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.

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Surface

Japanese-garden

My awareness clings
to the glossy sheen of pluvial wetness,
gliding upon the glistening foliate wax
and riding rough the tree trunk bark;
touching the cool silk of flower petal tips
to the warm skin of my face and parted lips,
letting the rainwater enter my mouth
and tasting of the perfume, bitter on my tongue,
forming yet another layer of awareness
on the surface curves of my mind.

by Jason Weaver 2013

Author’s Note:  This photograph was taken a few years back, on a rainy day at the Japanese Garden in Portland, Oregon. 

Tonight is OpenLink Night at dVerse –Calling all poets– stop by and see what we’re up to!

The Storyteller

Storyteller

In the natural wild,
as my untethered mind traces
the fiery curves of bounding clouds above,
a primal spirit races past the blackening heavens
and laces my thoughts with memory,
an idea from the earliest of human time,
formed in the rumbling thunder of an approaching storm
as darkness had obscured the blazen sun
wherein our ancestral story of a god was born.

***

Ages ago, on one moonlit eve,
once we had hunted and we had gathered
and all labor for the day complete,
we assembled round a great crackling fire to feast
and told the stories of gods and beasts that we’d imagined
to satisfy our curiosities and pacify the uncertainties
of our early world.

We told of a provisional god
who wept the rains for life,
and of a punishing god
who howled and scowled with winds and thunder and flash;
and of a compassionate god
who filled the sky with warmth and light,
and so on and so on the stories went
until sense could be made of the natural wild.

And year upon year, after every hunt and gather,
the Storyteller who had inspired us best
was asked by all, to tell it all again,
to entertain us in those late hours before sleep,
where our heavy eyes would see shadows leap behind dancing flames,
with the story of a god who made the thunder and the sun
who made the earth and the moon and man,
and soon these words became the dreams and the memories
of a people.

***

As I peer today across the mountain tops
and into the blackening heavens,
as darkness obscures the blazen sun
and thunder rumbles of an approaching storm,
I see what we saw then, and feel what we felt when
the first tales of god were dreamed
and I remember .

by Jason Weaver

Author’s Note: This photo-poem was submitted as part of an open link poetry exposition at D‘verse Poet’s Pub. Come check it out!
Note: After publication, I changed the word “They [told]” to “We [told]”  ~Jason

Ode to Cliché: Raindrops on Roses

Raindrops on Roses

Oh! Cliché–
How do I love thee?
Let me recount— like in the way
the wings of a bird in flight
ride upon a gentle breeze
— whispering–
through the leaves.
And much like a warm breath of Spring,
you bring a ray of sunlight
to brighten up a cloudy day
dulled in many shades of gray.
You are the pink in a sunset and
the early in a sunrise,
you are a song to my ears
and a sight for my sore eyes.

–Sigh–
What would I do without you?
Could I still cry a lonely tear,
like a raindrop that falls clear
upon a rose petal?
I fear I could not settle at all for less.
Yes, like a candle bright or
a shooting star in the dark of night
(or is it the thick? the edge?),
you make all my wrongs seem so right.

We are inseparable, you and I,
joined at the hip
once and forever
like a pair of ruby red lips
we come together and kiss
– softly–
And we can stand the test of time,
for like beating the dead horse,
you lend a hand to complete the rhyme.
It is cliché, of course,
and by any other name
it would sound –as sweet.

by Jason Weaver

I am submitting this piece to the OpenLink Poetry blog dversepoets here on WordPress, Tuesday at 3pm EST– a good chance to check out other poetry!

Author’s note: I edited 2 lines in this poem after the original post. First, I added ‘a’ before ‘candle’, which I had inadvertently left out. Second, I edited the Shakespeare reference “..by any other name..” as I had included ‘just’ “as sweet” wich is not how the quote goes, and quite frankly, even though it is meant as merely a reference and not a direct quote, ‘just’ just didn’t work well upon further readings.