In a Fog

Original painting by Jason Weaver, 2016

Original painting by Jason Weaver, 2016

A fog of cool, white
winter-wet clouds curled across
the landscape in long, low wisps
and settled in at a wooded edge.

Here within I was
(pleasantly surprised) to find
a sudden, simple clarity of mind,
cocooned in a butter-balm of calm
a world-away from the
intrusive
incessant
cacophany of clutter,
far from the voice
of white-noise news and views.

Unbound of ego and need,
unchained to doubt and fear,
I frolicked free amid the trees,
climbing, swinging,
dancing ’round arm-in-arm,
playing hide-and-go-seek and
sparring like sword-wielding warriors
with rampant abandon,
falling to the ground
hand-in-hand
in heaps of laughter and shouts!
Never shall I forget!

——–

A fog of cool, white
winter-wet clouds curled across
the landscape in long, low wisps
and settled in to free me.

by Jason Weaver, 2016

Original painting, Trees and Fog (2016) by Jason Weaver, (acrylic on canvas, 70×100 cm).  Dedicated to my dear friend Magaly Haasper. You showed me how to believe in myself, never shall I forget!

The Forgiving Room

Original painting by Jason Weaver 2016

Original painting by Jason Weaver 2016

I peeked inside after I’d found the door —
How could it be that I’d never seen it before?
A door to a room that I’d never known was there?

Yet there it was, a door with a light of gold
streaming upon the floor from below,
the key I turned with ease.

Within, the glow of a warming peace
did embrace and offer unto me its grace,
a gift that only I could have given unto myself —
forgiveness.

+++*****

I locked the door behind me as I left,
the key I tied on a string about my neck
so that this place would I never forget.

The Forgiving Room.

by Jason Weaver, 2016

Original painting, Capucine Flowers (2016) acrylic on canvas, 90×120 cm
The poem was inspired by a Sinead O’Connor song, The Healing Room, from the 2000 album Songs of Faith and Courage which I listened to endlessly while painting the Capucine Flowers.

 

 

The Light of Night

A Luz de Noite - Jason Weaver

Original painting by Jason Weaver, 2016

To gaze upon the starry sky
is to contemplate the
very sense of what
it means to be,
from the minute
to the immense.

But by the light of night,
you will find no solid
evidence, only
so many little points
to ponder, scattered
and dense.

But leave no doubt
that the truth of what is
(the meaning of life, some say)
is infinitely more
more grand and fine than
anything your mind could
ever possibly imagine.

And that I find
fully and truly
sublime.

By Jason Weaver, 2016

Original painting A Luz de Noite (2016) by Jason Weaver, 70x100cm, arcylic on canvas

 

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)

Morning Glory

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Spring has arrived in the southern hemisphere in a symphonic flourish of birdsong. Our days warm quite nicely pushing up against the edges of summer, but the nights are yet cool, wearing winter’s chill like damp boots. “Good sleeping weather,” we would say back in Pennsylvania, with bedroom sashes lifted, tucked under a blanket.

Quite often, I awaken to the call of the earliest bird of morn’, a soloist cantering before the first flicks of dawn’s light. As I lie in my room in the dark comfort of my still sleep-dreamy head, I begin to imagine this troubadour perched in a tree beyond my bed to be a sort of avian alarm clock, pulpiteering to the others that the new day approaches, “We must ready ourselves!” Or maybe he is just a friend of the nightowl, awake and alive way into the wee hours like artists and writers and nightclub singers, who will sleep until noon while the others build nests and gather food. Or perhaps this prepunctual riser is merely telling the stories that need to be told, singing the long songs of origin and myth, reminding us all again the way of the world.

For me, this time in-between the days is weightless, no longer saddled with the bags of yesterday’s worries and not yet responsible for the hopeful prospects of tomorrow. I slip easily back into my pillow for a second, deeper sleep, knowing that in due time the sun will peek over the distant horizon line and filter through my bedroom curtain in a hazy veil of slate-blue, fine and eternal. And as it does, beyond my open window in the dewy forest garden, an entire orchestra of birds will begin tweetering in full-throated chorus, as though to will the gray mist of night cede to deep rich greens and violaceous blues, and the sky to lighten — ever so slowly it goes, beyond the perception of human eyes, so that the formless shadows of night become the flowering vines and leafy bushes of dawn.

Sometimes I slide from undercover out into this magical space to witness the fullness of its glory, catching myself in extended moments of grace that defy conventional time and that adhere to my soul like wetness on my bare skin. The chill of night is pushed against by the golden winds of dawn, where the lines between subtlety and boldness converge and coalesce. In this Morning Glory, light and dark, day and night, beast and plant and man are one in the same; the impermeable borders of distinction dissolve to porous membrane, as concepts of self transform into a streaming universal experience.

Yes, spring has finally arrived.

by Jason Weaver
Original Painting, A Glória da Manhã (2015), acrylic on canvas, 70x100cm, by Jason Weaver.

For more information on this painting and others in my studio, please check out my artist blog, JasonWeaverArtist

Like the Butterfly, So Must I

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Original Acrylic Painting by Jason Weaver 2015

Seek the sun
not where it burns so bright
in the heavens above
but rather
in the warmth of its light
that it shines upon
the earth below.

by Jason Weaver, 2015

Original Painting, Borboleta na Floresta (2015), acrylic 70x100cm, by Jason Weaver.
In loving memory of my Aunt Janice
, thank you for all that you gave me.