Whispering winds wind into our heart,
pressing ever gently into tomorrow, where
so much dirt
can become a pile of goodness.
Remember the ant, and
speak harshly to them
when they steal from you.
……………. and This I do Now………… for You
Expect the sun to rise, and it will not.
Ignore it, and it comes to you willingly,
crying sun drops, wanting cloudlings to
hide its loneliness.
Wait only for the one who waits for you,
which is you, waiting,
waiting without a magazine.
“For many, love is a two-sided coin.
It can strengthen or stifle, expand or enfeeble,
perfect or pauperize.
When love is returned, we soar.
We are taken to heights unseen,
where it delights, invigorates, and beautifies.
When love is spurned, we feel crippled,
disconsolate, and bereaved.
Polish the coin and you will see only
requited love on both sides.
I was destined to love you and
I will belong to you forever.”
“The best love is the kind that awakens the soul
and makes us reach for more,
that plants a fire in our hearts
and brings peace to our minds.
And that’s what you’ve given me.
That’s what I’d hoped to give you forever.”
What Cannot Be Mended
I have met with things that
cannot be mended:
and once a glassy-eyed herring gull
whose right wing (or was it left?)
lay beside him,
on a cold slab of cement,
tethered to his shoulder
by a single,
strand of tendon.
I took his last breath from him
and, decades later,
still keep it safe in a secret chamber
of my heart.
What of this fabricated world?
While I do hear the despairing mouths
and carpal tunneled-hands
screaming of its rather
I will admit:
I take a certain comfort in its undoing;
I’ve never known an act of severance
to be anything less than a new beginning.
I did, after all, leave my mother’s womb
and our singular identity
and I became someone else entirely.
Oh, yes, I too could partner up with fear
and be all the rage at parties,
And maybe my age is starting to show,
I prefer to sit, alone, on the blunt edge of a
fog-pressed mountain and
be transfixed by wonderment.
Perhaps I am as odd as they say,
for I often look upon decaying things
and take joy in the questions that
like shimmering carrion beetles.
Questions and beetles,
and their alchemy.
What will become of us?
You’ve probably asked this question.
What do I have to offer?
But, perhaps, not this one.
I like questions;
They are like double-winged birds scratching
at scattered seeds
Only when the questions die
will I lose faith
in what cannot be mended.
© 2014-2016/Jamie K. Reaser
From “Wonderment: New and Selected Poems”
A work in progress
Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser.
The mouse never wavers, but waits at the door,
hungry for the touch of turmoil
that will set his heart ablaze.
You are the mouse….
You are the door….
You are the turmoil.
Watch you know whence it comes.