In Her Voice

Photo: Jamie K. Reaser

Until you have been a caged bird,

you cannot truly appreciate the grace of flight,

nor know what it is in your heart to sing a song

from the branch of freedom.

Until you have been beaten down,

you cannot truly appreciate what it is to rise,

and to rise up on the behalf of others.

Until you can hold your fists when others let them fly,

Until you can let the tears come like angels to save

you from your own bitterness,

Until you can package your wounds in colorful wrappings

and glossy ribbons and give them away 

to those who have nothing,

nothing,

Until then, you have not found your own longing.

So, keep going.

Let this world be your place of dark beauty.

Let your heart find its point of breaking.

Earn your joy.

Earn it with all the might of your soul!

But, never forget -

                “Don’t you dare ever let me think that you have forgotten!”

It has been there all along.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

For Maya Angelou, with deep appreciation for her gifts

From "Portraits" (a work in progress)

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Observations

Photo: (c) Barbara Melton

I wonder,

What do the wild geese, looking down, think of us as they

V northward in raucous skeins at winter’s close?

And, what are they saying?

And, why have I not yet learned the vocabulary of passing geese

after so many years of backs and forths?

And, what good is a romantic notion if no one ever gets kissed?

It feels something like that, don’t you think?

The wild invites fullness and emptiness 
     in the same casual breath.

I have been wild. My soul remembers 
     the intuitively tenuous sound of that vow.

Being of the wild requires that we pledge 
     ourselves to authenticity:

A muskrat agrees to be an oily-haired muskrat.

The praying mantis dedicates its two front legs

     to grabbing and holding and worshiping,

And, a bird says, "yes," to being whatever species 

     of bird laid the egg that it pipped out of, 

one "it-must-be-now" peck at a time, 

on that first day of its life.

You must not waiver or doubt your destiny, 

for everything else is depending on you to keep your agreement. 
To show up. To do what it is you do. And, generally speaking,

that will include dying to something bigger than yourself.

Yes, I wonder,

what the wild geese think of us as they V northward

in raucous skeins at winter’s close.

Perhaps they say to each other:

“See, down there, the footprints upon the land?

This is what it looks like when a species breaks the promise.”

And, meanwhile, here we are, looking up and thinking:

“Oh, a flock of geese!

Oh, how wonderful it must be to be wild and free.”

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Conversations with Mary: Words of Attention and Devotion"
Many thanks to Barbara Melton for the beautiful greater snow goose photo!

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Rolling Snowmen

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

I can’t remember the last time I rolled

a snowman. I would have been a young girl,

wearing my hair in two long brown braids,

and blissfully naïve to what was coming,

ignorant of the fact that childhood can

end so abruptly,

and without warning, explanation, or apology.

Had I been wiser, I would have cherished

everything about that day:

I’d be able to tell you the color of the sky,

the rate of snow fall,

the size of the flakes,

the thickness of the pack,

and if it were wet or a little too dry.

Was it particularly cold?  Had my mother 

knitted my cap, or scarf?

Was the snow still falling while I made him,

or had it stopped?

How big was he? 

Certainly, I used a carrot for the nose. 

Rocks for eyes?  Was he smiling?

Did someone help? Younger sisters? The neighbor-kids?

And, what did it all smell like? There were pines 
in the front yard – one very big.

Is that where I learned that each species of pine 

has a different odor? Was I wrapped

in a perfume of pine and snow and happiness?

**

Now I’m going to show my age, and maybe some experience.

I have chosen to apprentice to

that which teaches me

to cherish every moment:

uncertainty

wonderment

gratitude.

The sky is platinum.

The snow is falling fast;

a dizzying cascade of thick, wet flakes

forming fluffy biceps on the boughs

of the evergreens, which,

yes, I can smell from the threshold of

my open front door – made of solid mahogany.

A male cardinal just called out.

I want to be sure to acknowledge him -

this crimson guardian of winter hope.

After all,

this could be my last poem.

Or, yours.

~ Jamie K. Reaser, Author

Published in "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"

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Awakening

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Everything

I see and hear

is some form of life, saying:

“I want to wake up.

I want to be alive again.

I have slept long enough in darkness.

I am here.”

The titmouse in its song.

The daffodil in its bloom.

The wood frog quacking in the pond.

On these early spring mornings,

I want to arise with active hope.

I want to exclaim, “Me too!”

And, I want to find moments under

the crisp vibrant-blue sky to wonder

about things that it can seem

so dangerous to wonder about in winter.

Like:

The possibility that we too can awaken

and save the world

that is ourselves simply

by showing up.

© 2014-2017/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Wonderment: New and Selected Poems"
To be published by Talking Waters Press 

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The Flame

Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

Sometimes you have to pour out the melted wax,

or it will drown the flame.

**

One winter night when I was twelve,

my father started a fire in the fireplace.

Just as the flames began to rise,

a large, hairy wolf spider emerged

from under the bark of one of the logs.

I squealed, afraid for its life and

grabbed for crumbled newspaper and kindling

in the hope of urging it to me.

Instead, it ran through the fire, its two back legs

igniting, dragging, singed and paralyzed.

I screamed, unable to stand the pain.

And, then, mercy took it all at once,

and left me wailing.

**

I’ve lost count of the campfires I’ve known, and

the bonfires too. And, forgotten the names of most

of faces that were there, circled, in the 
captivating flicker of light.

Not so long ago, our kinship would have

been a matter of survival, and the stories that

arose, like smoke, would have been our bloodlines.

**

Salamander

Greek: salamandra

Fire lizard

Spotted salamanders will crawl through the snow to mate

and place opaque egg masses on plant stalks in the shallows

of temporary ponds.

True.

**

We put many things into the flames –

to heat our bodies

to nourish our bodies

to free our souls...

To kill the projections of our fear.

**

The phoenix arises from the ashes.

But, not just any ashes: the ashes of its predecessor.

Manifestation is not possible without destruction.

Destruction is not possible without manifestation.

**

Ask a prairie what it knows of fire

and it will answer you

with flowers and grasses

and gratitude for your question.

Thank you for taking the time to notice

what brings it alive.

**

What do I know of lovers and candlelight?

**

Sitting here with this flame,

on this night,

I know that I can love this world.

**

Pour the wax slowly.

(c) 2014-2017/Jamie K. Reaser

From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"
Published by Hiraeth Press 

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