Planet Earth

Foto by JasonWeaver, 2017

When people ask me
“Where are you from?”
I do not hesitate to respond
“From planet Earth.”

Although, I must admit,
that sometimes I
wonder if that is
the outright truth.

And if I am to be
absolutely honest here,
by the looks on their faces,
I think they often doubt it as well.

by Jason Weaver, 2017


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.

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 “ 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.

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!

Ah, Vesperal Beauty


‘Tis twilight
here while I write
in the wooded garden glen.
It is both warm and damp,
the Summer Solstice so close
that our clammy hands almost

Light dims and dims more.
Rusty-breasted sabiás call
for day’s stop.
“Time best to quit,”
they chime in song,
as cambacicas tweeter and twit
and hop along leafy limbs.

Crickets chirp, frogs, too.
The dusky hue of the thicket green
darkles to black,
while the vespertine Nicotiana,
whose purple velveteen petals unfold
unmatched in their beauty untold
but by only their fragrance,
begs the nocturnal hawkthorn moth
to feed.

As do the mosquitoes of a fever breed
that buzz all aloud
at my eyes and my ear tips
and swell about my face in a cloud
nipping at me, sipping of me
with the stinging ferocity
of red-bellied piranhas
upon flesh in a river of bloodlet

I dash hurriedly
to the safety of the house
and leave the twilight beauty
to the beasts.

Author’s edit note: I corrected the name of the flower in the 3rd stanza which I had copied over wrong in early revisions. The Nicotiana is a night flowering ornamental tobacco plant that grows in my garden and smells of a jasmine scent, seen in the background of the photo. ~ Jason

Also: I am attempting something new– I’ve found an OpenLink Poetry blog dversepoets here on WordPress– this will be my first submission into any type of poetry discussion group! Wish me luck! ~ Jason