I’ve been attempting the challenge of writing a poem every day in October. They’re not all amazing, but some of them land in places I didn’t even know I had.
Birdhouse
I put a birdhouse up, next to my window I like to watch the lithe lightness of their bodies Bright colors and whisper bones Harbingers of Spring, Survivors of Winter sharp-beaked truth sayers forever in love with the dawn I like to watch them, hop and flutter in tree branches and shadowed gardens such a pure, simple existence I wanted to give them a home
But none have come to nest and I am wondering now, if it isn't my fault maybe I am too much heavy dark and granite bones I am the decay of Fall cold graves beneath snow, soft lips full of lies to myself and the ones I love forever lost in some night
Perhaps I am a treacherous black hole that they cannot call neighbor Still I will wait
Y’all, I’m busier than a one-legged lady in an ass kickin’ contest. So, here’s a little rerun. Because, lord knows the Heart is a Terrible driver sometimes. But we still let her take the wheel. After all, what is life for but to be messy and in love?
The Heart is A Terrible Driver
I am the owner of a body in the trunk the forgotten musty trunk in recesses of my memory muffled and tied up speechless to the ways my heart fell
Hearts do what they do and mine she is so big so eloquent a speaker so deviously soft and swaying…
she convinced me that she was the only one who could drive the beast of me through life, and it would all work out
while my brain sat in the back seat, shaking her head and looking at me in the rearview mirror mouthing the words
You know better Your gonna hate yourself for letting her drive
Brain was right Heart took us off a fucking cliff the first chance she got giggling with the thrill the free fall of Love drunk on its chemical cocktail
all the way down Brain stayed silent, arms crossed over her chest as if to say
nothing I tell you will matter anyway We were already over your head the minute you gave her the keys
the carnage at the base of the canyon was ruinous the destruction, complete Heart took the hardest hit split down the middle in two ragged pieces of desiccated meat devoid of reason, or rhythm
Head pulled her from the car, drug her through the sharp pebbles and burning metal shook with disappointment and carried her to a lesser used path and I followed complacently my own wounds stinging
Brain barely spoke, in all of those tender months-turned-years up from rock bottom winding on trails of drunken malestorms and pious sobriety We are a heavy load
Heart sometimes regains consciousness and clings to the brush, on the side of the trail striking out with bloody, broken hands against the pull trying always trying to get back to the wreckage to somehow make it all work out make that car and joyous ride run again
Brain cuffs her, hard Sometimes it’s just easier to knock her out and keep her from making any decisions then to try and reason with her stitched up pieces
from here on out, my heart must remain bound and gagged, the body in the trunk
Hello writers, readers, and fellow stardust-filled meat suits,
This is a friendly and short reminder that this is the only day you have.
Yesterday is gone. Tomorrow is not promised. Today is what we get. This day, this hour, this minute, this breath. I hope you are up, ready to face it with a sense of calm purpose. What will you do today?
Not sure where to start? Here’s how I do:
Move your body: Go for a walk, do a little yoga, take a run or a bike ride, lift something heavy, find the quiet repetition of a lap pool, beat the hell out of a boxing bag. Whatever the motion, be grateful for the body you’ve been given and love it.
Write something. Anything. A grocery list, 2000 words on your next novel, a poem, an essay, a letter to your mom…a lunch box note. Put hand to paper (or keys) and share a bit of your soul out into the world.
Read something. Take in a few new ideas, challenge your knowledge, tease your curiosity. Learn something new, then sit for a minute and think about that something new. Can you related it to something you knew or thought before.
Breathe. Slowly. In and out. Do nothing but breathe, for at least three breaths, at least three times a day.
Eat good food. Whatever that means for you. I’m not talking latest diet fads or what you ‘should’ eat. But what’s good to you, your soul, your happiness, and your sense of fulfillment. If its green and leafy all the better, if its all crunch and salt, so be it. But let it bring you joy.
Devote time to your purpose. Maybe that’s writing. So sit down and write. Maybe that’s your current job, buckle down and find gratitude in the work. Maybe that’s taking care of someone else, find fulfillment in that. But give focused time to your passion, and your goals.
Do one thing…anything, not for yourself. Help a neighbor, take a grocery cart back, help a coworker with a project, give a ‘yes’ to something that lightens the load of another. Send a note, donate to charity, drop off food at the food bank, hold the damn door, offer a compliment. Say thank you and please. It really takes so little to be kind. So do that. In any way, big or small, that you can.
Rest. Maybe it’s a moment to stare off into space, or to do a puzzle, or to lay down with your snoring dog for twenty minutes. But rest. We’re not machines and its in those quiet times that our brain processes all the stuff we’re doing.
Tell someone you love them, or appreciate them, are rooting for them, or that they are important to you. Whatever and to whomever…tell them now. This is your only day.
Spend time with the people and places you love the most. At least a little time. Be present with them. Make a memory. Make it count. Make them laugh.
Laugh. The greatest punchline to human existence is that, despite all of our struggling, our toiling and effort, none of it really matters. We are an absurd little glitch in a vast and uncaring, infinite universe. We are ridiculous and short-lived, so find humor in all that you can. Because laughter is a bit of a middle finger to the whole pointless play, and at least by laughing, you’re enjoying the flash-in-pan ride.
Love. You can chose a lot of things in life. You can choose to get ahead, you can choose to keep it simple, you can choose to pull back or spring forward, you can make choices for your life and your goals. You can choose to hate someone and extend that. You can choose to love. It is our greatest power and our greatest folly that we get to choose how we radiate into the world. I ask that you choose love. Love your fellow humans. Love your planet and your world. Extend grace. Live compassionately as though that was an unending resource (it is). Forgive. Let go. This is your only day, so just for today, choose to love.
Try the list, then go to bed. And then…when and if (and I hope it’s when and not if) you wake up in the morning, be excited and ready because you get to do it all over again. Just for today.
Sometimes I like to pick up random notebooks, lying around my desk (there are several) and crack open the pages like looking in a dusty box in the attic. No reference to when or where it was last filled and sealed. Sometimes I find pieces of myself that had scribbled themselves on pages. Once out of my brain, I forgot about them. Sometimes I recognize that girl, shining on the page. Sometimes I long to be her. Sometimes, I am sad for her. Here’s a relic from a random ‘box’. (I should really put dates on these things)
Celestial
Oh, the lengths of letting go I've undergone This sun rises and sets and entire worlds are made and destroyed stars I once thought I revolved around, sure that chaos would run the darkness if ever I left their orbit sputter and fade into nothing
Because the power of a world is the power that I give it The fire of a sun springs from My well The light in the dark is borne in My heart It did not exist before me It will die without me and so it goes ever in the throes of change
So I'm not breathing life into any more poisonous coals they can suffer and wane in the cold of my celestial shadow in the passing of their time and the Rebirth of mine
they will revolve around Me as I am the center they are just cold rocks, caught in my gravity I care not, I notice not if they stick around or become lost and distant sedimentary trash pulled away from me by their own faulted inertia
I have to be honest. I didn’t get a post written this week. I’m actually surprised I’m even getting it done the day of. But if nothing else, I believe it’s consistency that builds skill, trust, and a life in total. So here’s a slap-dash post.
First, I’ve been truly busy this week working on a labor of love: The 2024 Writing Heights Youth Anthology (Name to be revealed soon!) I’m the Youth Coordinator and every month I plan out a lesson and writing prompts and load my heart up with lots of joy and compassion to teach a free class to teenagers about writing. We have about 15 in person and virtual students and the class varies in size depending on the stresses of school and life and other activities. But the work and I are always there (see above about consistency)
So far, the group has put together nearly a hundred pages of poetry, prose, fiction and non fiction pieces about life from their perspectives and stories from their imaginations. And its pretty damn good, if I do say so. Along the way, they’ve learned how to explore different modes of writing, critiquing and editing and what it means to communicate with each other and the world. This anthology is about more than just their first publishing credit, and getting paid for words. It’s about trusting in their voices, and learning that speaking up and speaking out is one of the greatest tools they will ever have to change their world and lead their own unique and beautiful lives.
That being said, I struggle with formatting and arrangement so… the majority of my time has been in trying to get each font just right, within the proper margins, and editing those pesky lines a few more times. The book should be out in July and I’ll let you know when the big release date is. Until then, if you’re interested in donating anything to the organization, you can contact Amy or Jess at director@writingheights.com . It’ll help us offset the costs of publishing, make sure the kids are paid for their hard work, and get the good word out about the program.
Now, I’ve gotta go try to make a table of contents *shudder*. Here’s some poetry.
Reluctant Hope
Every morning I wake with a shuddering light of hope in my chest
Weary from the day before denied sustenance and light in kind Yet, somehow... I still wake with it
It strikes me as foolish to hold on to this frail bird of a thing in the dark cavern of my chest neighbor to the empty heartbeats that pump sanguine rivers to heavy limbs
Still, she settles there a stray who found warmth on an otherwise rough and dirty-guttered street
And when my eyes open she blinks too pulls my granite limbs up like stringed fingers to a puppet and whispers a wind through grasses from far away shores of better days That today today this day will be better
Shuddering, flickering, a loose bulb swinging in a dark room making an arched smile as she dances we'll make today better
let’s make a list of all the things I didn’t do of all the tasks still uncrossed the boxes unchecked and measure my worth by them.
How it had been months since I last dusted well and when some fog of depression lifted and I stared in disgust he breathed a sigh of ‘finally’ relief and happily let me scrub them down even seeing my obvious self-loathing
what did you do with your day? I erased months of my skin cells erased months of myself with disgust at the oily build up of what I’ve become…
but no matter how much grey brown filth I rinse down the drain I’m still here
were that my cells finite, and every time I shed I just became smaller and smaller and smaller until one day I would blink out of existence.
This is the last week of April, and so I offer a “still has that new smell” poem, straight out of the journal (so please forgive if I haven’t reworked it much). If you’ve enjoyed this month, if you’ve gotten out of your comfort zone and explored poetry, I encourage you to keep reading. Poetry is the boiled down essence of awareness and presence in the moment. It’s a straight line to another person’s soul and perspective and if the world needs more of anything these days, its building up compassion and connection between humans and fostering our common humanity. Enjoy this little off-shoot of one of my favorite songs. Its always good to have a conversation with the beating of your heart. The punctuation is intentional. I hope you can feel yours beating too.
Hello, my old heart. I'd nearly forgotten that you still lived in this tattered cage of me
until you jolted awake with such ferocity that I was stunned to attention, in the death of night
. . / . . / . . / . . / . . /. . . . . . . . .
Who put a kicking prisoner beside my lungs? Why does he fight against his cage so?
Is it because I've ignored you? Silenced you reprimanded you cuffed you when you spoke out in knowing beats against the electrical reasoning of neurons and logic?
Is it because, this time it matters?
You're quieter now
I put my hand on top of you and feel you push against my palm fighting . . steady . .
pay . . attention . . or you'll miss it.
You'll miss it all . . / . . /
What am I missing?
Your . . One . . Wild . . and . . Beautiful . . life . . /
There you are, my old heart I'm sorry I locked you away for so long
Why? Why did you? . .
Because I was afraid.
Of me? . .
Of letting you lead. Who knows where I might have ended up?
who . . knows . . who . . knows . . who . . knows . . who . . knows . .
Today is my daughter’s 14th birthday. She’s been through a lot. She’s still going through it. She’s one of the strongest, smartest, most thoughtful humans I know, and the world has put pressures on her she should have never had to carry. We can’t protect our kids from everything, but we can stand with them in the fire. This one’s for you kiddo.
Bigger
I’m taking you out on the trail today to see if we both can heal one step one stitch to close the gaping hole the chasm between our beats
I’m taking you away from the screams and screens and all the voices of a maddening world always telling you to be smaller
I’m bringing you into the bigger world like I brought you in 11 years ago back to the light and the breath and the love and the truth that you never have to lose to gain
I’m taking you out on the trail in the early morning hush You and I away from a million voices Screaming we are not enough whispers to pinch skin and hollow out our souls to lose the weight, to be less, be smaller, be gone. disappear.
If we must disappear then let’s do it together let us lose ourselves in dirt tracks and aspen quakes and forget the other world exists
Let’s make it smaller.
I’m taking you out on the trail to gain back what you have lost to heal one step one stitch at a time
Do not make yourself small when the size of your soul is my whole world.
I’m ten days late to Poetry Month. So, in penance, I’ll be posting poems every blog this month and a few more on my socials. Because if the world needs anything right now, It’s poetry.
Here’s an odd little collection. Read, sift through, taste them on your tongue, roll them over your neurons and let them…sink in.
Poem Speaks
She scribbled me down in the depths of anguish The sharp lines that cut through conventions of writing forms and cursive norms
uncaring of limits or margins for there were none to her suffering no lines could contain the horror that poured fresh blood on the page
She died on that page, over and over for nights on end awash in loneliness visions of failure longing for the final epilogue
and all I could do was trail behind the pen powerless to stop the deluge helpless to stop the stabbing wounds of ink and metal I was merely the blood spattter the aftermath
sometimes a river of words flooded over with her tears until she lay spent across the page a traveler unable to cross that river unable to battle the current but unwilling to stop fighting for safe shore
I loved her every word her every dark thought and the possession of her passion that overtook those nights
Because at least when the damaged words flowed and their messy calligraphy misspelled itself across the page there was breath to her
there was fire within and she burned bright
in the blackness of a cold world there was enough fodder of love to suffer to ache to ignite
The pause of me meant the death of her the blank page was a heart too weary to go on a silent pen was a life ended
I persisted in the days when I was her written world survived while she lived in all her aching splendor
When she lies still, pen laid to rest against desk I will only breathe if her words pass through new eyes, ride across new tongues I will be the fire she leaves behind.
S.E. Reichert
Tiny Speck Wanderer
Hey, tiny speck wanderer, no more than a bird’s heart beat A flutter of space dust, careening out of control headed into the black abyss along with all the other stardust heart beats.
What’s one head of a pin drumming on a thimble mean to a galaxy of celestial beings?
Don’t you ever feel small? No matter to your matter, at all?
The moon takes up a quarter’s space to those tiny bead eyes Jupiter—the mighty giant just a hole in the dark night’s skin, pricked by needle tip.
Yet there you spin, the world in orbit around you The cares of your heart the temperature of your feet the hunger or fullness weight or lightness in your belly. The love worn or tossed away, Suddenly the concern of the cosmos.
Tiny speck wanderer The universe beats for you. in the petite coils of your Underrepresented brain junk. A flutter of space dust— with universal ego.
S.E. Reichert
Untitled 1-24
I swing from suicide to bird song in the hair-breadth of a star
one shade dark now light but...
When I have purpose the pendulum halts the need for center a string of balance hangs my sanity and...
When unrequited and impossible love teases the fluttering edges of this tattered heart I forget that I want to jump off a bridge in the small moments of polite conversation so...
Even when its all just illusion the empty purpose, and impossibility of love the light from a star billions of years ago now dead and gone...
They are the precarious threads of hope from which I swing.
Sarah Reichert Author 