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 —


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.




Summer Ends


Summer ends
and swept in
by the tail
of the pale warm winds
a regret….
that we had failed

that we never tried
or maybe

we tried too hard
to have it all
and never saw it
for what it was
or could be

by Jason Weaver (2013)

Author’s Note: Tonight and every Tuesday, join dverse Poets Pub for open poetry night 🙂

The Dance

Through haze of crowded room
my clouded eyes aloft
set gaze upon soft face
in shrouded glow of whom
I’d ever recognize–
We had denied good-byes
and sundered long ago–
So oft I’d wondered
“Will I never know again?”

 Lo here you are at last
my friend, how near
yet far cross vast and
teeming floor you stand–
We’ve chance once more
to dance this lambent eve
and deem lament reprieve–
Let us join in joyous reunite
“Glorious be this night!”

 Buoyant delight propels me
past the fray of swelling gather
with no way of telling
whether you’ll abide–
The sway of wondrous urge
impels me to your side–
Thunderous surge inside
drowns all sound but words rehearsed
unpursed lips slip apart

 Eyelids flick open wide
at first tide of early dawn
our moment gone
as dream cedes to wake

The Remains


Sleep ebbs in the early hours
stranding me in the shallows
of the familiar quiet, yet
my head rings of my own voice
tracing the wounds of words
the ridged scars sting
of barbs self-inflicted.

If only I had known
those words I’d spoken to you, my lacerative
tongue of poison-fire that I aimed at you,
wielded to maim you
to shame you
to break you
would maim me, and shame me
and break me, too.

Those lines have cut a thousand times,
hurts unhealed that remind
of how it could have been,
yes, would have been
if only I had known
that they remain
in regret set
ever in the quiet.

If only
I had