Subtle Beauty

Art: Robert Louis Caldwell (www.rlcaldwell.com)

I can respect beauty that

screams,

“See me!”

and recognize in it my own

innate desire to be noticed.

Blooming is about attraction,

and attraction is an

investment in everything

that is to unfold.

When I was a little girl,

I’d pick buttercups

because they were the

brightest, cheeriest flowers

in the seldom-mown grass.

That was some time ago.

As a woman,

I am drawn to beauty that

is more subtle,

Beauty that requires you

to really look to see a thing.

Beauty that whispers,

“Know me…”

And seeks to release us from

lingering fears of intimacy.

Today the beauty to which

I apprentice sits atop a

bloated carcass.

So many have called him

ugly and disgusting.

He’s been persecuted,

poisoned and shot

for his appearance and habits.

Where we look,

we see aspects of ourselves.

Already the blood has thickened

and the body stiffened,

and he has made the first

strategic tear in the tawny doe skin

that once held a spirit

close to the bones.

I gaze upon every inch of him:

The wrinkling of his bald, black head.

The delicate flare of unencumbered nostrils.

Feathers like pitch.

Scaled feet that remember the ancient

bloodlines and know that their place

is below broad, powerful wings.

His crop bulges, but he is not afraid

to be satiated,

and will join with others of his kind

to pick a body clean;

Sharp, nimble beaks and time

have enabled vultures to swallow

what others cannot.

And this is how it goes in these old fields:

This subtle beauty,

This dark angel on a mission,

escorting the dead,

piece by piece,

nutrient by nutrient,

into the ground

where all former lives

become caretakers of the living.

And this, to me, is beautiful.

Yes, it is true, I have found beauty

and, yes, of course, I shall go on looking for it.

I shall seek out beauty in all

the still hidden places,

All those places I have yet to

dare to go.

Though, yes, in truth,

I do already know:

It is there.

It is always there.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" 
Gratitude to Robert Caldwell for use of the beautiful black vulture sketch. 

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The Vow

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

This that we do with our lives

is a vow,

a promise,

a service if we go at it

humbly enough.

When its golden eyes and gills

become parched in the biting air

and its gaze knows nothing

more than what a hungry

bear can offer of itself,

it is done.

There is nothing more to do.

It is this.

There is no other reason for

any of us to struggle our way

into this world as we do.

All our lives we are called:

“Come!”

“Come!”

We hear.

“This way!”

We call it longing because

we have forgotten

that we speak the usual

language of wild things.

Yet, up river we go.

We must.

We must yield.

Yes.

This we do with our lives

is a vow,

an agreement made in secret

with something truly holy,

a sacrament.

Yes.

I’ll tell you how I know:

I watched a sockeye salmon die.

And, for the first time,

I really understood

my life.

© 2013-2017/Jamie K. Reaser

Published in "Wild Life: New and Selected Poems" 
www.hiraethpress.com

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Do Flowers Feel Betrayed?

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I’m wondering if the crested irises

feel betrayed when the sun coaxes

them up and then the snow piles

on deep,

keeping their vibrant purples

and yellows from the active

world.

They had worked so hard to break free!

They dared to unfurl!

They had faith.

There’s a moral to this story,

though I’m not sure what it is,

or if it’s as interesting as what can

be gained from the simple act

of pondering.

As you’ve probably noticed,

I have a particular fondness

for questions.

© 2013/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Snow Days: Reflections by Candlelight" (a work in progress)

It Must Be Horrible

Photographer unknown

“It must be horrible!” 

I’m not sure how to process

the statement.

It comes as a shock.

Really, it does.

I read their expressions carefully, 

just to make sure 

they are serious.

You can see it in the eyes – the fright.

And then I realize:

They haven’t yet befriended the dark.

Oh, yes.

Then, I suppose, it might seem horrible.

It really might.

I remember my first camping trip:

How soon the sun set.

How the flaps of the platform tent

weren’t tied tight,

and that bothered me.

How something brash came in the night

and rumbled about under the floor boards,

and growled such a vicious growl.

How the girl sharing the tent with me

screamed, and then we both screamed

for the troop mothers to come.

And they didn’t;

not until we screamed again.

How we got in trouble for

making up stories –

Until one of the troop mothers

heard it too.

Yes, that vicious growl from that brash thing.

She screamed too.

They should have apologized,

now that I think about it.

Children deserve apologies

from adults from time to time.

But now I have to laugh,

Knowing what I didn’t know then:

Raccoons are a highly vocal lot.

Have you ever heard them having sex?

Oh.my.god!

I won’t say more; 

it’s something you should experience.

I’m lucky, I guess, to know darkness

as a welcome companion,

a friend,

sometimes,

a suitor.

“No. It’s not horrible,” I want to say.

“It’s good. It’s really quite good. Very good, in fact.”

But I won’t say more;

It’s something to be experienced.

© 2013/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Snow Days: Reflections by Candlelight" (a work in progress)