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.

On Time

WaterRocks_LoveMoreStudio

now

just as sparkling
autumn afternoon
dims to darkling dusk
and shadows spill
like ink to fill soon
the cusp of forest shallows…

the token limits of time upend
and I sink into a blend of broken minutes

now
where every blink
is a profound existence
instantly bound to infinite instance

now
where every inhalation
is an exaltation
to the culmination of

now

where every beat of my essence
stutters and stretches the seconds
to repeat
and reveal
this persistent presence of present
no real delineation of time from self
merely the constant
continuation of
now

by Jason Weaver © 2013
inspired by and dedicated to my friend Claudia Bustamante

Linked up with the OpenLink Poetry Pub at dVerse-– check it out! every Tuesday for some great poetry reading

The Storyteller

Storyteller

In the natural wild,
as my untethered mind traces
the fiery curves of bounding clouds above,
a primal spirit races past the blackening heavens
and laces my thoughts with memory,
an idea from the earliest of human time,
formed in the rumbling thunder of an approaching storm
as darkness had obscured the blazen sun
wherein our ancestral story of a god was born.

***

Ages ago, on one moonlit eve,
once we had hunted and we had gathered
and all labor for the day complete,
we assembled round a great crackling fire to feast
and told the stories of gods and beasts that we’d imagined
to satisfy our curiosities and pacify the uncertainties
of our early world.

We told of a provisional god
who wept the rains for life,
and of a punishing god
who howled and scowled with winds and thunder and flash;
and of a compassionate god
who filled the sky with warmth and light,
and so on and so on the stories went
until sense could be made of the natural wild.

And year upon year, after every hunt and gather,
the Storyteller who had inspired us best
was asked by all, to tell it all again,
to entertain us in those late hours before sleep,
where our heavy eyes would see shadows leap behind dancing flames,
with the story of a god who made the thunder and the sun
who made the earth and the moon and man,
and soon these words became the dreams and the memories
of a people.

***

As I peer today across the mountain tops
and into the blackening heavens,
as darkness obscures the blazen sun
and thunder rumbles of an approaching storm,
I see what we saw then, and feel what we felt when
the first tales of god were dreamed
and I remember .

by Jason Weaver

Author’s Note: This photo-poem was submitted as part of an open link poetry exposition at D‘verse Poet’s Pub. Come check it out!
Note: After publication, I changed the word “They [told]” to “We [told]”  ~Jason