HeyJaredlight, lately
writing about what the light is like lately, across many landscapes and the territories of the heart; and about life as yoga as life. this is a place for words to roam.
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 6
- Latest publication
- Sep 24, 2026
- Audience
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 12, 2026
Latest issues
a notes app poem (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedsunday song yes the waves are cymbals but the wind is calm, the gulls are sleeping in. this is what we call a quiet morning. revelers of wee hours sleepwalk home, a taxi idles, a train rumbles, city walls shout rose gold hymns. what is quiet anyway, to a whirling dervish of a spirit, kicking up the dust of reverent tones with barefoot blessings, arms flung wide as the night? //mischathe quiet is strange, this
a groggy morning poem (opens the original)
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dear friends, is anyone sleeping? along with the hum of bedroom a/c units, august’s soundtrack seems to be a resounding shrug-and-sigh, especially in response to the question, how are you (really)? <img alt="" class="sizing-normal" height="1092" src=
a notes-app poem (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedthe playground writes a poem first it was the branches under the boy's weight. how they talked with their hands as if animated for a summer camp stage by the two tenors who could not dance. then the bees, cloverdrunk, loitering at my thighs — did you know, if you stay rather than swat, if you soften like a wild dark poppy in the breeze, the wings of the bee will kiss the back of your arm, your shoulderblade, collarbone, like
a birthday ekphrastic (opens the original)
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i never used to like birthdays but lately i love them, recognizing the gift of stepping into another day, another opportunity to reset, recommit, remember what the hell i’m doing here, if i’m going to be for another year. and this time, it has a soundtrack. Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedabove all else, be kind after Fran O’Hanlon when i am quiet i remember i am here to love, without hope or reward or reason, other than that. i must have d
a notes-app poem (opens the original)
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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedthe lily gives its extra moisture back to the earth. each leaf is an open palm, offers a morsel of life. part of me laments these gifts landing on a table (treated wood, miles, decades from its severed root) in my mother’s kitchen; i extend sometimes a patient fingertip, meeting life with life. today creamy white aphids, erupted from the soil in the night, drop like rain onto the same table. expecting earth, they find shella
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