Reincarnate

Posted on by sereichert

This week, an incredible poet, humanitarian, human being, and open hearted warrior, was called away. I have long held that some stardust burns too brightly, and the universe becomes jealous…takes it too soon. Perhaps we do not deserve them. We have not become enough of love. We are still too full of hate. We have not learned enough yet, to have deserved them.

Andrea Gibson was an inspiration for kindness. For loving one another, in a world that did not always love them. I hope they are at peace. I will think of them, in quiet mornings. In bird songs. When I sit next to someone touting beliefs meant to divide… I will keep writing poems. I will light up the dark, and do it all, over and over again.

dewdrop-morning-sun-mirror-blade-of-grass-106150

Reincarnate

the patter of rain,

softness of baby cheek,

and the feeling

that we’ve done it all before

cyclical sway of life,

birth to death,

and over again.

rain to ground,

grass rising,

breathing out,

clouds to earth

how quickly we forget our place

soul to body,

body to soul,

and over and over again

recycled lives going

round and round

until we get it right

until we find the answer

punch the ticket

off this spinning ride

i hope i get to love first

i hope i get to love last

i hope i get to love

to love

to love

until all my particles are spent

so it goes

Poetry 7-3-25

Posted on by sereichert

Travel leads to thoughts. Interesting new connections and inspirations do too… Travel also leads to not a lot of time getting to sit down and make up blog posts. So I hope you’ll forgive me for posting two poems in a row. This is an older one, not in my current headspace, but always, somehow, tattooed beneath my skin.






Remember Your Lines







What does depression feel like?





Like I want to sleep forever





but every time I fall into that





blissful unconsciousness,





I hope I never come back out





that it’s just a peaceful send off





So long…have a good flight





Don’t call when you get there.





Because…that would be weird





And freak everyone out…





It feels like…





I can’t feel





sunshine, or joy, or pride, or hope





I’m a slab of granite,





wavering on two crumbling pillars of sandstone





stuck in quicksand and sinking





and I don’t care if I go under





in fact, I welcome it and hope





it suffocates me





with calm commands,





breathe in…breath out…and hold





like an MRI of your final moment





but it never tells you





to breath in again





Depression feels like





I have no energy in my synapses





and even if I did, nothing I could do with it





would be worth anything to anyone





least of all myself





Depression is a gray, weighted blanket





only not for comfort, it’s for the unsurmountable load





that life gives you to carry





and you just can’t find a good enough reason





to carry it anymore;





but you can’t find your way out





from underneath it either





Depression is seeing through eyes





that are a movie screen





to an audience that lost its will to care





lacks empathy, doesn’t recognize





Art





or love





or fleeting time





or beauty





Depression is a cage that I shout meaningless words out of,





fake platitudes





in hopes no one else falls into the cage next to me





I’m fine!





You’re fine,





you’re fine, baby girl





you’re fine…





I love you





it’ll be okay





It’ll be okay is tattooed beneath my skin





so that I don’t forget these





lines to a play that I rehearse and repeat,





back to the world that asks





Are you?





Okay?





I look down to the scars I once cut





but can’t cut again; they’ll see





Children learn from watching





so I don’t show,





I tell…





I tell lines





I tell them the lines I need to tell





I tell them,





Though the world is burning around us





and women will never be safe





and human lives don’t matter





cattle for the breeding grounds or





simply to slaughter to the gods of capitalism





Stop!





don’t say that…





don’t project the hopeless…





Read the line





Read the provided line





not the truthful line





of scars….





It’ll be okay





I’m





Okay





You’ll be…





… will you be?





Okay?





Depression is lying to loved ones





so you never have to worry that you’ll be





their downward spiral,





the same scythe of your mother’s loss





that cut you down





Cause we’re all Ok





we just need to…





I just need to





Remember my lines



	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 6-27-25

				

			Posted on  by sereichert		

			


	
	
			


	

		

I am a day late. Well a day for me. For you it’s 11pm but I’m just getting in from a morning run in Stockholm and realized I didn’t set up my blogs for while I was away. I don’t have much, as my trip has a rather demanding schedule and I’m trying to soak in these last few moments with my baby before she flys the nest. So here’s a poem. Next week I will try to do a little better.





Anticipation

Was there ever such sweet anticipation
as a cherry in June?
Held, eager between teeth
where cold water droplets
tease the tongue
before the crisp breaking
of delicate skin
the flush of sun-warmed tartness
carrying along the sugary bite
but tender must teeth sink
to gently toy with the unyeilding stone
sucking it free of bright red pulp
til pristine pebble
is all that's left

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 5-22-25

				

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I’m in a weird mood today. This is the season of transitions, of pressures and demands, and I feel like I’m  shutting down in the face of so much of it. Here’s a weird poem to align the inner workings of my mind to the outer life, relentlessly attacking. 





Sweater

I put your memory on
like an old sweater
in all the little winters
of my despair

Here the arms pull through
to hide the stinging cuts
Here, ribbed neck fraying
to protect from the noose of loss

Here the cabled warmth
falling over my eviscerated belly
Here your memory tucks my vital pieces 
back together, safe and warm

The woolen comfort of words
I will never hear again
from nights you probably don't remember
a softness in the dark, held briefly

I am a lint fuzz on your shoulder
but you are my favorite sweater
the one I cannot sleep without
the only thing that offers relief

Purpose and hope exist
in the scratchy bulk
of a garment I once borrowed
but was never mine to wear

I put your memory on
like my favorite sweater
in all these winters
of self-imposed despair.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 4-10-2025

				

			Posted on  by sereichert		

			


	
	
			


	

		

The Other Half Lives

She breaks the silence
with the crack of a match strike
instant whirl of smoke
and snap
open jumps the flame

She’s Magic on dark nights
when I need reprieve
from myself
when I yearn
to slip into someone
else’s skin and be
the one my parents
warned me about

The kind who lives truth
through match strikes
and bared teeth and
hard, dirty alleys
rough brick scraping
backs of thighs
and halting breath
that never begs

Unleashed from boredom
She carries the burning ember of strife
at the end of her cigarette and
coaxes the glowing cinder with
deep inhalations
Blowing out sinuous tails
through lips
split by love

Back again for more?
Quirked eyebrow, pierced and dauntless

yes, again
pray unbroken lips
with underground currents
of tightly wound desire.

S.E. Reichert

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 3-13-25

				

			Posted on  by sereichert		

			


	
	
			


	

		

HEART

She is a bore
and a lofty braggart
claiming forever
but following the newest smell 
away from her leash

She is tender and full
a bag tensed, to burst
at the slightest slight
heavy with blood and the suffering of want

She is the doorway
to a thousand churches
and the carnal sacrilege 
of all good, and wild things

She is latin
for courageous
and holds my breath and my breathlessness
in space between her beats

She is a pauper
always begging 
and a selfless saint
giving away all of her compassion in bills
like she could not take it with her

She dances in the kitchen
with a baby on her hip
even when that baby is 
long, gone
grown

She lights up like Christmas
and echoes in dark gothic hallways

She shudders and trips
beats steady and sound
she's the only one I can ever claim
is mine
And yet, so often
I still think her, 
a stranger
in my chest

We couldn't live without each other.
I hope
whatever the next life brings
I can take her with me.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 2-20-25

				

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I’ve been participating in my own little poetry month challenge in an effort to get back into the swing of the art. For one, it’s a managable way for me to be able to write something every day, even in the chaos of my to do list. For two, I think it’s been very cathartic in helping me work through some of the things landing in my life (and all of our lives right now). The rage inside me finds a place on the page so I can clear a more rational path. The sadness gets to have its moment too, so I can move past the emotion and focus on how best to use my empathy. You don’t have to be good at it to write poetry. You just have to write it. 





Photo by aj povey on Pexels.com





Daylight

Poems written by daylight
are hopeful, funny creatures
not yet domesticated by the world
shackled by the weight of 
unbearable odds

Poems written in the high-sun hours
are words through clear eyes
not yet burning with the fire of 
thousands of thoughts, words read,
millions of stitches placed across the
wound of our burning, tumultuous world

Poems written when I've still got time in the day
are different
I haven't properly fucked anything up
yet
there is still hope that I may not
I'm a glowing human goddess
for whom possibilities still exist

Poems written by daylight
seem hopeful and clear
unweighted and resilient
but they are 
not me
not in total
It is the reticent dark, the weary and
mistake-riddled soul
sitting in the deep weighted night,
still choosing to pick up the pen 
who is truly
the poet.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 1-23-2025

				

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It’s a tumultuous time. An era where its hard to trust information, its hard to have privacy, and its even harder to envision a world where we can be a functioning community again. These are the days that try good hearts. You are not alone. We are all in some phase of struggle. We are all clawing our way up. I love you. I see you. Do what you can, to be kind to yourself and others today. Don’t give up. 





Love Me Enough

I've tried to breathe it away
this constant ache 
a hunger, not satiated

I've tried to busy it away
with lists 
and checked boxes

I've tried running it away
until my knees were torn
and my vertebra grew together

I've tried laughing it away
your darkest friend
is always the most funny

I've tried writing it away
harsh words and compassionate pages
like arms to enfold, or choke

I've tried drinking it away,
until all I lost were words
and years with my children

I've tried cutting it away
sharp stings and
barely hidden red bracelets

hoping someone would notice
but even when they did
no one loved me enough to stop me

I'm trying to love me enough to stop me
I'm trying, this time
to love it away

And I'm learning
that means
feeding myself on breath
sitting through it in stillness
running headlong into the fire
allowing the storm to laugh through me
and writing only the truth
watering my brain like a garden
holding my body close like a child
Soothing the scars and 
loving the woman who survived long enough
to stand in love now

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 12-26-2024

				

			Posted on  by sereichert		

			


	
	
			


	

		

This is my last post of 2024. I’m not sure what this new year will bring, or how much strife and struggle will be faced. I am reminding myself to find hope. In the kindness of my own heart as well as the goodness of other people I know. I hope you are getting some reflective time this week, to think about the year ahead, the things you need to prioritize and the things you are ready to let go of. I hope you are resting up for the fight to come.





Here’s a poem that was inspired by one of my favorite humans. Thank you Mary Oliver, for all the gracious insight into this wild and weird ride of life. 





Built to Survive

And oh how it pains me,
this disastrous cause
so far removed from the fresh, cold fields
and the dying gray-pink
of November dusk

I am caught in the trappings 
of an ever-present demand
create, create, create
sell, and buy, and break the book's spine
over the truncated timeline,
more concerned for a deadline
than the beautiful present view
before my own dead line

We do not see the muskrat 
in this way go
He does not build with wet, cold reeds
and fallen branches
to impress the critic

He builds to survive
He creates to have warm shelter
from the uncertain storms of life
He does what he does, because he knows 
no other way

How it pains me
this rushing through my words 
and upheaval of capricious page numbers 
flipping and fighting and settling 
for the shallow pond,
when my heart is an ocean
and this art is my shelter
its honesty, my survival
the only trueness left
in the short and tiresome struggle
of this one wild life.

	


	



					
						


	

		
Poetry 12-12-24

				

			Posted on  by sereichert		

			


	
	
			


	

		

In Quiet
 
Snow buries the sound
of footsteps and breath
all softness of touch
and heavy with forgiveness.
 
A blanket of repose,
to cover the spoiled ground,
wiping clean this slate,
to a world of potential and rest
 
Waiting.
Patient.

Not asking to be changed,
a pristine shroud to remind us
that some things are best left,
untouched.