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

Advertisements

Thinkers and Dreamers

Foto by JasonWeaver 2017

“He goes about his life
with his head up in the clouds,”
they scoff and with a brusk
wave of their hands
brush him aside.

But where they are blind,
the dreamers and the poets,
the artists and the philosophizers
have the vision to glean from the sky
the secrets of life.

And in the end, when they see
that their zeal to amass ever more
has destroyed rather than made
the fulfillment and the peace
that they seek–

–the thinkers and the dreamers
shall point them to
the deep blue above and say
“Behold all the riches
that one could ever need.”

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

In a Valley

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

In a valley pass, I am
LIMITLESS
like an eagle I glide
above the land,
like a fish I breathe
beneath the sea,
beyond the ego-bound
barriers of body and mind,
I am the Earth,
her chartreuse covered
contours against
cerulean skies,
I am her ruddy dust in
sun-warmed winds,
and from within,
I am light.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Reality Creation: Meditation, Painting and Life

Original Painting by Jason Weaver 2016

Thoughts
entwine in my mind as though
it was not my mind at all, but rather
the open air, an
ethereal canvas where
they
dart and zip like bees
in……and out
or swing and dip like
leaves blown in on a summer wind,
they
crawl and burrow deep within
the dampened earth and birth
memories
crusted in sap and mud,
love and blood – thoughts
on strings that stitch and sew
every stick and stone herein,
they
lace me to this place
raw burnt bronzed
we are
a confluences of ceaseless streams,
endeavors that begin
and end ever again
turbidity placidity chaos
calm, I must
breathe
in……and out
I must
wake adapt become
the thread that seams
this dream within a dream, I must
BALANCE between
the known and the unknownable,
the fluid and the indestructible,
the part and the whole,
weaving
a tapestry
of reality

by Jason Weaver, 2016

Original Painting, Riacho na Serra (Parnaso, RJ, Brasil) (2015-2016) Acrylic on Canvas (70×100 cm)

O Rio Paquequer

O Rio Paquequer by Jason Weaver

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

Let us
drink
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.