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.
October was a wonderful month and I’m actually working towards keeping up my ‘poem-a-day’ even when it turns into more of a journal entry. Sometimes writing is not just one thing, and the poetry of the everyday counts just the same. Sometimes its the way we work through past hurts, even when they aren’t really a part of our present anymore. Sometimes the lines of verse are tiny cuts to the lines that hold us to those things not meant for us. The heart is a wild and rampant beast sometimes and we all deal with the fallout of her decisions differently. Hopefully we learn something new, each time.
Untitled
I’ve written so many lines about you
tracked tears under every constellation
ached under the flowering trees
and sweated out remorse under July skies
I’ve worried for you,
rued you
let the storms of winter freeze
any embers I thought remained
Still they simmer past
all reason, reemerging in my heart
where not even a desire to live resides
You were the fall of my empire
and yet I still find you in the rubbled remains
the inconsistent wound
that does not ever, ever heal.
It is heart deep and tragic and
I never know what to do
when it opens
again, and again
and again...
Do I press fluttering hands to it
failure to staunch the bleeding in my own weakened state?
Numb the pain with earthly asides?
Embrace it and lick at the blood,
ravenous for even the slightest taste of your attention?
If I have changed in these many years
then I know you have too
So how can I still claim to burn
for a specter who is no longer
the same that haunts my mind's halls?
How can my same old heart
have not grown along with
this hardened shell
and deepening wrinkles?
How has my tough hide not
pushed out the sliver of you
buried in my irate skin?
How can you still pull at my insides?
It is an irrational and hungry storm
and I am weary of trying to tie my lines against it
I guess after millions of years
the moon still pulls the sea
and no one begs to wonder why.
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
Perhaps even dread
longs for hope.
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
we won’t survive another crash like that
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:
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 continue on
always
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
Her List
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.
a last checked box
disappear,
check.
Gentle Pressure, Applied Ruthlessly
Watch the way, the bouncy ends of the pinyon
waver to every wind blown
see the arch of their spines, the reminder
that the pressure of her breath is constant
and unyielding
She is invisibility and discretion of power
Her presence, ethereal and it seems
mere trickery
until it is applied
day in,
day out,
to the tender aspirations of every tree,
Only then, when they are grown
in twisted sculptures
Leaned away and in piety of her face
do we see the influence
of the wind that raised them
S.E. Reichert
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.
Conversations with My Old Heart
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 . .
Sarah Reichert Author 