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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This Morning

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

This morning I walked

in the rain like it was something

that I was born into,

joy and pleasure falling

onto my skin from dark clouds

that kept departing the

horizon for some place

else,

for someone else’s story.

Not mine. Everything was so

happy! Puddles, leaves, white

flowers, and a robin hatched this

year who was finding his

particular voice at the top of

a snag.

I was soaking wet.

It was a good way to start the day.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in  "Coming Home: Learning to Actively Love this World"

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