The Primary Drought

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The water lilies

can’t explain

why they lie in a crispy heap

on a bed of crackled red clay,

or where the frogs

have gone.

It’s early in the season.

But, when the rain stops

a silence sets in.

Those who have not

yet given up their bodies,

pray that Death is so otherwise

occupied that he doesn’t notice

they still swill the firebrand air.

I walk through tinder fields

of tall chicory,

blue flowers closed off

to a nauseous sun.

Interesting isn’t it,

how so many people

stop to talk about

the drought?

“Tragic,” they say.

And I wonder about hearts folded

up tight against the light

and what it would take to saturate

the human spirit with a love

for this world.

Could our full presence

float flowers?

I’m open to the possibility.

Fear is a stingy master though,

and we in-habit the primary drought,

I think.

The torment of this craving landscape

is a merciless repercussion.

“Tragic,” I say.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life"

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Hermit Thrushes in the Morning

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

On an overcast morning in July,

hermit thrushes

ping-pong snippets of their

liquid melody between

north and south ridges.

I don’t understand

the loquacious banter

and I think this tragic.

If a pair of angels stood

in my midst,

would I just carry on,

neglecting to surrender my being

to the symphony of their

holy language?

Intimacy is the turnkey to the soul.

Unbearable passion is what births

everyday miracles.

Why choose to explain a cloud

rather than lie on your back

in tall grasses

and watch a menagerie

shapeshift as it passes?

I don’t claim to have any answers,

But I know this world wasn’t made

to entertain the diminutive thoughts

of reasonable people.

This world was made for those

whose heart breaks

for want of a grand romance

in which they can

never fully partake.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life" and 
"Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" 

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Cicadas

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

The curanderos have shed

their last underworldly skin

and taken to the trees.

Chakapa wings drone icaros,

incanting me into my

animal nature

and beyond all hope

of aloneness.

Since my very first summer,

this has been

what a million essential insects

have asked of me.

Today I heard them.

***

When I was a young girl

I’d pluck cicada exoskeletons

off tree trunks and fence posts.

Bronze and sun-crisped,

I’d delight in the concept that

form can be outgrown.

I adorned my ear lobes with them,

and my fingers –

Like priceless jewels,

the riches of the wooed and betrothed.

Little then did I know

that it was this child’s play

that would teach me

how to fall in love.

***

I said, “Yes!”

and became a bride

to the world.

! Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life" (www.hiraethpress.com)

Berry Picking

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Right arm outstretched.

Thumb and forefinger

poised for delicate

pluck.

Memory and anticipation

rise and spiral

like two strands of DNA

in a rambunctious act of creation.

Herbaceous nibbles,

red and robust,

are offered in abundance

at the sky-cast perk

of bramble tangle

not by accident.

Summer’s succulence

is juicy bait for the soul.

Court it,

And eventually you’ll learn

that every thorn in life

is an invitation to

slow down

and be attentive.

It’s the only way

to harvest fruits.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life" 

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The Breeze

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser


What is the breeze other than

children’s laughter,

last breaths,

and lover’s kisses blown

as hopes and despairs

in the same desirous language

the world over?

Wing beats of butterfly and bird,

and the angel you refuse to acknowledge,

all trying to nudge

the Wanderer of you

into the vacant arms of The Great Mystery.

Leaf slides against leaf

like a bow rides a string during

the third course of

instrumental love making.

“Shhhhh,” they say to every other name

but the one that has been

trying to reach your parched lips

since the moment of your

well-intended conception.

It could all begin with

the nerve endings

in your skin.

When will you stop ignoring

that which touches you?

© 2011-2016/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in "Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life" 
www.hiraethpress.com

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To Be Moved

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Finally I have meditated

long enough

to realize

stillness is a ruse.

Everything riding this

rotund blue dervish

is in constant motion.

What the honeysuckle-infused breeze

asks of us

is not contemplative passivity,

But an active surrender to the possibility

of being moved.

© 2011-2015/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in"Sacred Reciprocity: Courting the Beloved in Everyday Life" (www.hiraethpress.com)

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Akhilandeshvari’s Crocodile

Photo: Akhilandeshvari - Hindu goddess "Never Not Broken"

Sometimes it seems like

your entire world is

in a tail spin.

Everything moves so fast that

focus and certainty

become nothing more than the

theoretical constructs

you obligingly recount

in stories wailed to your old self

with a sense of foolish piety.

Welcome aboard.

You’re riding the scaly back

of Akhilandeshvari’s crocodile.

Around and around you go.

Weeeeee!

Let’s See:

How many pieces have you broken into?

Count them.

There’s a pretty good chance

that the head has been severed

at the neck

and the heart has been

sliced open.

“Cosmic surgery!”

gleefully shout the mystics

in all the Truth traditions.

“Spinning,

when invoked with courageous intent,

can nourish the body and soul,”

they say.

Have you not noticed

the feverish whirl

of their dance,

instruments,

and tongues?

Torn apart from the masks,

self betrayals,

and toxic aphrodisiacs

in all forms and strides,

Your inventory will reveal that

all that no longer serves

has been purged from your

own reptilian being.

It is impossible for you

to reconstruct

what was.

Yeah!

Congratulations –

you’ve had a complete break down.

The dark ferryman will help you

disembark from the crocodile

at the next bridge crossing.

When he does,

look for the sign.

It will read something like this:

“Only you know the way.”

Oh, and re-member to thank

the crocodile.

If you look closely,

you’ll catch a glimpse

of your indestructible beauty

reflected in his tears.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" 

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