Ode to Cliché: Raindrops on Roses

Raindrops on Roses

Oh! Cliché–
How do I love thee?
Let me recount— like in the way
the wings of a bird in flight
ride upon a gentle breeze
— whispering–
through the leaves.
And much like a warm breath of Spring,
you bring a ray of sunlight
to brighten up a cloudy day
dulled in many shades of gray.
You are the pink in a sunset and
the early in a sunrise,
you are a song to my ears
and a sight for my sore eyes.

–Sigh–
What would I do without you?
Could I still cry a lonely tear,
like a raindrop that falls clear
upon a rose petal?
I fear I could not settle at all for less.
Yes, like a candle bright or
a shooting star in the dark of night
(or is it the thick? the edge?),
you make all my wrongs seem so right.

We are inseparable, you and I,
joined at the hip
once and forever
like a pair of ruby red lips
we come together and kiss
– softly–
And we can stand the test of time,
for like beating the dead horse,
you lend a hand to complete the rhyme.
It is cliché, of course,
and by any other name
it would sound –as sweet.

by Jason Weaver

I am submitting this piece to the OpenLink Poetry blog dversepoets here on WordPress, Tuesday at 3pm EST– a good chance to check out other poetry!

Author’s note: I edited 2 lines in this poem after the original post. First, I added ‘a’ before ‘candle’, which I had inadvertently left out. Second, I edited the Shakespeare reference “..by any other name..” as I had included ‘just’ “as sweet” wich is not how the quote goes, and quite frankly, even though it is meant as merely a reference and not a direct quote, ‘just’ just didn’t work well upon further readings.

Dalia

Red Dalia

She’s gone now,
withered away folorn
within her unkempt bed,
her locks a sea of siren red no more.

In those yester days,
her silky flesh would goose
to the eager hands and loose
demands of lustful young
men and women.

When they’d ask her name,
(and they always did),
she’d smile and say– “Dalia,”
+++++++++++ call me Dalia.”
Flecks of gold would glint
in her beckoning eyes,
her head coyly tilted to one side.

And when they spoke her name,
her bare toes would bend and her curvy frame
would curl into an arc,
her erumpent cries
painting florid the lonely room.

“Promise me, you’ll return soon,”
she’d plead.
And they always did.

Til this day,
they still call her name – “Dalia”
But she’s gone now,
withered away forlorn
within her unkempt bed
the floral walls all she has left.

by Jason Weaver ©2013

Author’s Note: The photo that I’ve posted for the inspiration of this poem is an original painting that I very recently completed, acrylic on canvas, 20”x28”, titled “Red Dalia”

Sunday Over Easy

I plan to have no plans on this plan-free day.
That once breakfast is made (pancakes and eggs),
the dishes washed, clean sheets hung-out to dry on the line,
the dogs are walked and the cats are fed,
and a few weeds are pulled from an overrun flowerbed,
I shall relax, undisturbed,
with nary a heed for what or when
except to briefly tend the garden before the midday heat,
picking the ripened tomatoes, squash, and beans (they do not wait),
watering the carrots and corn, and fixing the broken gate.
While there, I’ll casually snap a photo or two,
something simple, uncomposed, not too thought through
patiently awaiting the perfect spontaneous moment
to give it a look of simple ease,
while beneath it will lie subtle light complexities.
And then I will rest, eyes closed, and I’ll doze
with a book, an easy read, paperback perhaps
or one with historical facts on Rome or better yet a weighty tome
that’ll split the atomic hairs of superstring theory.
No cares, really, I shall peruse the thing lightly,
as leisurely as I will amuse the rest of my day.
No poems to write (save this easy piece),
No work to attend,
just a quick mend to a tear in the knees of my pants (three pair),
the needle (already) threaded.
And maybe, just maybe, if I am so inclined (and not too far reclined)
I will begin a new painting, the brushes (already) wetted,
then to swiftly sweep the leaves off the roof’s eaves,
and dinner (of course) and dishes (again)
then off to bed by ten
as another easy day is over, unplanned.

by Jason Weaver

Sunday Over Easy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Author’s Note: Despite the incorrect date I’ve stamped on the picture, this photo was indeed taken today, the same day the poem was written and posted, January 6, 2013.

I am submitting this piece to the OpenLink Poetry blog dversepoets here on WordPress, Tuesday at 3pm EST– a good chance to check out other poetry!

Summer Pink

Summer

White estival sun
singes to my skin-thin
a crimson tinge
reminiscent the scorch
of (your) scorn
like a pervasive haze
hot and brazen-faced
and at this point, I wince
indignant and disappointed
(in myself) once more
and squint my abraded eyes
to fade the glowering glint
of a simmering summer
pique to pink

And into the embowering swathe
of a woven hammock asway
I repine, supine, in the shade
my maudlin mind prescinds
adrift on errant winds
flowering scented–
ascendent and falling
with the stridulant calling
of rhapsodic cicada
into the susurrous treetops
to drop
all that I’ve let best me
and beset me from within
to never burn
in this temperament
again

by Jason Weaver