange and shaped like

rooster combs. “Cock’s combs,” a

neighbor said. They fascinated me,

how a flower could look like part

of a chicken. I watched them for

endless minutes, like I expected

something to happen and didn’t

dare miss it. I knew something of

magic then. Perhaps, I simply

expected they’d become chickens,

scratching about the yard for seed

and small insects. But, maybe it

was something even more

miraculous than that. Maybe, it

was some bigger knowing that had

possession over me. I’d put some

in a pot on the stoop of my first

house. For no particular reason, I

thought. And, there would come  

the day when I’d be standing in the

Amazon and meet a field full of the

ancestors of Mom’s flowers, as tall

as me, and I’d feel an odd sense

of family and want to tell someone

about it, but there was no one to tell.

Then, a day would arrive when I’d

have my very own chickens and

while watching them strut, cluck,

and scratch, I’d remember being

a little girl watching flowers, and

realize that I was still watching them.

We shouldn’t underestimate children.

They become something else.

© 2016-2019/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Plant Songs" (a work in progress)

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