Folk-Lure

High upon Dragon’s Head peak
above a place they’ve named
Valley of the Gods,
a late-day sun was set
to cede to the mist of eve,
so we mounted our descent
to camp, she ahead
as I ambled more slowly behind.

I don’t remember
her having slipped from my view
when I found myself in the midst
of an amber field of grass
where a warm wind pressed against my skin
and enveloped me within.
Had I passed through here before?

I can’t seem to recall…
perhaps it is just the dazzle of light
hypnotizing my eyes
or the rhythmic sway of the stems
and the sweet dry scent of fern filling my head
that causes this moment to stretch
and circle back again so that
I don’t seem to know
where I was just a moment ago,
hearing the call of my name
in the whirl of the wind
whispering words luring me
into the rustling reeds
to play a game of hide-and-seek
and to forever more stay
in the remains of the falling sun,
“Over here! Come! Come!”
as I turn round and round
losing myself among them
no longer sure
of what is real anymore.

“Hey, I’ve been calling you,”
“Come,” she says and grabs my hand
just as the sun disappeared with the wind.
“Let’s get back to camp before it’s too dark.
You could lose yourself up here.”

Yes, indeed.

By Jason Weaver, 2018

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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