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.

In an instant

Foto by jason WEaver 2017

+++++++++++++ Imagine, if you will
this split-minute, still-
frame moment of time,
feel it on the fringe
of your skin,
sense it within
+++++++++++++ then
reduce it till
it is no more than a breath,
a blink, a beat,
a photon blast
at sunlit speed!
+++++++++++++ next
slow it down,
spread it out and let
it melt the defining lines
that separate self from the time
of perpetual planetary expanse

+++++++++++++ and now return
to the moment we are in,
perceive the flow
without and within, know–
Are we not changed
from an instant ago?

By jason WEaver, 2017
+++++++++++++

The Experience

foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

She wanted nothing more,
for there were no things
worth wanting anymore.
And as for wanting itself,
even that had become
a tiresome chore to her
as it grew and swelled, so
she let that go as well,
for it was taking up
too much of her time,
using up precious space
in her mind –space
that she needed
to think
and to be.

“You see,” she will say–
but only if you ask, since
she has no desire to sway or
convince, in fact,
no desire at all does she have
but simply to exist,
to live in the moment
to which she’s been offered–
“I am the experience.”
And then she will end
with nothing more proffered
for there is nothing more!
as even every day words
which she once
so adored become
inextricably
inexplicably
meaningless.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Participating in OpenLink Night at dVerse Poet’s Pub! Come see!

The Quaresmeira

Quaresmeira, foto by Jason Weaver 2017

SOON,
everything would be different.
If she had known that then, if she had
simply considered the possibility,
if she had only understood that nothing —nothing
would ever be quite the same again,
she would have lingered a while longer,
stayed beneath the trees
studying intensely the purpura
of the quaresmeira flower
until the fading light
of late day ceded to black
and spilled into her mind a
permanent hue of aliveness,
then she would have something — anything
to anchor her, to comfort her,
to keep her from slipping away,
from disintegrating into
obscurity and dissolving
to bits in the wind.

By Jason Weaver, 2017

 

Presence

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

To attain presence
one should surrender to form,
as practice, as norm,
one should submit oneself to
the essence of unaffectedly being,
inhabit a habit
of nonexpectantly seeing–
one must plumb the fields
of depths and shallows,
succumb to the yields
of lights and shadows, and
become, solely (soul-ly)
become —
not what one wants or tries
or desires to be, but rather
what one IS
already,
naturally

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Śramaṇa Rising

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

Foto by Jason Weaver, 2017

 

(To hear the Blacksmith Tree Frog please press play)


— The day prior to a New Moon compels total abandonment and complete surrender,
a release from all fears; by becoming an empty vessel, we can be reborn in purity —

The Shaman, dressed in his intricate fine-thread garb, has lit the
sacred flames ensconced within the ornamental shrine, festooned
in floral garlands and feathery plumes, around which they all gather,
chanting mantras and prayers, echoing his verse; later he reads
to them from the ancient texts, his sacramental words.

It is a ceremony of separation — one of death and birth,
of creation and destruction, of mothers and sons, of water and stone.

— And out of the primeval murk he was born, the strands
that once connected them shorn, as man arises from earth —

In attendance is the Seeker, who sways hypnotic to the reverberate
thumps and rings, enchanted at the ritualistic flourishes of his Master’s
lashes of sacred waters, at the intoxicating scents of mystic incense.
He knows that this ceremony is as much for himself as it is for them all,
for tonight, he has shed his doubt, arriving prepared to emerge.

Abruptly, he feels a split, the is a severance, and one by one, like strings
being snipped, the Shaman’s words begin to lose all meaning and sense.

— Bearing down in a grassy field near a passing creek, a mother
delivers
her newborn son, cutting the umbilical cord with her teeth —

Opening his eyes he finds that they have all gone. He is alone in a forest clearing,
a passage, surrounded by bog, the sounds he is hearing now like so many drums
are the tympanic mating calls of male blacksmith tree frogs resonating across
the water. Where once was a fire-lit altar, he sees a patch of grassy stalks
jutting from the murk, the scents are of night-blooms, of algae, of damp.

It is done, the cycle is complete. Cleansed and unbound from his corporal and
temporal ties, he must forge a new path of unification. But for now, he must rest.

 

By Jason Weaver, 2017

Although I took artistic liberty to re-create this account, an actual ceremony was performed by my good friend and mentor Afonso Domingues on the evening of February 25th, 2017, on New Moon’s Eve. Some details in the poem are truth, while others are embellished or simply created. In this story I call him the Shamen to instill an atemporal feel to reflect that which we all surely felt. The photo was taken earlier in the evening before the ceremony. Later, I returned to this spot just as it began to get dark, and the chorus of tree frogs (Hypsibaos Faber) left me without words. It was within this context that I wanted to share with you what happened to me that evening, and how I prepared myself for the next phase of my journey. The Title Śramaṇa Rising refers to a seeker in various Indian religious movements, and among other things, fits in with the concepts of birth and death cycles, and ultimately, finding liberation from those cycles through ascetisism.
Credits:
Audio of Blacksmith Tree Frog (Hypisboas Faber) by Rodrigo Dela Rosa, accessed from amphibiaweb.org
Lunar cycle legend retrieved from http://www.lunarplanner.com/characteristics/1-New.html
Information on Śramana I retrieved from 2 sources:
http://www.wisdomlib.org/definition/%C5%9Brama%E1%B9%87a
https://www.boundless.com/world-history/textbooks/boundless-world-history-i-ancient-civilizations-enlightenment-textbook/early-civilizations-in-the-indian-subcontinent-4/religion-in-the-indian-subcontinent-25/the-sramana-movement-108-13209/