We are all that we are

Pink Lilies by Jason Weaver LoveMore Studio

Original artwork by Jason Weaver

Within us stem the roots
from all that has come to pass,
and, too, sprout the seeds
for all that has yet to be.

By Jason Weaver, 2014

Original art work, Lírios de Rosa, 2014, acrylic on canvas (70 x 100 cm),  by Jason Weaver



Abask in the certain awe
of a midday Spring sun,
I draw tight my pale-gray eyes
to curtain the blinding bright.

For here, behind optic folds
ignites the familiar brilliance
of pinks and reds that arc and blend
to blues and golds

and bend my very senses
by their presense–

+++++melding spectral density to birdsong melody
+++++and winsome winds that brush against me to gilt intensity,
+++++infusing my mind in pigmented propensity

+++++Until at last

+++++I am thoroughly subsumed within hot cherry-hued chromatic notions
+++++contemplating waves of sunrays on vast daydream oceans.

by Jason Weaver, 2013

Author’s Note: Inspired by colorful ideas at DVerse Poetry Pub...and by sitting in the garden, which is endlessly healing.

Daydreams by Jason Weaver




A ruddy flush of desire
transpires at a lingual brush
against my tumescent temperament —

+++our complex convexities
+++enjoined in floral osculations ;

+++our particulate articulations
+++engaged in moral postulations;

+++our exuberant protuberances
+++engorged by oral oscillations;

Come, let us lust
in this rubescent essence,
thrust in the dense
of euphuisitic locution.

by Jason Weaver, 2013

Author’s Note: Linking up with dverse Poet’s Pub for Tuesday Open Link Night— stop by, share a poem, and see what other poets in the blogosphere are doing!


Red Dalia

She’s gone now,
withered away folorn
within her unkempt bed,
her locks a sea of siren red no more.

In those yester days,
her silky flesh would goose
to the eager hands and loose
demands of lustful young
men and women.

When they’d ask her name,
(and they always did),
she’d smile and say– “Dalia,”
+++++++++++ call me Dalia.”
Flecks of gold would glint
in her beckoning eyes,
her head coyly tilted to one side.

And when they spoke her name,
her bare toes would bend and her curvy frame
would curl into an arc,
her erumpent cries
painting florid the lonely room.

“Promise me, you’ll return soon,”
she’d plead.
And they always did.

Til this day,
they still call her name – “Dalia”
But she’s gone now,
withered away forlorn
within her unkempt bed
the floral walls all she has left.

by Jason Weaver ©2013

Author’s Note: The photo that I’ve posted for the inspiration of this poem is an original painting that I very recently completed, acrylic on canvas, 20”x28”, titled “Red Dalia”