S.E. Reichert's Blog, page 8

Poetry 6-13-2024

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.

When Art Becomes A Business

I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. And I’m not sure if its an American Capitalism (should be capitalized right?) thing, or a global disease but…at what point did we stop valuing art and creation if it wasn’t…profitable?

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I’m an anthropologist at heart. It started when I couldn’t put down the Clan of the Cave Bear series at 12 and continued on through college and my degree, and until…well, yesterday when I read a really cool article about a new Neanderthal skeleton that was recently reconstructed…why does it matter?… well…”Anthropology encourages us to extend our perspectives beyond familiar social contexts to view things from the perspectives of others”. Where was I? Oh yes…art. Humans and art. Do you know how long we’ve been creating art? Paintings on walls, carvings from stone, beadwork, intricate clothing, papyrus, plays (both tragic and humorous…), STORYTELLING…

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The point is, humans were born with divine mental capacity. And it extends in times of plenty and scarcity to provide sustenance in a form of mental fulfillment. Then…I dunno…hustle culture happened? Capitalism happened? 1970’s parents started scoffing over martinis that so-and-so’s son wanted to be an *gasp* artist…and what a dreadful shame? That someone would chose to create new and innovative and truthful things over…stamping letters and creating spreadsheets? Because…well…art has no… no money in it.

These birthing pains gave way to an entire generation of people who were forced to work at acceptable jobs and “dabble” in art. Which gave way to people “hustling” in their art and marketing the shit out of their soul’s best guess of humanity, to make it ‘real’ by turning a dollar sign. This is where we are. Art has been reduced to…a commodity. And if it doesn’t sell…it isn’t worthwhile…

There are countries that don’t charge artists taxes. Did you know that? That if they’re producing art (writing, painting, illustration, music, etc.) they are exempt from the toil of paying their country extra money. Why? In America that would never fly! Why should they be off the hook

Let me ask you…What do you do in your free time?

You don’t work more. You don’t put out more spreadsheets, or call more clients, or cut more hair, or take an extra shift for fun…you read. You…go to museums…you watch plays…you visit the botanical gardens… you go to a movie. These little “acts of joy” sometimes even keep you from jumping off a bridge. They inspire your mind, they take you out of the daily grind and…hustle.

…is that not of value? Does feeding your soul not count as a necessity?

I’m on a soap box, I get it. You’ve probably stopped reading. But in case you haven’t, please consider

…humanity has survived and thrived because we have had more than just survival to aim for. There is joy and purpose to feast off of. Art makes life. In the event of an apocalypse… could you even imagine not trying to save the art, the books, the music… the decadent history (and prehistory) of the humanistic howls into the universe that scream… “we are here and we feel”?

What is there to appreciate beyond it? Art brings us together, it connects us, it’s a shared experience and a deeper rooted truth than almost any paycheck. And yet…it has been reduced to: how many followers, how much in royalties, how many people ‘liked’ it, how many people went to your show, what the script writer made and if they have potential for more (we don’t pay if you don’t have at least three seasons)…

I beg of you, if you have funds in the strapped and dystopian financial climate that is America now… support your artists. They don’t even have to be me. Just…find something that you love, that moves you and…tell the artist, write them, speak to them, throw some money their way. Remind them…They are important. They are the story up on the wall of a cave…that proves a defiant resistance to the endless march of time. The voice in the dark, the color in the black and white that speaks; we are here.

We were here.

Art matters. And the only people telling you it doesn’t, are the people that cannot profit from it.

Move, Pitch, Get Out the Way

Yeah, I did just title this blog that…No, I’m not sorry. Yes, I hope that song plays in your head all day. Yes, it may seem “Ludacris”. Yes, I did just make a dad joke out of it. No, you can’t get a refund, this shit is free.

This is actually a post from a couple of years ago, but oddly enough, I’m headed up tonight to the Wyoming Writers Conference again. And again, I’ll be pitching. So I’ve tweaked a few things but the advice remains solid. I hope it can help you.

Now, on to the blog

This week, tonight actually, I’ll be pitching a novel to a publishing company at the Wyoming Writers Conference in Casper, Wyoming. I know that this should be something I do at least every year but with the past couple of years spent in catching up and starting new jobs, and my creativity taking a giant dump of late, I haven’t had the drive, material, or need to throw myself into the ring.

But, by strange happenstance, the novel that I started at last year’s WWConference in Laramie, turned out to be one of my favorite books. Its a strange blossoming feeling of re-reading it and having it punch me in the gut and make me laugh-cry. I could independently publish it. But…the past years have taught me, that there’s no shame in rejection or in throwing your heart in the ring, especially when you really believe in something you’ve created. So I slammed the breaks down and took a breath. A pause. A consideration. That if the story was “Well written, with a voice we really like” that maybe I should give it another tour around the pasture before sending it out, on my own.

So here I am again, years later, still sweaty palmed, reading and re-reading, and choking on my elevator pitch and changing it a dozen times to get the most depth of the story in the fewest words. And it’s exhausting. The sudden surge of trepidation inspired me go through some of my notes from previous classes and books on pitching. And here’s what I have to offer:

Agents and publishers are human beings. They’ve probably slept horribly, are sore and uncomfortable from sitting, have heard a lot of story ideas, and are probably thinking about the cash bar. Just like you. So don’t treat them like a god up on Olympus by cowering or waving tribute in their faces. Be kind, be polite, and use some of your allotted time to treat them with dignity and respect. They’re there because they love reading and want to find a good story.Tell them why you love your story. Yes, yes, the general plot, genre, main character and conflict…but what is it about your book that fills your heart. Why do you find a reason to read and re-read it? What were some of the best compliments you receive from your beta readers. Human beings respond to enthusiasm and genuine admiration. Otherwise, we’d never watch baseball. Moving on.Be organized. Have a synopsis ready, bring a query letter and your business card. It’s been a long day for them and you; stories might start running together and they may need a gentle reminder what the 4:55 pm pitch was.Be open to suggestions and critique. Whoof, this one is hard, right? After all, we just gushed about what we love in our book. While you love it (or hate it depending on how many goddamn times you’ve had to read it and rewrite it) it is also a good time, before you sit down at that table, to think of your fledgling story like a kid going off to college. Its stepping out into the world to be made better, smarter, stronger. It has a lot to learn, so let it be open to becoming something more and living up to its potential. It isn’t a reflection on you as a parent, it’s a starting point for even more amazing results to come.Follow up. I’ve sat in the pitch sessions where every agent gave me their card and asked for ten pages. I thought I was a goddamn genius and that they’d be engaged in a bidding war over my book within weeks. Um…hate to ruin the ending there but THAT didn’t happen. Sometimes agents are required by the conferences they attend to receive a certain number of pitches. Sometimes an agent is mildly interested and looking for something to pad up their own resume. Sometimes they’re just bust-ass tired and like a parent giving in and handing their kid a remote cause they just can’t listen anymore, they pass along their card with a defeated…”stay in touch”. That being said, if it happens, act as though it’s the bidding war situation, not the tired parent. Send them what they asked for, in the format they asked for it in, and be respectful with your letter. ALWAYS INCLUDING: your name, that you met at ‘such and such conference’ and that they requested your pages. If you can, PLEASE include some other more personal detail. “It was fun talking to you about your dog, Jasper” (write that kind of thing down on their business card) but don’t make it too personal “I hope your rash has cleared up.” (that’s creepy)

After it’s all said and done a pitch session is like any other interaction introverts dread. You have to talk, somewhat excitedly, about something you love and worked hard on, and thereby risk rejection and public shaming. But please remember that the person sitting across from you is also probably an introvert (or works with a lot of them) and just wants you to tell them a good story.

Good luck out there, and if you’ll be in Casper this weekend for the conference I’d love to sit down and chat about pitches, your book, all the wonderful things we’re working on. Happy writing.

poetry 5-23-2024

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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

Rediscovering Purpose

It’s a strange world out there kids. Even if you live under a rock, its hard to ignore all of the things that are currently affecting our lives and world. Massive super cell tornados, vapid and un-checked streaming information, rights being taken away, innocents being bombed, people starving, other’s rolling in stupid amounts of money…its enough to make a conscious person’s head spin.

And mine has been spinning for awhile. And then, even with all of the big picture stuff, looming, you still have to do something about your own, micro world. Your family, your job, your community, your life. Doesn’t it all seem a little too much to anyone else? I worry that if I shrink the world down, I won’t take action when I can to help others. I worry if I get to caught up in the overwhelming outside world, I’ll forget the good I can do with the people I love, closest to me. I’m, as Bilbo once said, too little butter scraped across the bread.

I’m at a retreat this week, helping to keep the thing running smoothly and encouraging this great group of writers in attendance and we’ve been at the mercy of some pretty terrible weather the last three days. The hikes and quiet world-expanding I’d hoped for haven’t happened. I’m shrunken down into my room, my group, and my work and I’m trying to not pull a Jack a la “The Shining”. We can hear our crazy louder and more clear when we’re forced into the silence.

Watching so many of my fellow writers getting work done, and having epiphanies, and making progress has been such a joy. But its also frustrating, because despite being here, and away from the rest of the world, I still feel stuck. I guess when the trap is your own head, it doesn’t matter how much you change the scenery. I’m making lists and doing a lot of the ‘safe’ work of editing and administrative to-dos. I’ve written a few poems. I’ve taken notes on classes. But what I haven’t done is gotten lost in the beautiful alpha state of writing and it’s something that always sweeps me up at a retreat.

Maybe there’s too much responsibility. Maybe I’m just not in the right head space. Maybe there’s a stress level, worrying about everyone and everything else besides my writing. All I know is that I will spare myself some time today and look forward in my own life. Make a list if need be (virgos love lists) of what I need, going forward to recapture my sense of purpose. Not just in writing. But in life.

I hope that you spare yourself some space in the middle of this crazy world today, and do the same. Could you imagine if we all woke up tomorrow, renewed and ready to make this world a little better?

That’s something to set an intention for.

Standing at Attention

Hello Writers…

I came across this blog from a few years ago. I no longer am blessed to teach Martial Arts (due to some pretty awful happenings at my former dojo and a level of patriarchal bullshit I can’t even dive into right now). But I’ve been teaching a lot this year about creativity and this blog struck me as something that fell in line with the concept. So, without further ado…

Today I’m talking about kids. Particularly the three to eight crowd whom I typically work with in my karate classes. You see, this week is testing week.

It’s the exciting hours when those little bright-eyed darlings bound out on the floor (hopefully remembering to potty first and bow before crossing the threshold of the mats) to ‘earn’ their brand new belt and no doubt bragging rights the next day.

Now heading the school’s instruction team is a stoic former Marine and a stalwart of rules and order on the floor. Absolutely excellent in the face of a rowdy teen or an unsure adult in need of the structure and control.

Absolutely useless and frustrated in the face of the giggling, juggling mass of pent up life force.

And testing time is rarely different.

Though the potential for their future of order and restraint is glimpsed (and I suppose that’s why they come to the school in part) some of the instructors will roll their eyes at the still inadequate control. Meanwhile, I stand in the back and lament the beauty of their childhood being chipped away.

I was told repeatedly that “the Dragons class will eat you alive”. Both male instructors said so, shaking their heads and trying to bury the horrors of such a war. I nodded, in that reassuring way you do when someone has no idea.

Son (I call them son because I’m grow’d up over them by a few good years), I’m a mom. And on top of that, I’m a mom that actually enjoyed the ages of my daughters when I had to staunch nose picking while watching them ping-pong off the couch and sing “Let It Go” at the top of their lungs. Every day. All day. Seven days a week, most nights, and EVERY vacation.

So when those little bouncy balls landed on line tonight, wiggling in their gis until their belts untied themselves, and the jaws of less-seasoned warriors clenched, I glowed. I smiled. I adored and doted on.

Want to know why?

One of the greatest beautiful moments in life is when the life in us cannot be contained in man-made illusions of order. It’s in the misdirection and distraction. It’s the exuberance and unconditional love. It’s all that we lose as we age, either by the weights of life tying us down, or from being told repeatedly to stand straight and stop wiggling.

Ok. I understand that order has to exist. Ask any of the poor souls on I-25 while the uninformed attempt to merge. We do have to learn order and self-control. Or everyone would just live on cake and would never go to work, and we’d get into fights and stray from our taxes… I’m not saying that order isn’t important.

But order imposed on a mind still fluttering like a million startled butterflies in a sunny meadow, is like trying to…well, catch a million startled butterflies in a sunny meadow. At some point. You need to just let go and enjoy the ride and the sunlit flash of pure color. Keep them safe, keep them engaged, and love every odd-ball story and uncontrolled giggle.

I hope you realize by now, that I’m not just talking about kids here. Think about the people in your life, and what it would mean if we all encouraged, especially the adults in your life (You TOO reader), to barrel through it all with a bit more frivolity and joy.

Sometimes we’ve been so long from those two things, that we’ve forgotten how. It’s not so hard to find your way back. Here are some things that may help:

Go barefoot in the grass

Dig for worms, put them back in the garden.

On the way to your car from the grocery store, work up a good speed and hop on the back of your grocery cart…ride it all the way to the car.

Say no. To them. To yourself…to every “how to be perfect” blog or article you read.

Read the comics first and throw the rest of that shit away.

Go for a bike ride with your kids around the block and name your bike like the noble steed it is.

Tell a dirty joke.

Laugh at dirty joke.

Laugh at a fart.

Fart (and pull the covers over your spouse’s head so that they may truly enjoy it…if your marriage is really meant to last it won’t matter. If it matters well…then I’m going to let you think about that for awhile)

Belch in front of your kids, and follow it with a “Holy cow! That was awesome!”

Grab a bowl of lucky charms and watch some cartoons (Teen Titans is my fav these days).

Wiggle

Dance

Sing “Sweet Caroline” LOUDLY out your car window at the stop light. Those who don’t join in or at least smile are to be pitied.

Never say no when a child wants a hug.

Always kneel down to meet them, their perspective is so much better anyway.

Tell people you love them.

Tell them you love them without needing it to mean anything more than just what it is.

Move on.

Forget.

Someday, remember just the good bits, fondly.

You see, kids and older people get what we’ve forgotten. That the beauty of life comes from the dancing in chaos, not the standing still on line.

Still, go potty before you try the standing still…it does help the wiggles.

Making the Most Out of Your Retreat

Hey writer and fellow creative friends. Wherever you are on your artistic journey, I hope you’ve considered the benefits of joining or participating in a retreat. Now, retreats can range from the ridiculously expensive, to renting a room at the shady looking motel three miles away. Some have classes or workshops, some have yoga or hiking mixed in, some are just straight up writing time.The point is to get out of your normal space, away from your normal routine, and spend that time focusing on your work. So whether you’ve broken the bank to jet set off to the French Riviera or you’re on your way to a twin room at the Motel 6, these tips can help you get the most out of that time. I even put it in a nifty little bullet list.

Be Prepared (Mentally):One of the best tips I have, is to make yourself a list, before you go, detailing what you want to do, or get out of the retreat. Are you hoping to network and make connections? Are you aiming for a certain word count, or project completion? List out the major goals, then leave space (I’ll tell you why later on)Be realistic but also a shade optimistic. Know your average, everyday word count and think about doubling or tripling it. You’ll have more time and less outward distractions and setting that goal will keep you on track. By making it a little challenging you’ll push yourself just enough. Even if you don’t hit the goal, you will get farther than if you’d been too ‘reasonable’.Bring multiple or at least a couple different things to work on. The hours can become tedious and you might want to switch it up to stay fresh and motivated. As a mom, and working mom, a strange thing happens the first few hours of being alone at a retreat. I get this thing I call “care-giver paralysis”. In the absence of doing for others, I can’t remember what to do with just myself. Understanding that this feeling will come, and I’ll have some listlessness helps me to remember to ease into the weekend with some journaling, or shorter projects.Be Prepared (Physically):The practical side of things is that you’re going to be away from home. But not on a typical vacation. So remember to bring your goal list, paper, pens, notebooks, journals, your laptop and charger…the basic tools of your trade. Make them your favorites or the one’s you’ve been ‘saving’ for something special. This is something special.Plan for the environment: If you’re poolside or in the mountains, bring the proper clothing and footwear. You won’t be holed up in your room the whole time (I’ll explain more on that later). If there are dinners or classes, if it could be cold, or hot, try to think in layers. If its just writing, pack lots of comfortable clothing. Sunblock, hats and mittens. Bear spray or Mosquito spray? Sleep aids- especially if sharing a room. I’m talking about eye covers, ear plugs, and headphones (not a rubber mallet if your roommate snores). Anything you need to get a good night’s rest.Any special dietary needs/wants that the place won’t be able to provide. Water bottle, medication, and bathroom necessities. Nothing is worse than being dehydrated and/or not having a toothbrush. Big and little comforts will make a huge difference.Business cards. Holy shit, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve forgotten this one. Even if you’re just there to write, exchanging info with your fellow retreat members is great. You’ll be surprised how much you learn from one another in that time.Tech that you need, none that you don’t. You’ll need brain breaks, you’ll probably want to check in with family once or twice, you may need a laptop. You probably don’t need your gaming system, and be careful of your social apps. This is a time for connecting with yourself and your art, not the 7 billion people of the world. Be Flexible:You’re going to have a goal list. You’re probably going to stray from it. That’s alrightThere may be days when the word count fizzles or the scene doesn’t play out like you want. That’s okay.There may be a project you exceed expectations on, and another you barely touch. That’s alright.You may accidentally sleep in, or need a nap, or get caught up in conversations. These are good things. Retreats are a balance of getting your work done, and taking care of yourself, which leads me to… Schedule in Self-Care:Bring along comfort. Your favorite pillow, blanket, clothing, music. Whatever it is that helps you feel relaxed and at home.Take naps. You’re little brain is going to be working extra hard. It’s going to be focusing for hours and working through the plot holes and dialogues you’ve been avoiding. Schedule in time for naps, early bed times, or meditation on your goal list.Take advantage of the outdoors. (Unless your Motel 6 is in a shady part of the city–then try to grab a Lyft to a safer part) Go for a hike or walk every couple of hours. Sit outside stare off into the far away for awhile. Your eyes and brain will thank you. Also schedule in brain breaks on your list.Bring any nutritional or necessary snacks. I need coffee in the morning. I need tea before bed. I need fresh fruit and veg. I like hydration mix and the occasional bourbon on ice (not together, that would be gross) I want my Little Debbie brownies and my twizzlers. These little joys will keep your spirits up in the middle of the tough work.Exercise, Mediate, Drink lots of Water, and take warm showers. All good things and breaks away from the intensity.Skimping on self care will make you less productive and more likely to burn out. Nobody wants a mushy brain half way through.Assess and Recalibrate:After its all over, if you’ve got a drive home, or a flight…take some time to reflect. What went well? What was a challenge? What did you wish you had? What did you bring that you could have left home? How did your goal list go? Did you overshoot? Did you get distracted, and by what? How do you feel physically and mentally and how can you make sure that the next retreat leaves you feeling accomplished without being overwhlemed.

Well, there you go. I’m open to hearing if you have any other advice in the comments below. I’ll be heading a retreat next week, so if you’ll be there, I hope we can make it a great experience. If you can’t be there, I’ll be hosting another one in the fall with the Writing Heights Writers Association and I’ll let you know the details as they’re finalized. Until then, Happy Writing.

Poetry 4-23-24

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.

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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 . .

Poetry 4-18-24

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.

S.E. Reichert

Poetry 4-10-2024

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.