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


The Shadow

Foto by Jason Weaver 2017

He left in pursuit
of his own existence
for even of that
he was unsure.
He yearned for
unobscure truths
that he could
feel in his hands
and say, Here,
this is what I am.
This I can
believe in.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Meadow Tea

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

The day is warm,
a morning cover of cloud has dissipated by midday
revealing heavens so blue, it’s as though you are
staring straight into the face of god. Perhaps so.

Sunshine spills and splashes unto the landscape
dousing the meadow in a drunken bliss.
But it is the wildflowers that catch the eye
with their golden-orbed, white-petaline radiance,
a grassy universe of perennial sun stars.

In the distance, a mountainous wind gust curls
around the granite peaks, the breath of a giant
that rustles teetering treetops, and like a deep-sea swell
it rolls over the vale with a crescent W-H-O-O-S-H
until it swallows me utterly in one immense gulp.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

O Rio Paquequer

O Rio Paquequer by Jason Weaver

O Rio Paquequer (2014) — original acrylic painting by Jason Weaver

Let us
the clear stream
of wellsprung purity,
and breathe
with lungs of leaves
a conscious continuity;
Let us
lie down
in a rocky seam
an earthen process,
and be
this perpetual
moment of progress.

by Jason Weaver (2014)
Original painting by Jason Weaver, O Rio Paquequer (2014), acrylic on canvas, 70cm x 100cm.

The scene depicted in this painting is of the Paquequer River, the principal river in Teresópolis, Brazil, where it begins high in the forest of the Serra dos Órgãos mountains before flowing north. Working from a photo I had taken, I aimed to capture the timeless continuation of the river just downstream from the Cecy and Pery Waterfall, so named for two main characters in the Brazilian novel, O Guaraní , written in 1857 by José de Alencar.  The title is derived from the name of an indigenous indian tribe whose territorial region once included the surrounding area of Rio de Janeiro, including Teresópolis . The novel is a romantic adventure whose hero, Pery, a Guaraní indian, deserts his tribal family so that he may forever be with his blonde-haired, blue-eyed mistress, Cecília, or Cecy as he calls her. It was the majestic beauty of the river Paquequer that inspired Alencar to write his famous novel, and in turn inspired me as well; here, translated into English by James W. Hawes in 1893, are the opening words of O Guaraní:

FROM one of the summits of the Organ Mountains glides a small stream, which flows northerly, and enlarged by the springs which it receives in its course of ten leagues, becomes a considerable river. It is the Paquequer. Leaping from cascade to cascade, winding like a serpent, it dozes at last in the plain, and empties into the Parahyba, which rolls majestically in its vast bed. Vassal and tributary of that king of waters, the little river, haughty and overbearing to its rocks, bows humbly at the feet of its sovereign. It loses then its wild beauty; its waves are calm and peaceful as those of a lake […] It is not at this point that it should be seen, but three or four leagues above its mouth, where it is still free. There the Paquequer rushes rapidly over its bed, and traverses the forests foaming and filling the solitude with the noise of its career.




At restive clear of wayward path
under the umbrage ochre
a mid-aged man of forty-one
his face fine-lined and graying hair
had paused to lean against a stone
adjacent writhen trees
whose trunks had joined as pair
to let for passage ‘tween them

His bespeckeled eyes had seen then
beyond the passage split
lush in bright spring green lit
himself, a youth of stark eighteen
golden visage smooth clean
ripe with a jolly for frolic and glee
rife with folly for life yet to be
when not a thing meant any thing

“Wait,” appealed a pensive voice
and broke the moment hollow.

To the man the sheepish boy had spoke.

He waved his slender hand to follow
“Stay here, and let us never grow old.”

At this plea to hold time’s passage
on his feet the man had leapt
lost in obverse thoughts
of the youthful days he’d kept
ripe with a jolly for frolic and glee
rife with folly for what life was to be
when not a thing had ever meant any thing at all
Until he faintly sighed

“One day you will know why,”
with smile awry that matched
his solemn heartful good-bye
His irremeable youth had slipped from sight
behind him now but forever wound
like the twisted passage trees
He continued afoot on his journey bound
never to be young again.

Author’s note: I made a few corrections to this since the original post– one typo correction and a few word changes to allow for better flow and rhythm that I discovered after rereading.  I consider all my pieces, photos and poems, to be works in progress, much like myself.  ~Jason


Round rigid mount I’d scaled
apace off-beaten trail where
I’d found within
this peculiar place
a bluff of jutted stone

Atop its rough I sit alone
my feet aswing
I eat the fruit of tangerine
and cast its seeds
to the vast ravine below.

Closer to the edge I slip
as citrus lingers sticky-sweet
with drips of salted sweat
‘pon my lips and fingers wet
and dribbles on my chin

as heat of high-noon sun
batters hard on my unclad skin
therein I seek the heavens clear
and off the peak I plunge

By Jason Weaver

Authors’ Note: at dVerse today, we’re writing descriptive poems in which we use images to describe a feeling, a truth, a person, using primarily surroundings.. in other words.. imagist poems that have an embedded message..Check it out!