A Puddle, A Bus, A Remembrance of Us

foto by jasonWEaver

Rainwater has soaked
within the soles of my
waterproofed boots
+++++++ (darn these cheap boots! and
+++++++ they were expensive, too!)
as I am with my trusty umbrella
thrust in one hand while the other
is in the air hailing a bus
that never bothers to slow
even though I stand in the spot
most clearly marked
BUS STOP!
Another is bound to be
not far behind and so
I await in the hour of rush
where I am going nowhere fast
and alas, I have nowhere to be
but home.

Alone in the mass
of sullen silhouttes
that pass me by, I
fix my eyes upon a puddle
formed in an overflow drain
where the showering rain
ripples across the top,
and lights from the nearby shops
draw circles around the drops
that provoke me thus
to reminiscence, back
to that fine night
in the late spring of ’89,
how we got caught in a rainfall
as we roamed about town
walking back to your home,
how we laughed and
skipped and shook
the branches of soggy dogwood
until we soaked ourselves
clean to the bone
of our youth.

Quite suddenly, then
I am back to the now
in a flash as a bus has stopped
with a puddle-busting splash
and is hurriedly awaiting me
to climb aboard and flee.
I close and fold and shake
my wet umbrella well
and with fresh rain upon my face
I step up to the entry where
to the expectant driver I say:
“Thank you! How long I’ve
been waiting to go home!”
Turning on my heel, I bound
both feet into the street,
leaving the bus behind,
my mind full of nothing
but a yearning to feel,
to walk home once again
in the falling rain,
to sing and to laugh
and let the water soak
within my soul
the secret calling
of life.

By jason WEaver, 2017

With a special dedication to an old friend, Elizabeth Miller. However much time and miles have come between us, I will always remember learning how to love walking in the rain that night with you.

Linking up to dVerse Poet’s Pub for Thursday night’s Meeting the Bar using irony in poetry.

The Experience

foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

She wanted nothing more,
for there were no things
worth wanting anymore.
And as for wanting itself,
even that had become
a tiresome chore to her
as it grew and swelled, so
she let that go as well,
for it was taking up
too much of her time,
using up precious space
in her mind –space
that she needed
to think
and to be.

“You see,” she will say–
but only if you ask, since
she has no desire to sway or
convince, in fact,
no desire at all does she have
but simply to exist,
to live in the moment
to which she’s been offered–
“I am the experience.”
And then she will end
with nothing more proffered
for there is nothing more!
as even every day words
which she once
so adored become
inextricably
inexplicably
meaningless.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Participating in OpenLink Night at dVerse Poet’s Pub! Come see!

Pop!

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

It’s one of those
hot summer sun
blowin’ bubblegum
fun rubbin’ butter cups
on kneecaps,
flippin’ bottle tops,
sippin’ chin-drippin’ ice-pops,
lickin’ cotton candy sticky
fingertips, sour pucker
cherry soda lips,
pixie stix,
rubber hose-spritzin’
green grass slip ‘n’-
slidin’ bare-feet
banana-seat bike ridin’
fickle flick n’ tickle,
first kissin’ reminiscin’
kind of days.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Linking up with Open Link Night #191, on dVerse Poetry Pub, check them out!

Daydreams

Abask in the certain awe
of a midday Spring sun,
I draw tight my pale-gray eyes
to curtain the blinding bright.

For here, behind optic folds
ignites the familiar brilliance
of pinks and reds that arc and blend
to blues and golds

and bend my very senses
by their presense–

+++++melding spectral density to birdsong melody
+++++and winsome winds that brush against me to gilt intensity,
+++++infusing my mind in pigmented propensity

+++++Until at last

+++++I am thoroughly subsumed within hot cherry-hued chromatic notions
+++++contemplating waves of sunrays on vast daydream oceans.

by Jason Weaver, 2013

Author’s Note: Inspired by colorful ideas at DVerse Poetry Pub...and by sitting in the garden, which is endlessly healing.

Daydreams by Jason Weaver

 

Pearla

5075_LoveMoreStudio

Her eyes,
like glassy black pearls,
are open.
I know now what I
should have done last night–
that and tuck under
her paws, like in sleep
because by morning
the stiffness is making it
quite cumbersome
for her to neatly fit
into the hole we dug,
and now earth
has fallen into her wide eyes.

But it is too late for that now,
so we cut flowers
and fill her grave
with the loose cool dirt,
each handful
an honor to all life,
by serving in death.

By Jason Weaver, 2013

Author’s note: Pearla, a friend’s dog, fell into a heavy sickness that fortunately did not last long and she passed on Sunday night. I was with her in her final moments and helped to bury her the next moring.   I feel it is so important for us to honor life by serving in sickness and death. Whether animal or person, all living beings share the same ultimate experience, cessation of life.  Rest peacefully, Pearla.

Linking up with DVerse Poetry Pub for Tuesday Night Open Link-– stop by, inspire!

as I see it…

no
tippy-toe-ing
no more
to and fro-ing
no doubt will keep me
second guessing
deeply messing with my
mind
no
not this time

I go in
head
prime

As I See It

Author’s Note: Poetic response to a fun, semaphoric (140 character) riddle prompt by Samuel Peralta tonight at Dverse poetry pub– check it out!
Update:  The photograph above is rotated 180º to show the water as it would look if one dove in head first– like in the words above, “as I see it…” diving into LIFE without further ado. ~peace, Jason